thisSUNhasntSET
03-28-2010, 02:53 AM
http://artfiles.art.com/5/p/LRG/9/935/8PNX000Z/antonio-canova-cupid-and-psyche-1796.jpg
Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova, 1796
Coffee & Canova
written by: Sophia DeMarco
:1:
“What are you reading about?” Mattie asked timidly of her husband. He paused in his perusal of The Awakening to look disinterestedly at his wife. “Fifty two longs years,” he thought, “and what has it amounted to? One would think that I’ve taught her nothing.” He had been bringing her to Barnes & Noble regularly for quite some time to expose her to new thoughts and ideas. Yet, she always resorted to reading her magazines on good housekeeping.It was the only realm with which she was comfortable, and it bothered him. He placed his hand around his cup of coffee and proceeded with the explanation, although he knew most certainly that she wouldn’t understand.
“It’s about a woman,” he said aloud, “who is unsatisfied with her life and what society expects her to be. She yearns to be free from her role as housewife and mother. She longs for passion and adventure. In the end, she chooses the waves over a life of sin or a life of insipidness.”
His wife chuckled vicariously, “Oh, you do speak so strange sometimes, Arthur!” At first, he made no response. Then he heard something of a whimper. His eyes drowsily lifted themselves off the page to meet hers. He could see in her childlike eyes that she feared she might have offended him.
When Arthur had first started courting Mattie, he had adored the way she looked at him, as if his approval was God’s very utterance. It all gave him a very powerful sense of dominance and control. Now, her emotional dependence on him seemed to stifle his thoughts and words, lest he accidentally reveal his hidden disappointment. One frown or scoff was enough to drive her to tears. No, he must lie to her and therefore lie to himself. “Yes, I suppose I do speak strange, darling,” he assented with a choking grunt. Arthur’s forced laughter was enough to quell her concern.
Maggie went back to reading her Family Style Magazine. “Arthur, we ought to change our curtains. They’re dreadfully outdated.” Again, she seemed to cower as the words left her mouth for fear of being too assertive. Smoke seemed to fill Arthur’s lungs as he prepared for another scripted line. He sipped his black coffee, rehearsing the exact intonation in his head.
“Yes, dear; we surely ought to. How right you are.”
Mattie’s eyes lit up with satisfaction at his approval. “Good; it’s settled then,” she cooed as she adjusted her red sweater vest.
Arthur loosened his tie, hoping to alleviate the ball of lint that had been lodged in his throat for the past fifty years. Two years of bliss proceeded by half a century of torture. “What a curse the gods bestowed on me for being happy! Why could they not leave me content in my ignorance?” But, oh, he could not be content. Not after he had met her, for she… She had changed him. Sophia.
:2:
He had met her in Argosy’s bookstore on 116 East & 59th Street. It was then a quaint little shop, full of new and used books of life. There, amidst the smell of thoughts and bold ideas, he had met her. Sophia. They both happened to reach for the copy of Tess of the D’urbervilles and their hands touched for just a moment. No sparks flew; there was no feeling of ecstatic surrender- only an awkward laugh and sheepish apology. “Go ahead and take it,” she said, “You seem very intent upon it.” Her eyes of ebony glittered mischievously.
“Oh, no!” he jokingly exclaimed, “I cannot take from a woman. I’ll find another one somewhere.”
“Well, woman or not, you touched it first. I distinctly remember it. Here,” she briskly spoke as she placed the book in his hand. “Besides, I already have a copy.”
Her full lips curved into a smile pregnant with life as she turned to walk away. Sophia’s gait was gallant and graceful, and her body cried out to him. He studied her. Arthur didn’t notice the curve of her hips with a purely sexual pleasure, but with the pleasure of a student admiring the work of a venerated artist. Sophia was a masterpiece sculpted by Canova in the whitest of marble. He longed to be Cupid and for Sophia to be his Psyche. There was nothing more he wanted than to remain frozen with her in that rapturous embrace, his hand gently cradling her breast. Ah, to be forever frozen in the moment of anticipation, the softening of the lips. For eternity their eyes would be fixed only on the other, and observers would say, “My, how fantastical the story! How euphoric their embrace! They will forever look into the other’s eyes with the idealistic hope and expectation that exists just before the reality of the kiss.”
