After the Fall

KATE


The trouble was, the kiss worked. We fitted. There was no awkward bumping of noses, no colliding chins, no glasses sliding off into my face. In heels, I didn’t have to strain my neck or bend my knees: I just lifted my head and there he was.
Luke was a good kisser—I guess he’d had plenty of practice. Still, there was more there than just familiarity with the mechanics, knowing how long to go on or how much tongue was enough. Chemistry is an overused word. I prefer fit, that indefinable sensation when a man takes your arm as you move through a door, or leans into you to light your cigarette. (I gave up smoking for Cary and sometimes I still miss it.) Fit is an understanding between bodies: that you’ve been designed the same way, that you speak each other’s language, and fluently. It’s all about physical compatibility and has nothing to do with whether you’ll last or even have anything to talk about afterward; fit is no relation to the brain, and only a distant cousin of the heart. It’s something that’s clearest with the lights off or your eyes closed, delineated by the way his stride matches yours or your hips meet while dancing. As he kissed me, Luke held my hand to his cheek, our fingers interlaced in a mirror of our mouths. That’s fit.




CRESSIDA


The next morning I got up and went to work. Sometimes it seems like that’s all my life consists of, but I love my job and feel lucky to do what I do. I’ve never said so to Luke, but occasionally I wonder how he can possibly derive any satisfaction from selling bread or cars or panty liners. At the end of the day, what difference has he made? No one’s life has been changed, and someone else has gotten richer. He’d say that it’s the creative side that he enjoys, that he gets paid good money to daydream and make believe, and all without getting his hands dirty. Admittedly, a lot of his stuff is pretty funny and even clever. But if the outcome is simply that a few more cartons of orange juice are sold, how can you get too worked up about that? My own results were based on a far harsher currency: lives lost or saved, children restored to their families.
I’m being hard, particularly when it’s those extra cartons of juice that pay our mortgage. Public hospitals are no place to get rich, and my area of specialty doesn’t lend itself to private practice. And even if I had my doubts about his work, Luke was incredibly supportive of mine. He often told me he was proud of me, and he loved boasting that his wife cured kids with cancer, even if that was only true about half of the time. He’d always put up with the long hours too, the weekends when we couldn’t go away because I was on call, the bedroom sessions interrupted by my beeper. Now, as I got ready to leave, Luke was still asleep. Sunday morning, eight o’clock. I wasn’t due in until nine, but there was a particular patient I wanted to see and Luke wouldn’t be up for hours. I dropped a kiss on one warm shoulder, then hurried out before he had time to stir.
Despite the events of the previous night I was in a good mood as I drove to work. I always love that time of morning: the streets empty, the traffic flowing. A fresh start. Coffee shops were setting out tables, joggers were stretching or fiddling with buttons on their watches. All was in readiness: no matter what the previous day had held, a brand-new one was about to unfold. On a sudden whim I turned off early and parked near the zoo, then walked across the surrounding gardens to the children’s hospital.
It wasn’t that I didn’t mind that Luke had kissed Kate, and in such a public and passionate manner. If I let myself think of it the pain and anger were still fresh, adrenaline racing down my limbs to pool, hot and itchy, in fingertips and toes. But I didn’t let myself think of it, concentrating instead on the way he had held me through the night. Never had I felt so close to Luke, I reflected, as some tropical bird called out from an aviary in the zoo behind me. Just remembering the lightness of his hands on my face and between my legs made me shiver, made my thighs warm and heavy once again. By the time I reached my ward I was flushed, but not from the walk.
When I stopped in to check on my patient she was sleeping quietly, and I smiled to myself as I read over her charts. At times it had looked grim, but I hadn’t felt that this one was destined to die, even as her hair fell out and the white-cell count rose. I’d never been wrong before. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, but not with this girl. Her mother, sleeping awkwardly in a chair beside her daughter’s bed, woke as I put down the file.
“She’s better, isn’t she?” she asked me immediately, pushing tired hair out of her face.
“There’s still a long way to go yet,” I cautioned, “but I think she’s moving in the right direction.”
“I knew it,” said the mother, unheeded tears suddenly incandescent at the corners of her eyes. “Around midnight the color started coming back into her face, and she asked for her teddy.”
I just nodded, and together we watched the young girl in silence. Most of my patients toss and turn in pain and fever, or lie, almost comatose, in a drug-induced stupor. This one had been through both stages, but now lay sleeping the sound and rhythmic sleep of the healthy child, limbs curled around a beloved soft toy.
“Oh, God, I couldn’t bear to have lost her,” said the mother suddenly, her hand coming up to her mouth as if she might vomit.
“I know,” I said quietly, reaching out a hand, then taking the woman in my arms, where she sobbed, shuddering, against my shoulder. As part of my training I’d worked in obstetrics, and seen some wonderful things. But for all its pain, this job was better, for how many children are reborn? There’s no happier ending than a second chance.
Later that day, one of the nurses remarked in passing that there was a delivery for me in the ward clerk’s office. Chocolates and gifts from grateful parents weren’t an unusual occurrence, and, feeling hungry and hopeful, I went to have a look. At first I couldn’t see anything for a clutch of nurses surrounding the desk, leaning over something vivid and rustling. For one ridiculous moment I panicked, thinking a patient was being resuscitated. But then one giggled and they parted, revealing an enormous bunch of deep red roses. There must have been at least four dozen, with velvety petals as large as a child’s fist. The card in the center of them was addressed to me. To my darling Cress, it read for everyone to see, the most beautiful woman in the world. I’ll love you always, Luke.
“You must have done something right,” one of the nurses joked as I stooped to pick up the enormous bouquet. Maybe what happened wasn’t so bad, I thought to myself as I smelled the flowers. Maybe it could even bring us closer, remind us of our love for each other. Maybe in the dark he did really mistake her for me. As I went to tuck the card back in my fingers brushed something soft hidden among the thorns. I pulled it out, and almost cried. It was a tiny bunch of pink daisies, incongruous amid the other regal blooms, but infinitely more precious.




