In Between the Sheets

I lie on the edge of the litter, Robinson Crusoe making his plans for stackades of finely sharpened stakes, guns that will fire themselves at the faintest tremor of an alien step, hopes his goats and dogs will procreate, will not find another such nest of tolerant creatures.

I had met Latterly years ago in England when he was researching a still uncompleted thesis on George Orwell, and it was not till I came to America that I realized how rare an American he was. Slender, extraordinarily pallid, fine black hair that curled, does eyes like those of a Renaissance princess, long straight nose with narrow black slits for nostrils, Terence was unwholesomely beautiful.

Lovely Sylvie leads Terance by the hand through half a dozen topics; she smiles and Terence flushes with love and love’s wildest ambitions. He loves to hard he knows he will not be able to resist declaring himself. He can feel it comingon, a mad confession. The words tumble out, a declaration of love worthy of the pages of Walter Scott, its main burden being that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in the world Terence would not do for Sylvie. In fact, drunk, he challenges her now to test his devotion. Touched by the bourbon and wine, intrigued by this wan, fin de siecle lunatic, Sylvie gazes warmly across the table and returns his little squeeze to the hand. In the rarefied air between them runs a charge of goodwill and daredevilry. Propelled by mere silence Terence repeats himself. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, in the etc. Sylvie’s gaze shifts momentarily form Terence’s face to the door of the restaurant through which a well-to-do middle-aged couple are now entering. She frowns, then smiles.

I bore you with lyricism. The days came and passed. I saw her this day and not that, and perhaps twice on another day. Inperceptibly seeing her and not seeing her became a factor in my life, and then before I knew it, it passed from factor to structure. Would I see her today? Would all my hours and minutes be redeeemed? Would she look at me? Did she remember me from one time to another? Was there a future for us together…would I ever have the courage to approach her? Courage! What did all my millions mean now, what now of my wisdom matured by the ravages of three marriages? I love her…I wished to possess her. And to possess her it seemd I would have to buy her.

I have described how a factor in my life became a structure, it merged as orange to red in the rainbow.

She sat back as a guest should and let herself be served by me. Yes, and the conversation. With those other guests of mine I always felt conversation to be an obstable course over ditches and fences of contradiction, competition, misunderstanding and so on. My ideal conversation is one which allows both participants to develop their thoughts to their fullest extent, uninhibitedly, without endlessly defining and refining premises and defending conclusions. Without ever reaching conclusion. With Helen I could converse ideally

Memories like that don't bother me any more. Everything has changed so much I can hardly believe it was us who were there.

For two and a half years Sally Klee has grappled not with words and sentenses, nor with ideas, but with form, or rather, with tactics. Should she, for instance, break slience with a short story, work a single idea with brittle elegance and total control? But what single idea, what sentense, what word? Moreover, good short stories are notoriously hard to write, harder perhaps than novels, and mediocre stories lie thick on the ground.

I prefer silent women who take their pleasure with apparent indifference.My predilection is for pleasure unmitigated by the yappings and whinings of the soul.All the unhappiness of the past seemed now to have been necessary to make the present possible. It will come, you see, it will comeshe died, she came, she left this sublunary world... her first orgasmWith those other guests of mine I always felt conversation to be an obstacle course over ditches and fences of contradiction, competition, misunderstanding and so on. My ideal conversation is one which allows both participants to develop their thoughts to their fullest extent, uninhibitedly, without endlessly defining and refining premises and defending conclusions. Without ever reaching conclusions.Of my childhood, my father's death rattle, my mother's terror of sexuality, my own sexual initiation with an elder cousin;a lifetime talking on the phoneshe did not find it hard to conceal her feelingsIt is my belief that he never knew that I knew, and this at least gave me the illusion of power over him.I was locked in the miserable dungeon of my mind and the situation seemed utterly hopeless. It was all or nothing.I thought I saw my own soul recede from me across a vast black void till it was a pinprick of red light.I came as she died. That much I can say with pride. I know her death was a moment of intense pleasure to her.