tagIllustratedA Woman's Story of Love Ch. 10

A Woman's Story of Love Ch. 10

bymidorigreengrasses©

A woman's story of love in one hundred episodes

Part 10

"Affection"



I found it hard to pay attention to the movie even though it was a good one, as promised. I thought instead of Marcel at the party. Early on, we'd sat at a table together and talked. It was the first time we had alone, and I felt the full force of his personality directly, saw the softness and strength, his artistic character, his passion and understanding.

I spoke to Marcel about artwork of mine other than painting that had been praised. He asked which they were, and I said, "Like helicopters." I explained they involved folded paper, but on hearing that he didn't immediately jump to the conclusion they were like origami, the Japanese folding paper art. He was thoughtful enough to understand I was trying something different, of my own- if I'd wanted to work only in my country's tradition I would have stayed there, wouldn't I? I'd come to America, though, as Marcel had.

I even tried talking a little in his language. I was ready to try something new- with him, I mean, strange as that sounds, since we'd just met and I was married.

I said, "It feels hot," and he said it didn't. I asked for the French word for "hot," and he told me. I said, "I mean it feels hot here," asked the French word for "here," felt embarrassed I didn't know even that. Was it something like "hier"? I asked.

He said it was "ici." Of course. He didn't become impatient or treat me like I was stupid. He explained that to say "It's hot" in French you have to use the word "fait," which means "make." The sentence is "It makes hot" instead of "It is hot."

I liked his burning green eyes, which didn't penetrate but glowed. You couldn't see into him but saw the feeling, the kindness, passion, soul of a lover and artist. I know this sounds funny, it's funny to hear myself saying it. Was I influenced by the fact he was French?

I didn't worry, by the way, about people at the party seeing Marcel and me sitting and talking together so enjoyably and thinking there was something between us. I felt there was, yes- even though we'd just met and I was married. I felt I wanted there to be.

Mitchell never mentioned the scene. I think he didn't witness it, at the time was on the verandah talking with other guests. The west side of the building had a view of the sunset.

Marcel said he liked wrestling- this was after talking about the guitar but before photography. I'd told him I danced. He said I should try wrestling.

"No, I'm serious. There's more to it than people think." He gave a laugh, acknowledging mine, which I'd tried unsuccessfully to cover.

"There's technique," he said. Here his eyes leveled on mine and did penetrate. "You don't just throw yourselves together, match strength for strength. You've gotta wear each other down."

He then told me about a woman he knew who danced and fell down some stairs.

"Horrific! 'We have to call 911!' I said, and reached for a phone beside the staircase- this was at a hotel- but it turned out to be just a decorative one, an antique."

Marcel was interesting, had so many stories. We connected, if you want to know the truth.

"She had beautiful legs, so shapely smooth," he said of the dancer, and described the colorful diagonally striped outfit that enhanced her form and left her free.

"In her enthusiasm to go out and dance, she missed the first step, and the front edge of all the others met the front of her feet and acted as a single sliding surface bringing her all the way down at high speed. And the wall of the landing below was near. She had no chance to slow herself, and hit it standing, face first, bouncing back left a red mark like one from a sponge, as if it had been waiting to come out, the accident was fated to happen, known ahead of time. You know how sometimes the biggest surprises feel not so surprising at all? You see life in the whole, outside the moment."

Marcel put down the drink he had been holding.

"But I don't want to upset you," he said.

"You didn't," I said almost in a whisper, our eyes fixed on each other.

The dancer was the girlfriend of Theo, our host, and Marcel talked about him next, said he made art objects inspired by skeletons.

"You mean, like Giacometti?" I asked.

"No. In the style of the Mexicans. Dark silver. Crusty old bones lined up for their passage to the spirit world, shuffling. He keeps them in a grated box, so it's like looking through the bars of a cage. Shadows. Light. Beautiful- like you- but so scary." Marcel made a face across the table. "Should I be scared of you?"

He took me seriously.

After the movie, Mitchell talked about himself. A scene in it had reminded him of a recent visit to the doctor when the nurse who checked him first asked if got thirsty often and responded to his "yes" answer by jotting notes furiously, as if he had just revealed an important symptom.

"Don't write that," he said, and explained, "I run five miles a day. Afterward, I'm thirsty. Naturally."

I guess you can see I like men who keep themselves fit.

It was night when the movie ended, and on the way back to the apartment where our house guest, Mitchell's brother Will, waited, the dark seemed to bring out the fragrances of green no longer clearly visible, sense of smell compensating for loss of vision. I noticed as much as usual if not more the bushes we passed, tree foliage overhead.

Mitchell also told me about the time when I was his student and- he claimed- proposed a project for the sole purpose of enlisting his help outside class, to get close to him. A classmate and I would make a drama in English, were already talking excitedly about it when we raised the idea with Mitchell.

Mitchell didn't like his students interfering with his personal life and ordinarily wouldn't let one phone him at home.

"Are you sure?

"That time was different."

Mitchell couldn't give us special attention. All the other students had to follow our lead. He knew some were busy and would grumble at the extra work.

"It was for me too, a logistical challenge."

I batted my eyes, playing innocent- which I was, I was. Wasn't it really Mitchell who liked to make dramas and have us play roles?

"My good sense went out the window then," he said.

"And now?"

"I'll show you when we get home."

"Can you?"

"Oh shit! That's right! Will!"

Our house guest wasn't due to leave until Sunday morning at the earliest.

"Do you always have to defer to your older brother?"

"You don't care about the noise we make?"

"We can be quiet."

"Can you?"

"I'm not the one who bellows like a frog at the end."

"You're the one whose voice can break glass."

"Can not."

"Can too."

Mitchell put his arm around my waist and we walked nearly in stride, his hand sliding up and down my side, expressing affection that couldn't wait.

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by wweary10108/17/18

Art grows on Literotica

How can so much be compressed into a single page of writing? Each part, segment or chapter is poetry masquerading as prose. The venue may be Literotica, but the calibre of Ms. Greengrasses' talent belongsmore...

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by Anonymous08/10/18

Ignore idiots

Your last sentence was perfect. Your grammatical errors are few and inconsequential. Please ignore this worthless criticism. I wonder if you might want to list this in Interacial. You might get a bettermore...

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by Anonymous08/09/18

Proof Read

Example, read your very last line!!

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