KATE


When I first got my engagement ring I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was so shiny, so vibrant, the colors rich and mesmerizing. The ring had moods, and I knew them all. Mostly it shone green and blue, peaceful, becalmed, a little planet on my finger. Sometimes, though, it darkened to violet, the color of a bruise, or red flecks appeared, flashing like beacons against the cerulean miasma. I liked to think that the changes reflected my own emotional state, as if conducted by blood to the skin beneath the band. But when I remarked on this to Cary he pointed out what I’d suspected all along: that it was probably just the light playing tricks, some alteration in the external environment, nothing more.
Yet after a while I stopped noticing the ring. I can’t remember when it was, but sometime after we married. One year? Two? It had lost its sparkle and no longer clamored for my attention. The second gold band beneath it seemed to draw away some of its shine; the rest was lost to dirt and sweat, shampoo or the dusting powders I used at work. Occasionally I thought I should clean it, but then I never took it off, so I never got around to it. When I did examine the ring, mostly in boring meetings for want of something better to do, it regarded me dully, through a film of neglect.
I work with artifacts, with relics. I know in my heart that there’s little that stays shiny forever, even with effort. Tarnish and rust are inevitable with age, and it’s unrealistic to expect otherwise. But I did; I couldn’t help it. And all of a sudden it seemed that nothing gleamed as brightly as it used to. I still loved Cary, but seven years had left a film on that too. I went for hours without thinking about him, no longer experienced the pit-of-the-stomach anticipation of going to bed together. Sex was comforting, successful, even passionate. But it wasn’t new, didn’t sweep across me in great waves of silver and gold light the way those fireworks had done years ago on Cup Day. How could it? I hated myself for being so shallow even as I mourned the loss. I’d insisted on that ring, picked it out and paid for it myself. Maybe it wasn’t so shiny anymore, but underneath I knew it was still the same. Didn’t I?




