Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/162

 Maybe it would go away if he went fast … fast …

He pressed on the gas; with a quick lunge the car raced forward but the odor remained even stronger around him.

A woman's face, bent slightly as if she were washing dishes, centered a small lighted window looking like a picture hanging on a dark and gloomy wall. He looked at the woman and his eyes hurt visualizing her laying naked in bed with a man; their bodies twisting grotesquely, their actions giving seed to a future generation. He turned away quickly. Why was the creation of life so repulsive to him: It should not be that way. All the people who had ever lived had had lovers. It was life. How else could the world continue? Even the flowers seduced each other and brought forth new and different blossoms.

Half shutting his eyes, he listened to the murmur of the wind passing through the leaves of the trees, listened to its whispering vocal reeds. Was this the riddle of life? Was this the riddle from which had sprung the beginning of time? He had a sharp clear memory of bronze. The arms were interlaced around him but there was something missing in the vision. The creation of life was as bare as the large brown feet of his vision.

They approached a large brick house and he pulled to the curb and stopped. Joy came closer and rested her head on his shoulder. There was a look of innocent guilt on her face, but her skin beamed with a new freshness under the glow of the street light. He looked at her and saw her as she used to be. And with the memory, there was no guilt or recollection of guilt. Again she had a ribbon in her hair and her hands were caked with soft dark mud. He waited. Joy extended her right hand. He pushed her hand aside, put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. Joy clung to him and started speaking. "Gay," she whispered. "What are you thinking of?"

"I don't know," he replied as if in a dilemma.

She didn't understand the kiss … Something far away drenched the eyes looking at her. They were strange; as strange as the soft lips had been.

"You're … you're not angry with me, are you?"

"Oh, no … Joy." She felt his body quiver. "Not at you. At myself."

She kissed him and his lips were still warm; did not draw away. 152