We Run the Tides(38)

I lean back into him and push my lips against his. I want the connection again, I want the cocoon. He places both hands on my breasts and squeezes. Then he looks down at his hands, squeezing, and smiles at his hands as though he’s proud of what he’s doing.

“Touch me,” he says. I touch the back of his neck, even though I know that’s not what he means. “Touch me down there,” he says.

I put my hand on the bulge beneath his pants zipper. I look out onto Marina Boulevard to make sure no one can see us. They can’t. The street is startlingly empty. A lone dog walker, a group of French-speaking tourists drinking beer out of bottles. Merde, one says.

Axel places his palm over the back of my hand and guides it up and down—not in the direction I would have moved it; I would have gone left to right. I want his hands back on my breasts. I don’t know how we suddenly got to me standing with my hands on his crotch on a balcony at a party. It’s like we’ve forwarded a VHS tape to the middle of the movie after only watching the opening credits.

But this is the position we’re in—his hand on my hand on his crotch when the balcony door opens. I hear the swell of laughter coming from inside, along with festive music. It’s Arabella. She steps up and out onto the small balcony. Axel and I promptly release ourselves from each other.

“Love at first sight,” she says.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Axel says, and I’m impressed how quickly he knows to do this, to revert to normal party talk.

She studies him. “What a handsome boy,” she says with the authority of a queen about to knight someone. Her bolero jacket is back on, her wand and triangle out of sight.

Then she turns her gaze toward me. Reflexively, I smile, as though a photo is being taken, as though a compliment is about to be bestowed upon me.

“Aren’t you cold?” she says, studying my bare arms, the scoop of my dress’s neckline.

“No, I’m very warm blooded,” I tell her.

“Well, I can certainly see that!” she says.

Axel convulses, suppressing a laugh.

“I came outside to let you know that dessert will be served in the next ten minutes.”

She steps back down into the living room, closing the balcony door behind her.

“That was hilarious,” Axel says.

“Maybe for you.”

“I think she’s just upset because she wants me and Maria Fabiola to date. Tonight was a setup I think.”

What? I want to ask. But I don’t want this moment, like everything else, to be about her. I want to rewind, to back up. Suddenly, his hand dives down and I think he’s falling. His fingers reach under the hem of my dress and snake up my thigh.

“Oh,” I say. And then I say nothing. The breeze on my legs is damp, and between my legs I feel a rush of moisture and heat. Axel’s hand is moving toward that wet heat. His cologne is closer to me now, which is all I care about. Except that the concoction is making me ill. The strength of the cologne and the alcohol and the revelation that he’s being matched up with Maria Fabiola are whisked in my stomach. His finger is inside me and then maybe two fingers are inside me.

“Wow,” he says. “You really like this.”

I don’t know how to respond because I don’t really like this. He pulls his hand out and even in the late-dusk light I can see that his fingers are stained with . . .

“Blood!” he says. “Jesus Christ. You’re bleeding.”

We both stare at his fingers and for a moment I think he’s done that to me, he’s made me bleed.

“Wait, you’re not . . . are you getting your period?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.” Maybe this is why I’m sick to my stomach.

“Maybe? Why didn’t you tell me? What am I going to do with this?”

I stare at his hand. “Here,” I say, and lift up my hem and turn the inside of the dress toward him. “You can wipe it here.”

He does.

“You’re gross,” he says.

“Your grandfather would be so disappointed in you!” I yell.

“My grandfather?”

“I know your grandfather is Raoul Wallenberg!”

“Who? What the . . . ?” he says. “You are batshit nuts.”

Then he turns and steps back into the living room.

I decide to wait fifteen seconds to follow him so it’s not as obvious that we were outside together. My stomach feels like a cardboard box being taped up too tight. When I finally step back into the living room, I hear Maria Fabiola’s favorite song, “We Are the Champions,” being played too loudly. Tiramisu has been served. Maria Fabiola’s nowhere in sight. The bathroom is locked, so I stand outside it. I remove the bowler hat from my head and hold it in front of the skirt of my black and white polka-dot dress as casually as I can. Just in case anything has leaked through and I’m showing. When the bathroom opens up I clean myself off with wads of toilet paper that I dispose of in the toilet, where the tissues bloom in size. The water turns pink and I flush. I rummage under the sink for pads before I remember that Arabella has no daughters.

At 9:20 I go outside to wait for Ewa and her friend. As I’m standing there waiting I realize I’ve forgotten my hat inside the house, possibly in the bathroom, but I can’t go back. When Monica and Ewa pull up they don’t stop and park, they just pause. I’m so grateful to see them that I jump into the back seat and Monica starts driving. “How was the party?” Ewa says.