Contracts of the Heart

Chapter 1: Awkward Introductions

The library was quiet, but not too quiet. She sat alone, blonde hair framing a face from ice. She was reading.

He stood near the biography section, watching her.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, the book held up like a shield. She felt the weight of his gaze.

He knew she felt it. Her posture stiffened.

-Do you not understand that this is inappropriate? she asked. Her voice was low and sharp. If you have something to say or discuss, then please do so.

Stanley didn't move.

-If not, then kindly look away, she continued. I came here to enjoy the books, not to be the object of your curiosity.

He took a step closer.

-What's inappropriate? he asked.

She finally looked up. She rolled her eyes in a practiced manner.

-Really? You think there's nothing inappropriate about staring at me like that while I'm trying to read my book in peace?

She gripped the worn pages of her novel tighter.

-It's called personal space and respect for others, two things you seem to lack, she added.

-I wasn't staring, Stanley said. I came to talk about books.

-Talk about books? She raised an eyebrow. Skeptical. And what makes you think I want to talk to you about anything, let alone books?

Her tone was biting. She glanced at him, then back to the open tome in her lap.

Dismissal.

-It's a library, Stanley offered stupidly.

She let out a humorless laugh.

-Ah yes, because everyone at the library is dying to talk to you.

She looked him dead in the eye. Stanley looked at her.

-Ok goodbye, he said.

He turned.

She slammed the book shut.

-Goodbye? she asked.

Stanley stopped. He turned back.

-Just like that?, she asked sarcastically.

-If you want to be left alone of course I'll respect that, Stanley said.

She narrowed her eyes, searching for the lie.

-Respect, huh? she said. Now why does that word coming from you sound so foreign and unbelievable?

She leaned back and crossed her arms.

-Let me guess, you've used that line before on countless women, hoping to catch one off guard enough to lower her defenses, she said. Well, newsflash buddy, it won't work on me.

-Why do you talk like you know me? Stanley asked.

She scoffed.

-Oh please, spare me the innocent act. Your type is as predictable as the sunrise, she said.

She gestured vaguely at the empty air around her.

-You see a lone woman minding her business and immediately assume she must be lonely, desperate even, just begging for someone to pay attention to her, she said.

Stanley nodded in agreement.

-Ok, he said, sorry for bothering you. Have a good day.

He started to walk away. He made it three steps.

-Wait!

He paused.

-Dammit, why am I doing this? she muttered to herself.

Stanley turned around.

-Wait, she repeated. Softer this time. Look, I didn't mean to come off quite so hostile.

Chapter 2: Cover Stories

Stanley walked back to the table. He stopped at the edge of her personal space.

-It's ok, he said. I get it. Men are creeps. I was genuinely interested in what book you're reading, he said defensively.

She raised an eyebrow.

-Wow, color me impressed, she said. A man admitting he might be part of the problem.

She looked down at the cover. Her fingers traced the raised letters of the title.

-It's a classic horror novel, actually, she said. The Shining by Stephen King. I find his writing utterly captivating, she added.

-I've never read Stephen King, Stanley said. But I saw a few movies.

She scoffed.

-Movies, really? Nothing beats diving into the original text.

She tapped the cover.

-Reading allows you to paint the picture in your mind, she said. Adding layers no film could achieve.

-I agree, Stanley said. But I haven't read Stephen King.

She smirked.

-Well then, perhaps today is your lucky day, she said.

She gestured to the empty wooden chair across from her.

-Sit for a bit.

Stanley sat. He kept a careful distance. He could smell her perfume now.

-I've been finishing the autobiography of Jill Conway, he said. It goes across three books. Have you read her?

She arched an eyebrow.

-Jill Conway? That name doesn't ring a bell. Tell me more.

-She grew up on a farm in the Australian outback during the Great Depression and World War II, Stanley said. Ended up being the first woman president of Smith College.

Lena nodded slowly. How many girls has he tried this with? She played along.

-Impressive resume. Do you want a prize for reading women?

-That's fair, Stanley replied. No prize, just a conversation.

She studied him. Looking for the angle

-Can I be honest with you?, Stanley asked suddenly.

-That depends on the honesty, she said. Some truths are better left unsaid.

-I'd like to make a friend to talk books with, he said. I don't have many literate friends.

She chewed on her lip.

-Friendship? she asked. Amicable isn't synonymous with friend. Friends share things. Vulnerability.