CARY


I didn’t want to go to the trivia night. Three weeks after the wedding I was still feeling fragile, and had no desire to attend another hospital function, surrounded by many of the same faces that had witnessed Luke and Kate’s clinch. Steve had started avoiding me at work, as if I’d want to cry on his shoulder or discuss the situation. The thought couldn’t have been further from my mind. For more than a fortnight we circled around each other, barely speaking, until the upcoming event forced him to talk to me.
“You’re still coming on Saturday, aren’t you?” he asked nervously.
“I suppose so,” I replied, not looking up from the DNA sequence I was examining. Each department had been allocated a table at the trivia night, which was one of the biggest fund-raising events of the year. Although our own department—genetics—consisted of only two full-time staff, we were still expected to field a team of twelve paying participants. At the time we’d agreed to split the duty, and I’d rashly promised that Kate would invite a single girlfriend to partner Steve.
“Both of you, I mean,” he persisted. “Will Kate be there too?” Whether he was worried about me or about missing out on a date I couldn’t tell, though I suspected the latter.
“Of course she will. Why wouldn’t she be?” I answered angrily. Did he think I might have left Kate, or vice versa, that one kiss could undo seven years of loving?
“No reason,” Steve almost stammered. “I’ll look forward to seeing her. She’s good value at these things.”
I looked up at him closely, but there was no malice in the words. Kate was usually good value in such a situation: funny, bright, enthusiastic. The last few weeks, though, she had been subdued, quieter than usual. She hadn’t gone out as much, and called every day just to chat. I guess it was her way of apologizing, of reassuring me, and I appreciated it.
“Don’t worry; she’s arranged a friend for you,” I said to Steve, relenting.
“Oh, I’d forgotten about that. What’s she like?” he asked, the rapidity of the second sentence belying the truth of the first.
“Okay.” I shrugged, not wanting to get his hopes up. The only one of her unattached friends Kate had been able to talk into coming was Joan, who was apparently attending on the proviso that there might be some single doctors present. Sarah and Rick would also be there, with the six that I’d promised rounded out by an old friend of mine from university.
“Well, thanks for that,” Steve said, looking pleased. “Should be a good night.”
I wasn’t quite so confident, though not because I was worried about Kate. We had an understanding: no drinking, no talking to Luke. He and Cressida would be at a different table anyhow, hopefully miles away on the other side of the room. Besides, I really didn’t think she would be so cruel or so stupid as to do something like that again.



LUKE


A hospital cafeteria looks like a hospital cafeteria, no matter how many streamers and balloons you festoon the place with. Plastic tables were covered with rented linen tablecloths, their white washed out to gray, faint wine stains still evident in places. On the bulletin board the usual advertisements for roommates and announcements of flu injections had been removed, replaced for the evening by a hand-lettered team score sheet. The blackboard listing specials of the day had been left in one corner, Friday’s menu still evident: corned beef, silver beet, creamed cauliflower. I lost my appetite just reading it.
“This place looks okay. They’ve done a good job,” said Tim.
“It was kind of you to come. I hope you enjoy yourself,” replied Cress distractedly, peering around the room in an attempt to identify our table.
“I don’t know why they couldn’t have just hired a function center like anyone else. Even that room at the Town Hall last year was better,” I grumbled.
“It’s meant to be a fund-raiser, Luke,” said Cressida, turning to address me. “Just imagine how much money has been saved by having it at the hospital. I think it’s a great idea.” Her tone was dismissive and agitated at the same time. She was wearing something tight and black, and above it her creamy shoulders bobbed in indignation as she spoke.
“Can I get you a drink?” asked Tim, intervening quickly. Conflict frightens him.
“No, I’ll go,” said Cress. “There’s some people over there I want to talk to.” She indicated vaguely and disappeared into the crowd, pale blond hair splashing around her.
“Everything okay?” asked Tim.
“Just fine.” I shrugged. Actually, things had been surprisingly fine in the last few weeks, the events of the wedding seemingly put behind us. It was only tonight that I’d noticed a shift in Cress: taking forever to get ready, snapping at me when I’d asked her who would be there. I scanned the gathering now as Tim and I made our way to the table.
The room was filling up. Their uniforms shed, brightly clad bodies dotted the hall like spilled confetti. The tired linoleum floor, unacquainted with stilettos, dimpled and puckered beneath the onslaught, while on the tiny stage someone was checking the sound equipment, repeating, “One, two,” over and over for little apparent result. A nurse I recognized flashed me a dazzling smile, her lips redder and larger than nature intended. I pointed her out to Tim.
“There’s one for you. I could give you an introduction.”
“Mate, if you already know her, then it’s too late for me.” He laughed.
I ignored the comment and returned my gaze to the floor. In the distance Cress’s fair head was nodding earnestly as she spoke with her boss. A part of my mind registered how beautiful she looked; then my eyes moved on. I guess I was searching for Kate, though not with intent. Even if she was there, what did it matter? I could hardly talk to her, wouldn’t know what to say anyway. A sudden burst of feedback from the sound system momentarily silenced the throng, leaving in its wake one pure moment of silence before the babble resumed.