“Was it better, after all, to retain the ideal rather than expose reality?” Arthur wondered. “Is the moment just before the kiss more holy than its consummation?” Enough pretense! There was no time to philosophize; Arthur knew that he had to see her again.
He searched the aisles of the store for her and found her musing over a book in the Mystery section. “Have you read the story?” he blurted out after her. His words reached her ears with all the urgency of a cry for help.
“It’s my favorite,” she called to him, understanding what he was referring to. “It taught me that the world which drove Tess to destruction still exists today. And Angel Clare, the poor fool, I’ve been searching for him ever since. I suppose I expected to find him somewhere amongst all my copies of the book. Let me know if you happen to search him out.”
“I will,” he contemplated his answer, “as soon as I am finished reading it.”
“Wonderful!” she beamed, as if she actually believed he might do it. Then, all too quickly, she averted her eyes to the book she held in her silken hands. It quite unsettled him.
“How…how could I let you know,” he stammered, “unless I had a means to find you.”
“Meet me here two weeks from now at the same hour, and you can tell me all.”
“Splendid,” he agreed, attempting to mask the intensity of his anticipation.
Two weeks later, he met her at the book store. They sat on the white wooden bench outside and sipped their coffee. Both discussed the meaning of Hardy’s fatalistic outlook on Victorian society. They debated about whether Angel Clare was a good man, and spoke of Tess as highly as the Virgin herself. When Sophia finally rose to leave, Arthur grabbed her ivory hand in a moment of passion. He could not bear to part from her so soon; he had only just begun to feel.
With his hand attached to her’s, Arthur looked into Sophia’s wild eyes. She seemed to neither approve nor disapprove of the contact. However, Arthur attempted to proceed with a handshake in order to dispel the awkwardness. As he gently released his hand from hers, Sophia traced her dainty fingers across his palm. Arthur could not tell if it was done out of unconsciousness or whether it was the product of an equally prominent feeling.
He blushed and attempted to cover his blush with a cough. Sophia politely giggled, as if acknowledging that the concealment of a blush with a cough was quite illogical.
Both felt as a child then, where before sat two mature persons discussing the methods of Hardy’s writing. They lingered for a moment longer, relishing in the brisk air of remembered adolescence. Sophia’s girlish grin met Arthur’s ridiculous smile as they said their goodbyes, but not without promises of a subsequent meeting.
:3:
“Arthur, I’m thirsty.” Maggie droned, gripping him from his melancholy reverie. “Can you get me some water?”
He wouldn’t mind getting her water if he didn’t know the intensity of her fear. Maggie believed it a man’s job to order food and talk with realtors. When asked about her opinion on politics or how to manage finances, she bellowed, “Oh, I don’t care much for all that! Arthur takes care of it.” Did she really not have enough independence to walk up to the counter and ask for a cup of water? Reader, it was with much resignation and detachment of heart that Arthur Havens fetched a cup of water for his poor wife. He no longer possessed the fortitude to attempt at her stepping out.
:4:
As Sophia stepped out of the taxi on that most fateful of days, Arthur stood abashed betwixt feelings of adoration and affright. She was fearful to him in all her beauty. Each moment he fretted that she might disappear, or worse, that she might topple off of the altar on which he had fixed her so vehemently.
“Fancy seeing you here,” her voice sang with milky notes of hidden wonder. Yes, she had retained the image.
Sophia and Arthur sat on the bench outside of the old bookstore and talked of books, of music, of forgotten lore. Arthur studied the work of art which he held with such fragility, almost doubting her very existence. Yet again Sophia’s girlish grin reminded him of the corporeal reality of her substance.
After several hours’ brilliance, the radiant sun lost its battle with the storm clouds. The man and woman attempted to ignore the portending storm, as if their ignorance would dispel its very existence. Soon the raindrops greeted their heads, and the necessity of departure loomed in their hearts.