-I get it. Safety is hard to come by. Even here.

She traced the spine of her book.

-I suppose there's no harm in a little intellectual discourse, she said. Provided we set ground rules.

-Okay, Stanley said.

-Rule one, she said. No unwanted advances. If I feel uncomfortable, it ends immediately.

-Agreed.

-Rule two. Honesty.

She held up three fingers.

-Rule three. No unsolicited photos.

-I can't send photos, Stanley said. My phone is ancient.

She smirked.

-My, aren't you straightforward, she said. Most men beat around the bush.

He held his tongue and reached into his bag instead. He pulled out two paperbacks and slid them onto the table.

"Bel Canto" by Ann Patchett. "Memories of the Ford Administration" by John Updike.

Lena looked at the spines. She didn't touch them.

-Contrasting choices, she said. Practical and ambitious.

-I liked "Taft," Stanley said. But I wanted to try Updike. I like the seventies setting.

The book actually happened in the nineties but neither of them knew that. She tapped the table near the Patchett book.

-I've read "Bel Canto," she said. It's about how art connects people in a crisis.

-Good, Stanley said. Then we can discuss it.

She hesitated.

-Reading together is intimate, she said. Sharing an experience like that with a stranger... it makes me uneasy.

-But you've already read it, so we can just talk about it.

She relaxed. Slightly.

-Bel Canto?, she asked. I can read it again.

-That would be nice.

She stood up and smoothed her skirt. The meeting was over.

-I'll let you know when I start, he said, passing her his phone to get her number. He hadn't been lying, it was an old Nokia brick.

She smirked.

-I'm sure you will, she said, taking the phone to dial her number in.

He handed the phone back to Stanley, turned and walked away.

He watched her go and put the book in his pocket.

Chapter 3: Texting

The phone sat on his nightstand, darkly.

He grabbed it and started typing.

-You're still awake?

-Starting Bel Canto today, he replied. No spoilers.

-I wouldn't dream of it.

Time passed. He read slowly, stealing moments between work and sleep. He read at a pace as if he moved his lips when he read.

He sent another message finally.

-I got through the first chapter.

-And?

-The accompanist. Died so quickly. Back to back messages.

-It changed the nature of the situation. Marked the end of the insulated world.

Hostages in an opera house, people trapped in a situation, waiting for a first move.

Then his signal dropped. He got up from bed and walked over to the window, then the kitchen. Sometimes it worked there. Nothing.

He got back to bed and closed his eyes. Sometime later the brick buzzed on his nightstand.

-Where'd you go?

-I'm here. I lost my signal.

-I thought I scared you off.

-Never.

Then a double text.

-I feel something fierce for you.

She didn't reply at first.

-Me too, the text finally came back.

He fell asleep.

The next morning he pushed through, getting as close to the end as he could.

-I'm done, he texted. He would be by the time they met again.

-Finish line crossed!

-The ending was sad.

-Poignant, she corrected.

-When can I see you?, he texted, taking the risk. We can talk about the book.

-I would love that.

-I'll come pick you up.

-3 pm?

-Today, Stanley started to type, then, instead: OK.

He put the phone down and picked the book back up.

Chapter 4: Coming Over

It was 2:58 PM. Stanley stood in her apartment building hallway. He checked his watch. He waited two minutes.

At 3:00 PM, he knocked.

The door opened. Lena stood there. She wore a sweater that looked too big for her.

-You're punctual, she said.

-I try.

He held up a white cardboard box.

-I brought peace offerings. Pastries.

She eyed the box, then him. She stepped back.

-Come in.

The apartment was small. Tidy. Coffee was brewing.

Stanley stepped inside and looked at the walls. They were covered in black and white photographs. Landscapes. Street corners. People caught in mid-motion.

-You take these? he asked.

Lena walked to the kitchenette.

-My passion, she said. I like to freeze moments.

-Why?

-Memory is unreliable, she said from the kitchen. It twists things. Changes them to fit the narrative we want. A photograph doesn't lie. It just is.

-It's all about framing though, isn't it?

She walked back in from the kitchen with two mugs. She handed one to him. Black. No sugar.

-I didn't know how you take it, she said.

-This is fine.

-So, she said. Bel Canto.

-The ending, Stanley said.

-Let's sit.

She led him to a small couch. She sat in the corner, pulling her legs up. Stanley sat on the other end. He placed the pastry box on the coffee table.

-The ending broke me a little, he admitted.