KATE


I was introducing Joan to Steve when the shriek of static made me clap my hands to my ears. Neither of them was looking particularly impressed, and I was tempted to give up there and then, melting into the crowd before anyone could protest. I hadn’t wanted to come anyway, never mind broker this ridiculous blind date. Only loyalty to Cary had induced me to go through with both. That, and I owed him.
I’d spotted Luke as soon as we arrived. I hadn’t meant to look for him, but my eyes were drawn to the golden corona of his hair, blazing like the sun against a sea of dark suits. He was standing with his back to me, flanked by Tim and Cressida, her own pale locks sleek against formal black. As I watched he bent his head to hear what she was saying. I felt ill and invisible, and ached for a glass of champagne.
Fifteen minutes later it was obvious that the night wasn’t going well, at least at our table. I wasn’t drinking, out of deference to Cary, and he in turn seemed preoccupied and disinclined to chat with Sarah and Rick. After some desultory small talk Steve and Joan appeared to have arrived at a mutual dislike, and were openly scornful of each other. Cary’s school friend announced he was hungry and went off to look for some food. I was trying to concentrate on the quiz, but every time I thought of Luke I felt distracted and hot, prickles of nausea bubbling in my abdomen.
After four long rounds we were coming in second-to-last, and nobody cared. I caught Sarah looking at her watch and she smiled apologetically. On the stage a band was setting up to play a set at the halfway point of the competition. I twisted my rings, feeling trapped, and wondered how much the music would prolong the night. The overly jovial emcee whistled to signal the start of round five, his several chins wobbling with the effort. Though I hadn’t had one in years, I longed for a cigarette. Finally the questions began, then were abruptly suspended by another screech of feedback from the microphone. The emcee kept talking but could no longer be heard. Around the room, couples glanced at one another, then started to chat as the silence lengthened. I wondered hopefully if they’d call the whole thing off and we could just go home.
Ten minutes passed with no resolution, our table of strangers looking around at one another awkwardly. Then, through the still-seated crowd, I noticed a stooped man wearing an ID badge making his way toward us. Cary jumped up, obviously recognizing him, and they conferred for a moment before he returned to my side.
“That’s Bill, from marketing. He’s running this show but he doesn’t know the first thing about electronics. I’m going to see if I can give him a hand, okay?”
I nodded my assent as he hurried away.
“I won’t be long,” he called back over his shoulder, and then, as an afterthought, blew me a kiss. Suddenly useful, needed, he looked happier than he had all night.



