A Different Kind of Forever(88)
Afterwards, the crowd lingered in the lobby, where a long table of champagne glasses and hors de oeuvres was set up. Diane was bowled over by the response of the audience. Quinn stayed beside her as people she had never seen before told her how wonderful she was, how talented, how much they had enjoyed the evening.
Diane didn’t need alcohol to feel drunk. She was giddy with power and triumph. Every nerve was alive, every sense heightened. Quinn was more than a shadow behind her. She could feel every touch of his hand, every movement of his against her skin. She looked into his eyes and saw openly, for the first time, desire. Something akin in her answered. This is why, she thought fleetingly, men must make love after war, why victory must be answered with sex. She wanted Michael so badly the ache in her groin felt like a lead weight. Every time she turned and saw Quinn, his green eyes alive and smoldering, she felt her throat tighten.
It was midnight before the crowd thinned. Her daughters all had kissed her goodbye. Faculty and friends were beginning to leave. The cast had joined them from changing backstage and there began a serious discussion of the show, the mistakes, the triumphs. The press was still there, and a few other theater people, including Sam Levinson who began to talk to Diane about bringing her play to the New School, just as a round table reading at first, but after that, who knew?
She had turned away from Levinson for a moment, and saw, just through the glass doors that opened to the courtyard, a figure standing, backlit by the lampposts outside. A man, his breath a cloud in the cold October air. Diane knew the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
“Michael.” She said his name aloud, in disbelief. The night was wide and black behind him. He was wearing a black leather coat, long, almost to the ground. His hair spilled over his collar, and his face was white, haggard. He stared at her, saw her mouth frame his name. He did not smile or move toward her. He stood. Watching.
“Michael,” Diane said again, her eyes not leaving Michael’s face. Levinson said something, and she looked at him, her face frozen. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” She smiled automatically. Beyond Levinson she could see Quinn, talking to someone, glancing at her, smiling, turning away. Diane looked back to Michael, but he was gone. Her eyes searched frantically, and she went across the lobby and pushed the heavy glass doors open, running out into the courtyard. She caught a flash of black and saw him, in the dimly lit building across from her, walking down an empty corridor. She ran after him, through the doors and down the hallway. Her shoes echoed against the tile floor as she half-ran into the semi-darkness. She drew a deep breath. The hallway was empty.
“Michael?”
He stepped out from a doorway, and she ran to him, heart pounding. As he caught her his mouth took hers, and everything melted away, all the weeks of darkness and loneliness. He pushed her against the slick wood of the door, and he was cold, the rough cotton of his sweater, the leather coat, but her hands were beneath his clothes, and his skin was hot and smooth.
“Michael, where were you?” She whispered roughly, hoarse with wanting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes were close, burning. “I didn’t know if I’d make it.” His voice was strained. “I literally ran to the airport in London. I called Angela from the plane and had her leave her ticket for me at the window. I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to surprise you.” His hands were on her face, tracing the line of her lips, smoothing back her hair from her forehead. “God, I missed you so much,” he murmured, burying his face into the soft of her hair.
She reached for the doorknob and turned, the door fell open, and she pulled him inside. He pushed the door shut, and reached under her clothes. He had her tight against the wall and the zipper of her pants slid open and his hands pushed her clothing away and it fell, down around her feet, and she stepped out of them to wrap her leg around his hip. She could feel him, stiff beneath his jeans, hard against her. They were silent, frantic, and her fingers fumbled as she released him, sweetly alive in her hands. His breath was ragged, their mouths locked together. Then he gripped her around her waist and lifted her, her legs came around him as he plunged into her, and a cry leapt from her, and in seconds she was coming, biting the leather shoulder of his coat. He was making a noise, deep, guttural, as he pushed her against the rough cinderblock wall, and he climaxed suddenly, a hard, violent shudder. They leaned against each other, breathing harsh and unsteady, and Diane loosened her legs and her feet touched the hard tile floor, and as she tightened her arms around his neck, she felt the warm stickiness of him trickle down the inside of her leg.