-It had to, she said. There is no other way for a dream to end. You wake up, or it dies.

She blew on her coffee.

-I missed you, she said. quietly.

-I missed you too.

She looked at him over the rim of the mug.

-Prove it, she said. Tell me about the book.

They picked the book apart. The hostages. The terrorists. The opera singer who held them all together.

-It was a utopia, Stanley said. While it lasted.

-It had to end, Lena said. Reality always breaks in.

She finished her coffee and set the mug down. She lowered her legs and stretched them out on the cushion.

-What's next?, she asked.

Stanley reached into his bag. He pulled out a worn paperback.

-In Her Day, he said. Rita Mae Brown.

She eyed the cover.

-Feminism? Really laying it on thick,

-1976, Stanley said. I like the year.

-Read to me, she said.

Stanley opened the book. He read.

Lena closed her eyes. She leaned her head back.

-Her voice, she murmured. It's tired.

-She's fighting a war, Stanley said.

-Aren't we all?

The afternoon light faded and the black and white photos got darker.

Stanley stopped reading. He looked at her. Her feet were near his thigh.

-You look tense, he said.

-Always, she said. Holding up walls takes energy.

He reached out. He took her foot in his hand.

She flinched. A reflex. Then she exhaled.

-What are you doing?

-Helping.

He pressed his thumb into the arch of her foot. She made a sound. Small and soft.

-That's... unexpected, she said.

-Unwanted?

She didn't answer immediately. She shifted deeper into the couch.

-No, she said.

Chapter 5: Dusk

Dusk came and the room got even grayer and darker.

Stanley let go of her foot. She pulled it back, but not far.

-You have good hands, she said.

-I used to work with them. Before I tried to write.

-You wrote?

-Tried, Stanley corrected. Grad school, even.

She shifted on the cushion. Interested.

-What stopped you?

-A critic, he said. -Ju---- Cr----. You know her?

-The film critic?

-She taught a workshop. I submitted a piece about a bar. I thought it was gritty. Real.

Lena smiled.

-Let me guess. It wasn't.

-I described a pack of cigarettes on the counter, Stanley said. I called them Marlboro Red.

She laughed.

-What did she say?

-She held the paper up, Stanley said. She asked the class: "Who wrote this?"

He tried to mimic the voice.

-I raised my hand.

-She said: "Marlboro Red? As opposed to what? Marlboro Green? Blue? It's lazy. It's a commercial, not a description."

Lena laughed harder.

-She tore me apart, Stanley said. Over a little brand placement.

-She was right, Lena said. It is lazy.

-I know. That's why I stopped, he said, putting his hand in his pocket to twirl his Nokia.

-Because of one critic?

-Because she saw through the mask, Stanley said. She saw I was pretending to be tough.

Lena stopped laughing. She looked at him.

-We all pretend to be tough sometimes.

The room was almost black now, the boxy light of from the streetlamps and passing cars painting the wall.

Stanley reached into the bag again. He pulled out another book.

-Dance the Eagle to Sleep, he said. Marge Piercy.

Lena squinted.

-Another feminist? she asked.

-Dystopian, Stanley said. Teenage revolutionaries. More 70s stuff.

He flipped the pages. He knew the passage. He had marked it. It wasn't about the revolution. It was about the characters finding solace in each other.

-Read, she said.

Stanley read. He kept his voice steady, it was a charged passage.

Stanley stopped reading. It was quiet. Lena didn't move. She was staring at his hands.

-That was... graphic, she said.

-It's honest, Stanley said.

-It's unexpected, she said. For a book about politics.

-Politics is about people, Stanley said. And people need touch.

She looked up at him.

-Is that what you think? she asked.

-I think we're all starved.

He put the book down on the table and sat back on the couch next to her.

Chapter 6: Person to Person

The distance was gone. The space between them on the couch had evaporated.

He could hear her breathing. Shallow.

He reached out. His hand found the nape of her neck. It was warm.

She leaned into the touch.

-Lena.

She turned her face to his. Her eyes looked for something.

He kissed her.

Her hands came up. They gripped his shirt and pulled him in.

He moved his hand. Down her back. To her waist.

She stiffened. Just for a second. A reflex.

Stanley stopped. Immediately.

He pulled back an inch. He didn't let go, but he stopped moving.

-May I?, he asked.

The room was quiet.

Lena blinked. She looked confused.

-What?, she whispered.

-I want to be sure, Stanley said. Is this okay?