LUKE


The pager went off at about the same time as the sound did. It was Cress’s, of course. I didn’t even know that she’d brought it, though I wasn’t surprised—she seemed to be eternally on call. She muttered, “Damn,” under her breath and reached beneath her chair for her handbag, cleavage spilling forward as she did so. An intern on the other side of the table was watching the pale flesh with interest and I leaned forward to block his view, feeling suddenly territorial.
“I’m sorry,” said Cress, studying the scratchy capitals intently. “I don’t think a phone call will suffice for this one. I’m going to have to pop up to the ward.”
“Does a phone call ever suffice?” I asked wearily.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, looking up and kissing me on the cheek as she rose from her chair. “You can do without me, can’t you?”
I had three or four glib responses on my tongue, but Tim intervened.
“Never. Though I suppose the ward’s need is greater. Just make sure you’re back for the ‘Movies’ round.”
“Yeah,” I added, “and if we’re to have any chance you have to be here for ‘Sports.’”
We were both joking, my wife’s general knowledge extending little beyond all things medical. She was a smart girl and loved her field, but it barely left her time for other interests. Cress pulled a face at us and hurried away, the sound of her heels clicking coolly after her for a second or two, then fading.
Tim, our team scribe, picked up his pen again and the quiz continued. The sound was back on, and the emcee was asking about celebrity couples.
“Number five,” he droned. “Who was Tom Cruise’s first wife?”
All around me heads leaned in to write or confer, but I didn’t know or care. Suddenly, across a press of bent backs, I spotted Kate, sitting erect with equal indifference on the other side of the room. I tried to catch her eye, but she was too far away.
“Number six. To whom was Brad Pitt engaged before he married Jennifer Aniston?”
Tim bit the pen, wrote something down, then passed it around for confirmation. He was enjoying himself, though I was surprised he knew the answers. Maybe he didn’t. I couldn’t be bothered checking.
“Number seven. Where did Michael Hutchence meet Paula Yates?”
I glanced over at Kate again. The seat next to her was empty.
“Number eight. To how many men has Elizabeth Taylor been married?”
A trick question. Beneath me I felt my legs push the chair away; then I was on my feet.
“I’m going to look for Cress,” I whispered to Tim. He nodded and went back to counting on his fingers as the intern reeled off names.
I left the cafeteria, crossed a small foyer and then entered it again on the far side of the room. I had been here before; I knew the layout. Kate’s table was about halfway along, abutting a shadowy alcove that ran the length of the room and was littered with coats and spare seats. I moved up the alcove as far as I dared, then waited for her to see me. It took only a second. She turned her head, caught my eye, and without any signal from me unfolded from her seat like a letter being opened. I stood back to let her pass, then pretended to reach into the pocket of a coat hanging nearby as if I had come for my glasses or cigarettes. The emcee asked the last question of the round, and then I was swallowed up in the crush of bodies making a dash for the toilet or the bar.
Outside, Kate was loitering in the foyer, feigning interest in a social club announcement advertising a bowling night. Her hair was up, and her bare neck, devoid of jewelry, was vulnerable and enticing. At the touch of my hand on her shoulder she jumped.
“God,” she said, spinning around. “I’m glad you came. I was starting to feel stupid.”
“Where’s Cary?” I asked.
“Keeping the sound system running. Shagging one of the nurses. Either/or.” Her green eyes were steady, as brave as her words. Inside, the band was warming up, stray notes rising like helium balloons above the conversation. The foyer was almost empty. I took Kate’s hand.
“Come on,” I said. It sounds untrue, but I had no plan, no formed intent. Just an urge to be somewhere dark and oblivious and close. I steered Kate around a corner, wondering vaguely about the parkland adjacent to the hospital. But then a better solution presented itself: the day-procedures unit, sitting still and unlit outside working hours.
“In here?” asked Kate, following me through the door. Her voice was suddenly loud in the empty ward, words bouncing off shiny walls smelling of bleach and rubber and bandages. In the dim light from the corridor I could make out perhaps ten hospital beds, all neatly made and awaiting the patients that Monday would bring. The sight of so much clean, crisp linen was oddly arousing. Without answering I pulled Kate to me and kissed her, our teeth knocking with the violence of the contact. She responded with equal ferocity, and for a moment I almost felt as if I were fighting her, grappling to hang on with my mouth and hands and teeth. Then with a sigh she dissolved against me like a river flowing into the sea. Her lips became pliant; her hands reached for my shoulders and nape. I couldn’t stop kissing her: mouth honey-sweet, moist and fresh as a garden at dawn. A tendril of her hair caught my lips, and I reached to release it, feeling our hips align as I did so. She was pushing herself against me, fingers agile at the buttons on my shirt, the night air cool where she’d gotten them undone. Her breasts were in my hands, round as fishbowls, small but filled to the brim. I started edging her toward one of the beds, drawing the cubicle’s curtain around us. But as my hands returned to her body there was a bang. Then another. Somebody cursed and we froze; Kate’s fingers stilled on the waistband of my pants.
“Bloody machine,” a male voice said. “Give me my money back!” There was another thump and Kate giggled, the sound liquid and close. Someone was attacking the vending machine just outside the clinic. Relaxing, I moved to kiss her again, but she squirmed in my grasp.
“This is too public. He might have been from the trivia night,” she said, her breath warm against my ear. Disappointment consumed me like a toothache, and I started tucking in my shirt. But Kate wasn’t finished.
“Let’s go up to the roof,” she said. “No one’s ever up there.”



