“I’d love to,” she sighs, as I slide my hand to the scant meat of her breast. “But the cats.”
“Obviously, they’d come with you.” I almost laugh, trying to imagine how big that cage would have to be. “What if they stay in my barn?”
Cyndi’s eyes pop open in alarm. “Oh no. They’re indoor cats.”
“A barn is indoors,” I say reasonably. Unless somebody were to leave the barn doors open and they got out, to fend for themselves in my woods with the coyotes and eagles and foxes.
“I don’t think they would like that,” Cyndi says stubbornly.
“Then what if we build them their own house? The cathouse. With nineteen rooms. A birdcage in each one.” I trail my fingers up Cyndi’s marred thighs.
“That sounds perfect,” she says, sucking in breath as I pull her underwear aside and test her warmth and wetness.
“It’s settled, then,” I murmur. I sit up, leaving her exposed, and smile.
“Kitten,” I say, “would you please find Margaret and read to me?”
Cyndi shoves herself up on her elbows. “Now?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I say truthfully—although the prospect of further exploring what’s beneath her flowered briefs is also appealing. Later. Priorities. “I want to help you. I want to hear your work. I want to knoweverything. About Margaret, about your book, about you—”
I must have uttered some magic incantation of my own, for Cyndi launches herself at me, mewling. Before I know what’s happening, I’m on my back with her straddling me, little hands scrabbling to undo my belt and zipper, yanking me out of my briefs—“Careful, sweetie, it’s not a gearshift,” I warn—and impaling herself on me. The next thing I know, she’s started to ride.
Well! I think. That was unexpected. I hadn’t planned for this to happen until our next meeting. But if she wants to accelerate things, who am I to argue? I reach for her hips to guide her along, faster deeper more, and she slaps my hands away. Apparently Kitten has her own ideas of how this should go. Fine. It’s a bit like being in a churn, but it’s not unpleasant. Thank God I took my own medication before getting out of the car.
As Cyndi’s bouncing away, head thrown back and eyes closed, I have an unwilling flash of Simone doing the same but facing the other direction, reverse cowgirl, her beautiful back flexing. How I’d saidYeehaw!and felt her internal muscles clenching on me when she laughed.Stop it. For God’s sake. Focus.I look around for the legal pad. As Cyndi said, it must be here somewhere—
Then I spot it. Of course, it has been a foot away all along. On the floor under the couch. Tucked beneath a giant Maine coon, who stares balefully at me and switches its tail.
I’d like nothing more than to extend my leg and shove the cat away, then kick the legal pad fully beneath the couch, from which I’d retrieve it once Cyndi is finished and I send her into the kitchen for more tea. As it is, I’ll have to wait. At least her handwriting is large and legible. She’s speeding up now, moaning toward her conclusion, and as I begin my narrative,That’s it, kitten, do you know how beautiful you are right now, aglow, luminescent, I look toward the window and my freedom, the cat-hair-less air I’ll be inhaling an hour from now, when I’ll be jogging down the front steps having set up our next meeting, at which, I’ll suggest, we read to each other from our WIPs, our works-in-progress, perhaps in the bath. So I can hear the whole story. And help her.Come for me, kitten... you feel it building!... inescapable... delicious..., and as I sayYou’re on the edge!I wonder if that yellow Jeep will still be out there when I depart, and as I say... Now! Do it now!and Cyndi yowls and scratches my chest hard enough to draw blood, I have two thoughts simultaneously: Why must all women be crazy? and Dear God, the things I do for my art.
Chapter 23
Editorial Correspondence
From: William Corwyn
To: Jayne Wetzel
Date: October 15
Time: 6:34 a.m.
Dear Jayne,
How are you, my dear? I’m writing from Brattleboro, where, as you know if you’ve been keeping up with my travels, I’m keynoting at a literary festival. The organizers have put me in a B&B overlooking a lively stream, which recalls one of my fondest memories: you and I playing hooky after the Sanibel Island Writers’ Conference and going fishing in the Keys. You were the better fisherwoman, as you are my superior in every way.
Good news: This event marks the end of my official tour. Many thanks to Hercules for sending me on the road in bravura style. After this, I will be hunkered down at my place in Maine to write, except for one more stop: toyou. I want to swing by the publishing house to present the idea for my next book. Even though it’s far out of my way, and although it’s counterintuitive to yo-yo south before traveling north, I’m feeling extremely enthused about it and can’t wait to share it with you. How about lunch on Thursday? Or shall we make dinner plans?
Since all work and more work makes William a happy boy, I’m wondering if you might also arrange a reading for me at the 92nd St. Y while I’m intown. Perhaps even in conversation with another author, although I’m fine taking the mic on my own. I know you will admonish me about the importance of downtime, but I’m happy to do an epilogue event to keepLambent Soulsfront and center; holiday sales are around the corner.
Looking forward as ever, dear.
William.
From: Jayne Wetzel
To: William Corwyn