“They’re calling for a torrential downpour,” Arthur finally acknowledged the storm’s reality. “I can take you home. It could take several minutes before a taxi passes by again. Let me take you,” he somewhat pleaded.
“Well, if you insist,” Sophia sang once again.
“I do,” he asserted. Both stood up and began their slow walk to Arthur’s car in quiet anticipation.
“I think it’s somewhat silly to drive a car in the city,” Sophia broke the silence.
“I don’t like not having a vehicle at my disposal in case of emergency. Just think, you would be drenched by the time the taxi came!”
“I don’t mind it much at all. Rather, I like to be wet. It makes me almost feel as if I’m naked.” Her eyes sprang up to meet his, uncertain as to whether the last sentence should have been voiced.
Arthur’s cheeks turned crimson and he smiled to think of his goddess in her glory. His inquisitive eyes perceived that she had more to confess, and he bid her go on.
“When I was a child,” she continued, “I used to roam the forest in which my grandparents lived. Whenever it rained, I would run out as far as I could, strip myself of all that burdened me, and sing out in unrehearsed melodies. I felt free at that moment; I don’t neglect to continue the ritual whenever I happen to stay with them.”
“You fascinate me, Sophia,” was all he could muster to say.
“I’m only me,” she frailly objected. Little did she know that the very her of which she contained was the source of all his joy and sorrow. Joy, because he knew that she was his; and sorrow, because he knew that this very thing she could never truly be. Still, he had to have her. If he could not have her bodily, at least she was his in spirit.
“Sophia,” he started suddenly, “would that I could be your very own Angel Clare! I would not desert you as he did to Tess, but I would love you in all tenderness and truth. I would teach you all the knowledge I possess, and learn from you even more. I would dance with you naked in the rain, and embrace your feral bodice.”
She stared at him, absorbing the words which flowed from his lips so rapturously. The rain began to make a transparency of her white sundress. Both she and he noticed at the very same moment that her breasts were now visible beneath the soaked linen. She stood fast, allowing him to observe what nature had given her. As he looked upon them, tears filled his eyes. A sadness clutched at his lungs for a moment and then flitted away.
For once again, Canova’s Cupid sprang up in him, and he longed to cradle Psyche’s marble bosom. Ah! With such emotion did her body evict the very picture of a marble statue as the white fabric clung to her heaving contours. Sophia looked at Arthur, daring him to claim her treasure.
Arthur took one step closer to his lover’s beckoning chest. With trembling hand, Sophia traced her elegant fingers against his palm – suddenly she seized his hand in fervor, clutching it to her boasting breast. Arthur gasped with unadulterated pleasure as his flesh gained access to hers. Sophia stifled a sigh. And here they stood, the very semblance of Canova’s art!
Arthur looked into Sophia’s strong eyes, overwhelmed with feeling and adulation. She smiled, welcoming him. Instinctively, Arthur bent his head and nestled his forehead against hers. He heard her heavy breathing and noticed that his breath was a bit labored himself. He could smell the sweet breath emanating from her lips, and he longed to press his own against her two blushing petals. He leaned further in, until they each could feel the energy pulsing from one another’s lips. Just one more inch, and his electric desire could be consummated. The longing became overwhelmingly painful.
Arthur hesitated.
He stopped, pulled his hand from off her chest, and breathed sharply. The sadness gripped his lungs with more force, and his words came out in wavering tones of grief and assertiveness. “No, Sophia. We cannot do this. I… I am married.”
“I… wasn’t aware. Yet, somehow I knew.”
“I’m very sorry. It’s not that I don’t want you. God knows how much I do! Only, it isn’t right. It wouldn’t be fair to Mattie.” For the first time, the taste of her name on his tongue tasted sour, as if he was eliciting the name of a devil.
“I understand,” Sophia whispered. Suddenly recollecting her exposure, Sophia wrapped her arms around her dainty chest and let out a laugh. She laughed, almost amused at the absurdity of what just transpired. All at once, it seemed in her mind as if nothing had happened. “There’s a taxi coming round the corner here. Don’t worry. I’ll get home safely.”