KATE


Cary had first taken me up onto the roof. Once, long ago, before we were married. It had been fairly early on in our relationship, when we were still self-consciously dating, sizing each other up, committing no more than a week in advance. We’d met for lunch. I’d caught a tram across from the museum, then taken the elevator to the sixth floor, hastily applying my lipstick in the steely reflection of its double doors. As usual I was running late, and Cary was glancing at his watch as I entered his office.
“Glad you could make it,” he’d said, looking up, smiling.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I began, as I had done so many times before. “The meeting ran overtime; then I got a call from a curator in Portland—”
“Forget it,” he interrupted, though kindly. “There’s a case conference at two I have to be at, so we don’t have time to go far. We could try the staff dining room, if you’re game.”
“Don’t bother,” Steve called out from the adjoining lab, where he had been unashamedly eavesdropping. “The special today is tripe, which is all they’ll have left by now anyway.”
“I don’t mind tripe,” I volunteered untruthfully.
“Well, I do. And I’ve got a better idea,” said Cary, steering me back toward the elevator.
The hospital was seventeen stories high, perched on the edge of the city and surrounded by gardens on three of its four flanks. The elevator went only as far as the fifteenth floor; then an internal fire escape finished the journey. Cary paused at the top, his hand on the heavy fire door leading out onto the roof.
“You ready?” he asked before opening it.
I nodded, out of breath from all those steps. He pushed on the door, and air and light rushed into the musty stairwell like bubbles up the neck of a champagne bottle. I was momentarily disoriented, intoxicated, and Cary took my hand. For the size of the building there was surprisingly little space up there, the hospital having tapered at its apex. Most of all, the roof reminded me of the pool deck on a ship, but without the pool: bare open space with a cavernous drop on either side. There was a low wall around the perimeter topped by some sort of Plexiglas that reduced the wind and discouraged suicide. Beyond that the roof was unfurnished and unoccupied, save for three empty sun lounges lugged up there by resourceful staff and a few hardy plants clinging to the concrete.
“Come and have a look at the view,” said Cary, pulling me toward the edge.
I gazed through the glass and drew in my breath. Below me acres of green stretched out to the suburbs, verdant fingers seemingly pressing houses and roads back into tight lines. Out to the left a navy sea tossed and threaded its way into port, while at my back grape-purple hills sat cloaked in their afternoon shadow.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” asked Cary. “All the way from the Dandenongs to the bay. I come up here sometimes when I need to clear my head.”
I said nothing, drinking in the scene, silent except for the faint hum of traffic and the throb of the autumn wind.
“See those trees?”
I laughed at the question; there were so many below us. Cary stepped behind me and pointed one arm over my shoulder.
“Down there. Where the leaves are falling.”
I followed the line of his finger to a knot of bare limbs and bright colors, orange canopies like small bonfires against the surrounding green.
“Most of the gardens are native now,” he said, arms warm around me. “That’s all that’s left of the original planting, when the city was first settled.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“Plane trees, oaks, maybe an elm or two. Descendants of those brought over here by homesick settlers. Maybe some of them are even the originals themselves.”
“Really?”
I felt him shrug. “Certain species can live for hundreds of years. It’s not inconceivable.” He paused. “Just imagine that. All the way from London or Liverpool or Dartmoor. Acorns tied into handkerchiefs in Cornwall, damp and dusty from months at sea, still shooting now on the other side of the world.”
