The Lover

I watch as his hands press the sticky bundle into a cloud of flour that suspends itself for a moment before sifting into his skin. He cracks eggs with his left hand, rhythmically, and kneads with his right, the muscles in his bare forearms flexing and relaxing with the dough. Through the haze of flour and hangover, I forget to tell myself that those same hands have traced paths over and around and inside me.

James is asleep in a booth, a Pinter script resting unopened on his stomach. I nudge his foot and kick him awake. “It’s almost ready,” I say. “Breakfast.”

“Hmmm?”

“Will’s making frittata.”

“What the fuck’s frittata?”

“Eggs and stuff. I don’t know.” I pick up the script, The Lover, our current production. “Have you been helping him run lines?” James nods. Outside, truckers’ headlights slice through the dark restaurant as Will flips our breakfast through the air.

Later, after the frittata, after James catches a cab, after Pinter is accidentally shoved under the table, Will’s hands tug at my skirt and uncover my thighs. We’re in slow motion, out of place, movie stars crammed behind a 12-inch screen. “We should go,” I tell him. “Your . . . Sarah will wonder.”

“Sarah knows.” His fingers have found their way under the elastic of my underwear, and they are moist as he brushes them across my cheek.

“She knows about us?”

“She knows about me.” He smiles without his eyes. The restaurant expects sex, and it’s all I can do to pull myself up and stand. After a moment, he stands, too. I’m taller. What was it he said to me that day at the theater? I hate living life vertically. We stay that way, not touching, waiting for someone to move.

I’m the first person in the theater the next afternoon, so I drop my bag in the dressing room and wander the building. When I find him, he’s crouched outside the fire exit, smoking, his back to me. I should say something, but instead I kneel behind him. Pressing my cold nose into his neck, my right hand slipping under his untucked shirt, I breathe in the scent of pesto and garlic. I know that smell. It clings to the bottoms of my sneakers long after I leave the restaurant. “I’m breaking up with Sarah,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“No, you’re not.” He flicks the butt onto the road and turns to face me. Our lips barely touching, he whispers into my mouth. “I’m leaving her this time.”

There’s concrete beneath our knees, but it disappears as his teeth pull my bottom lip into his mouth. He winds handfuls of my hair and tips my head, finding my ear. “I promise.” His arms wrap around me, rocking us back and forth. My pulse leaps, trying to break free and bury itself under his skin. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I press my lips to his neck and let my tongue trace a line to the collar of his shirt. The buttons pop open too easily. Will pulls my shirt away, and I cradle his head between my breasts, smelling the kitchen in his hair. I think of faceless Sarah, asleep in his bed. I think of the other actors who will be here soon. I try to think of the promises I’ve made to myself, but Will’s tongue is licking circles around my nipple, making a wet patch on my bra, and it’s all I can do to unhook it and stifle my gasp as his teeth bite into the sensitive flesh. I burn from the inside out.

I reach for Will, but he pulls away and slides my pants over my hips, his fingers skimming my underwear. He kisses my inner thigh, working his way up to the white satin triangle. I feel his breath and then his tongue pressing into me. Again and again, he licks the fabric, pulling it between his teeth and letting it snap back, moist and hot. I rip into his pants, my fingers curling around his penis. For a moment, he’s caught, and his eyes fly to mine as he throbs in my palm. I lower my mouth to taste him, but he catches my wrist and pulls me to my feet. I grab the railing for balance, and he’s behind me in an instant, pressing against me, filling me with heat. There are people inside the theater now, but their voices are drowned out by Will’s breath in my ear and the familiar rhythm that rushes inside my head. I should leave now, before he leaves me, but my muscles clamp around him and hold on tight. We are in-and-out, up-and-down, and nothing else makes sense.

After that, I stop seeing him outside of rehearsals. I think about going to the restaurant, but know that Sarah visits him there, after hours, when it’s quiet enough to hear the oil hiss on the grill. I wonder if she knows his hands the way I do; those fingers that can coax orgasms as easily as they knead dough. At night, dreaming of frittata, my body hums with need. My fingers travel my body, learning his secrets. My hands become his hands, stroking, exploring, singeing their path to my core. Tasting the honey and salt, I cannot conjure his face or rub him out.