Last Night at the Telegraph Club(74)
She didn’t finish her sentence, but she took another step toward Lily, closing the space between them. Lily could feel the warmth of Kath’s body radiating off her, could smell the traces of cigarette smoke and beer on her breath, along with a new fragrance she didn’t recognize, something clean and bright. It made Lily’s skin tingle.
“Lily,” Kath said softly.
“Don’t say anything,” Lily whispered. She felt as if speaking would ruin everything—then they’d have to put a name to this feeling between them, this rapidly growing heat and longing that made the sliver of air between their bodies charged with electricity. She could swear she felt the air humming.
She had never noticed before that she and Kath were the same height. If she leaned forward just a little bit, her nose would graze Kath’s, and then they were touching noses gently, practically nuzzling each other, and it was funny and startling, and Lily giggled nervously while Kath let go of her hand and, deliberately, touched Lily’s waist. The feel of Kath’s hands sliding around her body silenced her laughter. She stopped breathing, and Kath’s mouth touched hers, feeling its way in the dark. Her lips were cool and dry at first, but quickly, so quickly, they bloomed into warmth and softness. Her body was close against hers, the shape of her like a shock, her breasts and her hips and her hip bones against her, her hands pulling her closer, closer.
Lily had not known, had never imagined, how a first kiss could turn so swiftly into a second, and a third, and then a continual opening and pressing and touching, the tip of her tongue against Kath’s, the warmth of her mouth and the way that warmth reached all the way through her body and raised an indescribable ache between her legs. She had to push herself closer to Kath; that was the only thought in her mind. She put her hands on Kath and slid them beneath her jacket and clutched her back, and there was an awkward fumbling as they moved in the dark alleyway together, seeking something to press against, until the wall of the building was at Lily’s back and she could pull Kath into her.
She didn’t know how long they kissed—not long enough—but at one point Kath drew back to take a breath, and Lily opened her eyes and saw to her right the dim glow of the street beyond their dark alley. She realized with a start what she was doing and where she was doing it and whom she was doing it with, and she knew she should feel ashamed, but all she felt was the heaving of Kath’s chest against hers, and the tenderness of her lips where Kath had kissed her.
33
I don’t know why you’re bothering with an evening gown at all,” Lily said, flipping through an issue of Seventeen. “The competition only requires a cheongsam. When will you even have time to change?”
She, Shirley, and Flora were gathered around the table at the back of Flora’s father’s shop, waiting for Mary, who was late. They were supposed to go to Union Square to shop for Shirley’s dress for Miss Chinatown, and Lily did not want to go. She wished she was with Kath instead, and if that wasn’t possible, she’d rather shut herself in her bedroom alone, and remember. (The sensation of Kath’s mouth against hers, her hands on her waist.)
“It’s so that I stand out,” Shirley said. “I’m not going to give my speech in a cheongsam. I’ll wear that for the main portion of the pageant but I don’t want to be like the other girls during the speech part. I want to show that I’m American, too.”
Lily was only half listening; she had landed on a column at the front of the magazine titled “A Look at Tomorrow: The Challenge of the Planets.” To her surprise, it was written by Arthur C. Clarke and was about the problems of outer-space travel.
“Give me that,” Flora said, reaching for the magazine.
“Wait, I’m reading—”
Flora gave Lily a reproachful look—Lily thought Flora hadn’t yet accepted that Shirley had welcomed her back into their group of friends—and pulled the magazine out of Lily’s hands, flipping to a story on evening gowns. “This would be beautiful on you,” Flora said, pointing to the photograph of a white tulle ball gown.
Shirley frowned at the small print. “Why does it cost so much?”
“We can alter something to look like that,” Flora assured her.
“Where’s Mary?” Shirley wondered, glancing toward the front of the shop. “We can’t go without her. She knows about tailoring.”
“I’ll go see if she’s coming,” Lily volunteered. She left the back room and went out into the main shop area, passing shelves displaying vases and statues, blue-and-white porcelain and boxes of silk fans. There were a few customers in the store, but it was still relatively early on Sunday and so it was mostly empty. She opened the front door and peered out into the rainy morning, hoping to see Mary coming down the sidewalk, but she didn’t see her.
Reluctantly she went back inside, but rather than rejoining Shirley and Flora, she wandered through the aisles of the store, delaying the moment when she’d be forced to have constructive opinions, again, on dresses. Flora’s father’s shop held an assortment of art pieces and tourist tchotchkes; there was always something funny or interesting to discover. When she had been younger, at Christmas time he would allow her to pick out a small toy from a display in the back, and now she found herself winding her way to that same corner. The rotating rack was still there, and Lily spun it slowly, examining the toys. There were matchbox-size cars painted garishly red and yellow, and baby dolls with eyes that rolled open when they were picked up. There were small boxes of jacks and dice that rattled when she handled them, and a row of green toy soldiers. And on the bottom shelf of the last side of the rack was a row of miniature jet airplanes, with plastic cockpit bubbles through which the helmeted heads of tiny pilots were visible. Lily picked one up, delighted; the plane was painted silver and white, with the United States flag on the tail, and black wheels that really spun were attached to the bottom.