I shivered in Cary’s arms. I had felt this before in my own work: all that time, all that distance, the lives that had elapsed while some trinket lay buried. The continuity of objects—jewelry, pots, seeds—never failed to move me, to give me hope. My new boyfriend kissed the top of my head and spoke into my hair.
“And aren’t they beautiful now? It’s amazing how things can endure.”
I’d been up to the roof since then, but never at night. And never, of course, with Luke. We barely looked at each other in the elevator, moving to opposite walls, afraid perhaps to break the spell or to have to think about what we were doing. On the fifth floor the elevator stopped and a trolley was wheeled between us. A small figure lay upon it under a starched sheet, immobile and with eyes closed. I couldn’t tell the sex, or even if it was breathing. The child was accompanied by a theater technician anonymous as an astronaut, only his eyes visible under the surgical garb. He stared at the floor for eight levels; then the elevator jerked to a halt and he soundlessly wheeled the body out again into a dim and silent corridor.
Luke kissed me on every stair of the fire escape. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind us his mouth found mine, and we stumbled to the staircase locked in the embrace. By one flight up my blouse was undone, his shirt pulled open, my lips bruised and starting to swell. We held each other, panting, on the landing while he removed my stockings, still kissing me and without even looking. For a moment I felt we might just slide to the floor and climb no higher. My hair came undone and Luke muttered into it, “How much farther?”
“One floor.” I gasped as his hands moved back to my breasts, lifting them up and together before he bent to kiss the cleft he’d created. His hair felt like silk against my throat, his body still steering me upward as he touched and tasted.
I suppose the night air must have been cool, as it was still only spring. But I can’t say I noticed it, can’t say I noticed anything except the stars peeping in and out in the sky above and the static spark from the Plexiglas as Luke slid me against it. All I was aware of was heat: heat from his skin, heat in his eyes, heat rising inexorably through my system, my belly, my thighs. “Kate,” Luke murmured against my forehead, his mouth leaving mine for the first time in minutes. Later I wondered if he’d been giving me a chance to escape, a moment to cry no or push away. If so, I didn’t take it. When I stayed where I was he whispered my name again, this time slowly, with promise. I felt the weight of his body move against mine, felt my own body soften and sigh and accommodate him, opening up against the length of his thigh, the pressure of his chest. With one strong hand he was holding both of mine, pinioning them lightly at my side; with the other he slowly, deliberately traced his forefinger down the curve of my face. I felt his breath on my cheek, heard my own breath coming in gasps. His finger outlined the contour of my mouth: up, down, up, over the bow, sliding slowly over my shaky bottom lip. For a moment I felt dizzy, thought I could hear the band playing all that way below us. In one small corner of my mind there was Cary; there was shame. But everything else was here, caught like a fly in amber in the fullness of the moment. Finally, irrevocably, his lips were again on mine, my mouth open before they even met, his tongue sliding inside me like a serpent. Lower, I felt the same thing happening between our bodies, easily, fluidly, without force or strain or resistance. For a second I was shocked by the speed with which he had taken me. But then there was only pleasure, the hiss of the jungle, the undergrowth, and I was kissing him back, moving against and in time with him, hands, now released, in his hair, everything concentrated on the warmth and the want between us.
Afterward, opening my eyes, I saw the lights of Melbourne flickering beneath us like a thousand tiny candles, like a church on Christmas morning.