Arthur freed one cracking sob from his lungs, and turned away because of fear, and love, and of shame. A part of him, a very small part indeed, also knew the deeper reason for turning away. For him, the anticipation was more beautiful than the consummation. For in its consummation, she would become whore and home wreaker. In its anticipation, she yet retained the allusion of grandeur. If man touches the face of a goddess too intimately, her face will appear familiar and worn. It was from a distance that he must adore her; this was the source of all his painful pleasure and entrapment.
:5:
Arthur Havens never returned to the old book store, and he never met with Sophia again. Only once did he catch a glimpse of her milky body walking the streets of New York. She was wearing a peach sundress and white lace gloves. He thought to himself how she had never looked more beautiful as she confidently walked opposite the crowd. In that moment, he loved her wildly and devotedly. He could barely keep himself from calling out her name; only the memory of her sardonic laugh had held him back.
:6:
Maggie laughed as Arthur made his way back to the table with her cup of water. “Didn’t I tell you to get ice in it? You know I like my water ice cold, Arther.” She chuckled lightly to avoid seeming too harsh, but there was a hint of annoyance in the intonation of her voice.
“You’re right, dear. I must’ve forgotten,” Arthur reluctantly reduced himself to her pacifier. “How right you are.”
It was then that a peel of thunder startled them both. Arthur looked out the window to witness the onset of a storm. “Ah,” he thought, “there is nothing more refreshing than a cooling rain on a humid summer’s day.” He longed to run outside, strip himself of everything, and rebuke the world for the wrong it had done to him. He imagined himself then leaping across fields of jade with his fairy nymph prancing and singing at his side. Together, they would be free, and the world’s expectations could hinder them no more.
He imagined all these things as he fetched his wife some ice, and he continued imagining them as he sat down to continue his perusal of The Awakening.
Arthur sipped his coffee; black, just the way he liked it. He sat back in his chair and let out a sigh.
“Thank you, darling,” his wife offered. She looked over at him, studying his face. She nodded slightly, as if to say that he should proceed with his next scripted line.
“You’re welcome, sweets,” the old man quoted according to protocol. “Anything for you," he added without looking at her.
Maggie rested her magazine on the table and readjusted her red sweater vest once again. Arthur tightened up his tie and continued to read.
Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova, 1796
Coffee & Canova
written by: Sophia DeMarco
:1:
“What are you reading about?” Mattie asked timidly of her husband. He paused in his perusal of The Awakening to look disinterestedly at his wife. “Fifty two longs years,” he thought, “and what has it amounted to? One would think that I’ve taught her nothing.” He had been bringing her to Barnes & Noble regularly for quite some time to expose her to new thoughts and ideas. Yet, she always resorted to reading her magazines on good housekeeping.It was the only realm with which she was comfortable, and it bothered him. He placed his hand around his cup of coffee and proceeded with the explanation, although he knew most certainly that she wouldn’t understand.
“It’s about a woman,” he said aloud, “who is unsatisfied with her life and what society expects her to be. She yearns to be free from her role as housewife and mother. She longs for passion and adventure. In the end, she chooses the waves over a life of sin or a life of insipidness.”
His wife chuckled vicariously, “Oh, you do speak so strange sometimes, Arthur!” At first, he made no response. Then he heard something of a whimper. His eyes drowsily lifted themselves off the page to meet hers. He could see in her childlike eyes that she feared she might have offended him.
When Arthur had first started courting Mattie, he had adored the way she looked at him, as if his approval was God’s very utterance. It all gave him a very powerful sense of dominance and control. Now, her emotional dependence on him seemed to stifle his thoughts and words, lest he accidentally reveal his hidden disappointment. One frown or scoff was enough to drive her to tears. No, he must lie to her and therefore lie to himself. “Yes, I suppose I do speak strange, darling,” he assented with a choking grunt. Arthur’s forced laughter was enough to quell her concern.
Maggie went back to reading her Family Style Magazine. “Arthur, we ought to change our curtains. They’re dreadfully outdated.” Again, she seemed to cower as the words left her mouth for fear of being too assertive. Smoke seemed to fill Arthur’s lungs as he prepared for another scripted line. He sipped his black coffee, rehearsing the exact intonation in his head.
