Feeding A Woman.

  

 by David Griffin

   We talked.  We dozed, I think, because I remember waking while I listened to her speak. And again nodding off when neither of us spoke.  I listened to her breathe.  It sounded so nice. Warm and inviting, the more so the closer one could get. I’d never listened to a woman breathe before.  I was falling in love with her breath, I suppose.  Love always begins somewhere.     We had spent Friday night together.  Early in our relationship, we were chaste.  In our deeds if not in my thoughts.  We stayed up all night and talked in her tiny apartment.  She sat cross legged on the day bed turned couch.  I lounged in the old high backed Queen Anne chair.  I don’t remember what we talked about.  What do a couple of nineteen year olds talk about when they’re getting to know each other?  Everything under the moon, I suppose.
   The tall windows in the Brownstone ran almost to the ceiling and dark wood shutters hung a bit crooked on them. Two pair for each window so the bottoms could be opened in the day time and the tops at night. One small lamp gave out a dim light.  I noticed it was snowing outside.
   I got up from my chair and opened all the shutters. The snow gently drifted down into the cone of light beneath the street lamp. The sidewalk was lightly covered, as were the tops of the cars lining the city street.  I turned back toward the girl. Feeling bold, I stooped to turn off the lamp.
   “To see the snow better,” I said as I sat down. 
   She didn’t object. With the lamp off the room wasn’t much darker anyway. The street light gave the falling snow flakes a sparkle and painted our faces with pale light. Navy blue shadows lie between us. Even faux moonlight was romantic. A summer evening’s moon could not have done better. She unfolded her legs and lay on her side. 
   Eventually the snow stopped.  The sky lightened.  The street lights dimmed and a buzz in the street I hadn’t noticed all night shut off with a click.  Across 92nd Street, a blanket of grey clouds hung in the sky over the junior high school, quiet on a Saturday morning.
   I had not had a girl friend since high school. I’d never stayed up all night with a young woman. This cloudy and cold morning I felt grown up, but allowing those words to form in my mind would have admitted I was not much more than a boy.
   I was now a man and there was what came naturally to consider. It nudged me. I really liked this girl, but I knew what a part of me wanted. I wondered what she wanted. The phone rang. She sat up and answered it.
   “Hello?” she said into the old black phone.

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