LUKE


Afterward, what struck me most was how easy it had been. I was thirty-four, with probably more than my fair share of conquests, but none of them had transpired as effortlessly as that. In my experience, there’s a degree of bargaining, of contract making, that goes into any sexual encounter, usually unvoiced. Everybody knows the rules, but no one articulates them. People don’t just meet and sleep together, even if the attraction is mutual. Something has to happen in between, usually instigated by the male: a meal, maybe, a drink or a dance, a pledge of marriage or the promise of a phone call. Even the most tawdry of my one-night stands didn’t just happen without a string of compliments or cocktails, something to pave the way. It’s almost as if sex is too vast, too frightening or too wicked to exist by itself, and purely for its own sake.
And that was what was so unique about Kate. There was no game playing, no pretense. I didn’t have to tell her she was beautiful; I didn’t tell her anything at all. Or take her out, or buy her flowers, or scheme to get her alone. The attraction was there from the moment we first danced together at the wedding. I’m sure we would have made love then if circumstances had allowed. But they didn’t, and I didn’t spend the following weeks plotting or phoning or promising. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not as if I don’t enjoy those things; in fact, I often found pursuit more satisfactory than plunder. It’s just that for once it was so refreshing, so simple. She wanted me; I wanted her; we had sex. Easy.
Easy, too, even in the most practical details. For one, no one saw us. Early on I was careful to be circumspect, but once we made it to the stairwell I don’t think I would have noticed if the fire brigade had turned up. Really, either Cary or Cress could have finished what they were doing and come looking for us, but they didn’t. The day hospital was empty, and so was the roof. It wasn’t raining, and Tim wasn’t following me around the way he normally does. Even the architecture was on our side. It gives me chills now to think of how I trusted our combined weight to a single sheet of Plexiglas seventeen stories up, suicide repellent or not. But it held, as did our luck.
Then there were the actual mechanics. Without wishing to sound too technical, I hardly ever make love standing up. Quite frankly, it’s too difficult. Your partner has to be just the right height, and light enough to lift if necessary. There’s all that maneuvering for the angle, trying to ensure you stay coupled when gravity and pretty much everything else is working against you. It wasn’t what I would have planned for a first time with someone new. It wasn’t even something I’d attempted with Cress, who preferred sex lying down and by candlelight. But somehow it just worked. When I leaned against Kate her body clicked into mine like a joint in a socket and I couldn’t bear to move away, couldn’t bear even to lose the time it would take to lower her to the concrete. Thank God she was wearing a skirt.
We made it back to the trivia night by the middle of round nine, and before we were even missed. Kate giggled all the way down the fire escape, pulling her hair back up with practiced hands, smoothing out stockings and buttoning her blouse. She smiled when I caught her eye, looking flushed and soft, like a child not long woken up. The elevator was empty and I kissed her again, surprised at how much I still wanted to. As we drew apart it occurred to me that I hadn’t even seen her naked.
Outside the dining room Kate paused and indicated the ladies’ room.
“I’m just going in here. You go ahead.”
Then she disappeared and I was left loitering uncomfortably, as I’d done not an hour ago. I wondered if I should wait, until it dawned on me that she was being cautious and trying to avoid our being seen together. It felt almost sneaky to be slipping away like that—no good-bye kiss, no words exchanged, sincere or otherwise. Another first.
On the way back to our table I scanned the crowd for Cress’s familiar face. I needn’t have worried, as she still wasn’t back. Tim was deep in conversation with a sharp-eyed brunette, and barely looked up as I resumed my seat.
“I couldn’t find Cress,” I whispered to him as casually as I could. “She didn’t turn up while I was gone, did she?” He shook his head, no longer even bothering with the trivia questions. Glancing to the stage I could faintly make out Cary in the background, fiddling with some piece of equipment. It appeared that no one had cared about my absence, that I’d gotten away scot-free. I was tempted to go back and find Kate again.