“Yes, dear; we surely ought to. How right you are.”
Mattie’s eyes lit up with satisfaction at his approval. “Good; it’s settled then,” she cooed as she adjusted her red sweater vest.
Arthur loosened his tie, hoping to alleviate the ball of lint that had been lodged in his throat for the past fifty years. Two years of bliss proceeded by half a century of torture. “What a curse the gods bestowed on me for being happy! Why could they not leave me content in my ignorance?” But, oh, he could not be content. Not after he had met her, for she… She had changed him. Sophia.
:2:
He had met her in Argosy’s bookstore on 116 East & 59th Street. It was then a quaint little shop, full of new and used books of life. There, amidst the smell of thoughts and bold ideas, he had met her. Sophia. They both happened to reach for the copy of Tess of the D’urbervilles and their hands touched for just a moment. No sparks flew; there was no feeling of ecstatic surrender- only an awkward laugh and sheepish apology. “Go ahead and take it,” she said, “You seem very intent upon it.” Her eyes of ebony glittered mischievously.
“Oh, no!” he jokingly exclaimed, “I cannot take from a woman. I’ll find another one somewhere.”
“Well, woman or not, you touched it first. I distinctly remember it. Here,” she briskly spoke as she placed the book in his hand. “Besides, I already have a copy.”
Her full lips curved into a smile pregnant with life as she turned to walk away. Sophia’s gait was gallant and graceful, and her body cried out to him. He studied her. Arthur didn’t notice the curve of her hips with a purely sexual pleasure, but with the pleasure of a student admiring the work of a venerated artist. Sophia was a masterpiece sculpted by Canova in the whitest of marble. He longed to be Cupid and for Sophia to be his Psyche. There was nothing more he wanted than to remain frozen with her in that rapturous embrace, his hand gently cradling her breast. Ah, to be forever frozen in the moment of anticipation, the softening of the lips. For eternity their eyes would be fixed only on the other, and observers would say, “My, how fantastical the story! How euphoric their embrace! They will forever look into the other’s eyes with the idealistic hope and expectation that exists just before the reality of the kiss.”
“Was it better, after all, to retain the ideal rather than expose reality?” Arthur wondered. “Is the moment just before the kiss more holy than its consummation?” Enough pretense! There was no time to philosophize; Arthur knew that he had to see her again.
He searched the aisles of the store for her and found her musing over a book in the Mystery section. “Have you read the story?” he blurted out after her. His words reached her ears with all the urgency of a cry for help.
“It’s my favorite,” she called to him, understanding what he was referring to. “It taught me that the world which drove Tess to destruction still exists today. And Angel Clare, the poor fool, I’ve been searching for him ever since. I suppose I expected to find him somewhere amongst all my copies of the book. Let me know if you happen to search him out.”
“I will,” he contemplated his answer, “as soon as I am finished reading it.”
“Wonderful!” she beamed, as if she actually believed he might do it. Then, all too quickly, she averted her eyes to the book she held in her silken hands. It quite unsettled him.
“How…how could I let you know,” he stammered, “unless I had a means to find you.”
“Meet me here two weeks from now at the same hour, and you can tell me all.”
“Splendid,” he agreed, attempting to mask the intensity of his anticipation.
Two weeks later, he met her at the book store. They sat on the white wooden bench outside and sipped their coffee. Both discussed the meaning of Hardy’s fatalistic outlook on Victorian society. They debated about whether Angel Clare was a good man, and spoke of Tess as highly as the Virgin herself. When Sophia finally rose to leave, Arthur grabbed her ivory hand in a moment of passion. He could not bear to part from her so soon; he had only just begun to feel.
With his hand attached to her’s, Arthur looked into Sophia’s wild eyes. She seemed to neither approve nor disapprove of the contact. However, Arthur attempted to proceed with a handshake in order to dispel the awkwardness. As he gently released his hand from hers, Sophia traced her dainty fingers across his palm. Arthur could not tell if it was done out of unconsciousness or whether it was the product of an equally prominent feeling.
He blushed and attempted to cover his blush with a cough. Sophia politely giggled, as if acknowledging that the concealment of a blush with a cough was quite illogical.