She stared at him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

She let out a breath she had been holding for a long time.

-Yes, she said. Yes.

After, the room was silent

Lena lay with her head on his chest. The armor was gone. Discarded on the floor with the rest of the day.

-You stopped, she said. Her voice was small.

-You flinched, Stanley said.

-Most men don't stop, she said. They push through.

She traced a line on his shirt.

-Intimacy has always been a weapon, she admitted. Something wielded against me. Not a connection.

Stanley listened.

-It left me broken, she said. Shattered pieces scattered to the winds. They never fit back together right.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet.

-I'm a mess, Stanley.

-We're all a mess.

He took her hand and squeezed it.

-I'd like to help, he said.

-Help?

-Put the pieces back together. If I can.

Lena stared at him.

-No one ever wants to help put me back together. They only ever wanted to take more pieces.

She buried her face in his neck and held on tight.

The books were on the table. The coffee was cold. The apartment was dark. The walls were down.

Chapter 7: Yes

-Yes, she murmured again.

Stanley reached out, his hands finding her waist. He pulled. She let him, following the momentum, fluid and desperate, until she was no longer sitting next to him.

She was straddling him.

The shift was tectonic. The books and the coffee were forgotten. There was only the friction of denim against denim and the sudden, overwhelming heat of her weight on his lap.

Alina gasped, a sharp, intake of breath that sounded like a seal breaking.

He kissed her again, pushing his tongue through her lips. Her mouth opened under his, hungry, tasting of coffee and something sweeter but darker.

Her guarded hands tangled freely in his hair. She gripped him like she was falling, or he was.

-Stanley, she breathed against his mouth.

He moved his hands. Up the curve of her spine. Under the hem of the oversized sweater.

He felt her breath hitch as his palms found the bare skin of her back. She arched into the touch, pressing her chest against his.

His fingers traced the line of her ribs, higher, until they brushed the strap of her bra.

She shuddered.

-More, she whispered. It was a command, stripped of any irony.

He slid his hand around to the front, his thumb grazing the soft swell of her breast through the thin fabric of her bra.

Alina threw her head back. A sound escaped her throat, a low, broken whimper that vibrated against his chest.

She ground down on his lap, a rhythmic, instinctive movement that sent a jolt of fire through him.

He gripped her hips, anchoring her to him, matching her rhythm.

She looked down at him. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the blue. Her hair was a chaotic halo around her flushed face. The mask was gone.

-I think... she panted, her voice trembling. I think I've been waiting for this longer than I know.

Stanley reached up. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her swollen lip.

-Then let's not wait anymore.

He pulled her down. She met him halfway, a collision of bodies in the dark, trying to erase the silence of the empty apartment with the noise of their need.

Chapter 8: Bedroom

The bedroom was darker than the living room.

Stanley backed Lena toward the bed. Her hands were still on him, pulling at his shirt, impatient. They tumbled onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing.

-Wait, Stanley said.

He sat back. He reached for the hem of her sweater.

-Let me see you.

Lena hesitated. The instinct to hide, to armor up. Then she nodded.

He pulled the sweater over her head. She was wearing a simple black bra, lace against pale skin. He unclasped it. It fell away.

She lay back against the pillows, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked like a marble statue in the shadows, but she was warm.

Stanley moved down.

He gripped her ankles and pulled her toward the edge of the bed. Lena gasped, her hands gripping the sheets.

-Stanley?

-Hush, he said.

He knelt on the floor between her legs.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. He peeled them down, inch by inch, revealing the softness of her thighs, the curve of her hips.

She was trembling.

-I... I don't usually... she stammered. The control was slipping.

-You don't have to do anything, Stanley said. Just exist.

He lowered his head.

When his mouth touched her, she gasped, then cried out. A sharp, shocked sound that cut through the darkness.

Stanley worked slowly and deliberately, memorizing her shape and taste, tracing her essence.

Lena's hips bucked off the mattress. Her hands found his hair, gripping tight, and pushing him closer.

-Oh god, she whispered. Stanley. Please.

He felt her unraveling against his mouth. The tension in her thighs squeezing his head, the way her breath caught. She was drowning and so was he.

He picked up the pace. He felt the shudder start deep inside her.

-I can't... I can't hold it, she panicked.

-Don't, he growled against her skin. Let go.

And she did.

Her body bowed, rigid and shaking, a cry tearing from her throat, a pure, raw feeling.