Both felt as a child then, where before sat two mature persons discussing the methods of Hardy’s writing. They lingered for a moment longer, relishing in the brisk air of remembered adolescence. Sophia’s girlish grin met Arthur’s ridiculous smile as they said their goodbyes, but not without promises of a subsequent meeting.
:3:
“Arthur, I’m thirsty.” Maggie droned, gripping him from his melancholy reverie. “Can you get me some water?”
He wouldn’t mind getting her water if he didn’t know the intensity of her fear. Maggie believed it a man’s job to order food and talk with realtors. When asked about her opinion on politics or how to manage finances, she bellowed, “Oh, I don’t care much for all that! Arthur takes care of it.” Did she really not have enough independence to walk up to the counter and ask for a cup of water? Reader, it was with much resignation and detachment of heart that Arthur Havens fetched a cup of water for his poor wife. He no longer possessed the fortitude to attempt at her stepping out.
:4:
As Sophia stepped out of the taxi on that most fateful of days, Arthur stood abashed betwixt feelings of adoration and affright. She was fearful to him in all her beauty. Each moment he fretted that she might disappear, or worse, that she might topple off of the altar on which he had fixed her so vehemently.
“Fancy seeing you here,” her voice sang with milky notes of hidden wonder. Yes, she had retained the image.
Sophia and Arthur sat on the bench outside of the old bookstore and talked of books, of music, of forgotten lore. Arthur studied the work of art which he held with such fragility, almost doubting her very existence. Yet again Sophia’s girlish grin reminded him of the corporeal reality of her substance.
After several hours’ brilliance, the radiant sun lost its battle with the storm clouds. The man and woman attempted to ignore the portending storm, as if their ignorance would dispel its very existence. Soon the raindrops greeted their heads, and the necessity of departure loomed in their hearts.
“They’re calling for a torrential downpour,” Arthur finally acknowledged the storm’s reality. “I can take you home. It could take several minutes before a taxi passes by again. Let me take you,” he somewhat pleaded.
“Well, if you insist,” Sophia sang once again.
“I do,” he asserted. Both stood up and began their slow walk to Arthur’s car in quiet anticipation.
“I think it’s somewhat silly to drive a car in the city,” Sophia broke the silence.
“I don’t like not having a vehicle at my disposal in case of emergency. Just think, you would be drenched by the time the taxi came!”
“I don’t mind it much at all. Rather, I like to be wet. It makes me almost feel as if I’m naked.” Her eyes sprang up to meet his, uncertain as to whether the last sentence should have been voiced.
Arthur’s cheeks turned crimson and he smiled to think of his goddess in her glory. His inquisitive eyes perceived that she had more to confess, and he bid her go on.
“When I was a child,” she continued, “I used to roam the forest in which my grandparents lived. Whenever it rained, I would run out as far as I could, strip myself of all that burdened me, and sing out in unrehearsed melodies. I felt free at that moment; I don’t neglect to continue the ritual whenever I happen to stay with them.”
“You fascinate me, Sophia,” was all he could muster to say.
“I’m only me,” she frailly objected. Little did she know that the very her of which she contained was the source of all his joy and sorrow. Joy, because he knew that she was his; and sorrow, because he knew that this very thing she could never truly be. Still, he had to have her. If he could not have her bodily, at least she was his in spirit.
“Sophia,” he started suddenly, “would that I could be your very own Angel Clare! I would not desert you as he did to Tess, but I would love you in all tenderness and truth. I would teach you all the knowledge I possess, and learn from you even more. I would dance with you naked in the rain, and embrace your feral bodice.”
She stared at him, absorbing the words which flowed from his lips so rapturously. The rain began to make a transparency of her white sundress. Both she and he noticed at the very same moment that her breasts were now visible beneath the soaked linen. She stood fast, allowing him to observe what nature had given her. As he looked upon them, tears filled his eyes. A sadness clutched at his lungs for a moment and then flitted away.
For once again, Canova’s Cupid sprang up in him, and he longed to cradle Psyche’s marble bosom. Ah! With such emotion did her body evict the very picture of a marble statue as the white fabric clung to her heaving contours. Sophia looked at Arthur, daring him to claim her treasure.
Arthur took one step closer to his lover’s beckoning chest. With trembling hand, Sophia traced her elegant fingers against his palm – suddenly she seized his hand in fervor, clutching it to her boasting breast. Arthur gasped with unadulterated pleasure as his flesh gained access to hers. Sophia stifled a sigh. And here they stood, the very semblance of Canova’s art!
Arthur looked into Sophia’s strong eyes, overwhelmed with feeling and adulation. She smiled, welcoming him. Instinctively, Arthur bent his head and nestled his forehead against hers. He heard her heavy breathing and noticed that his breath was a bit labored himself. He could smell the sweet breath emanating from her lips, and he longed to press his own against her two blushing petals. He leaned further in, until they each could feel the energy pulsing from one another’s lips. Just one more inch, and his electric desire could be consummated. The longing became overwhelmingly painful.
Arthur hesitated.
He stopped, pulled his hand from off her chest, and breathed sharply. The sadness gripped his lungs with more force, and his words came out in wavering tones of grief and assertiveness. “No, Sophia. We cannot do this. I… I am married.”
“I… wasn’t aware. Yet, somehow I knew.”
“I’m very sorry. It’s not that I don’t want you. God knows how much I do! Only, it isn’t right. It wouldn’t be fair to Mattie.” For the first time, the taste of her name on his tongue tasted sour, as if he was eliciting the name of a devil.
“I understand,” Sophia whispered. Suddenly recollecting her exposure, Sophia wrapped her arms around her dainty chest and let out a laugh. She laughed, almost amused at the absurdity of what just transpired. All at once, it seemed in her mind as if nothing had happened. “There’s a taxi coming round the corner here. Don’t worry. I’ll get home safely.”
Arthur freed one cracking sob from his lungs, and turned away because of fear, and love, and of shame. A part of him, a very small part indeed, also knew the deeper reason for turning away. For him, the anticipation was more beautiful than the consummation. For in its consummation, she would become whore and home wreaker. In its anticipation, she yet retained the allusion of grandeur. If man touches the face of a goddess too intimately, her face will appear familiar and worn. It was from a distance that he must adore her; this was the source of all his painful pleasure and entrapment.
:5:
Arthur Havens never returned to the old book store, and he never met with Sophia again. Only once did he catch a glimpse of her milky body walking the streets of New York. She was wearing a peach sundress and white lace gloves. He thought to himself how she had never looked more beautiful as she confidently walked opposite the crowd. In that moment, he loved her wildly and devotedly. He could barely keep himself from calling out her name; only the memory of her sardonic laugh had held him back.
:6:
Maggie laughed as Arthur made his way back to the table with her cup of water. “Didn’t I tell you to get ice in it? You know I like my water ice cold, Arther.” She chuckled lightly to avoid seeming too harsh, but there was a hint of annoyance in the intonation of her voice.
“You’re right, dear. I must’ve forgotten,” Arthur reluctantly reduced himself to her pacifier. “How right you are.”
It was then that a peel of thunder startled them both. Arthur looked out the window to witness the onset of a storm. “Ah,” he thought, “there is nothing more refreshing than a cooling rain on a humid summer’s day.” He longed to run outside, strip himself of everything, and rebuke the world for the wrong it had done to him. He imagined himself then leaping across fields of jade with his fairy nymph prancing and singing at his side. Together, they would be free, and the world’s expectations could hinder them no more.
He imagined all these things as he fetched his wife some ice, and he continued imagining them as he sat down to continue his perusal of The Awakening.
Arthur sipped his coffee; black, just the way he liked it. He sat back in his chair and let out a sigh.
“Thank you, darling,” his wife offered. She looked over at him, studying his face. She nodded slightly, as if to say that he should proceed with his next scripted line.
“You’re welcome, sweets,” the old man quoted according to protocol. “Anything for you," he added without looking at her.
Maggie rested her magazine on the table and readjusted her red sweater vest once again. Arthur tightened up his tie and continued to read.