Feet shuffle outside the door. Vee nods. A twinge of heat splits beneath his knee—a kind of revving she can’t control. Words spin uselessly in her gut—Of course, just maybe not yet— words she has managed to say only to a doctor, and even then her eyes averted, her face blazing. This was a few months ago, when Alex stopped using condoms. They waited years longer than most of her friends because of his political ambitions, but now, as far as Alex knows, they are no longer waiting. Vee is twenty-eight, thinking of waiting until twenty-nine, maybe thirty, not for any particular reason, nothing she can argue for, even to herself, only a want, to wait, a barking inside: Wait!
In her ear: “Weren’t we going to make babies? Wipe up their spit with this towel? Maybe you’d sew the ends up a little, make it nice for them, yeah?”
The caterers’ shuffling grows louder. In the sweetest, sexiest voice Vee can conjure she says, “Let’s reconvene tonight,” but already Alex is loosening his belt, then Vee’s back hits the floor and he is inside her, and she doesn’t fight him, not because within her in some squishy feminine core she is all right with having a baby (she isn’t) and not because she knows her fighting him wouldn’t matter (spousal rape—if that’s even what this is—being legal in those days) but because his not listening to her, his force, turns her on. She will hate herself for this fact as soon as it’s over. She will think how ashamed she would be to admit such a thing to the women’s group she has been attending once a month. But for now, her pleasure grows, she a caught thing, and now, because at the last meeting of the group a radical thing took place, a les- son in female orgasm, now, once Alex is done, she makes him do what she learned to do herself: she grabs his hand and guides him into place. He looks quizzical. She repositions his fingers. Like this, she thinks at him. Like that. She watches his confusion turn into annoyance but refuses to stop—instead she moves his hand faster and turns her face to the side so she won’t have to look at him. In his place, though, filling her vision, is the towel, with its faded stripes and tangle of threads. Goddamnit, I’ll sew it! she thinks and closes her eyes. She must concentrate. But girls’ voices trill in her head, a thing they used to say at Wellesley, Vee included, feigning courage and pep: You can’t be forced if you don’t resist! Other voices hiss back, the women’s-group women: Tsssk. Vee shakes her head and returns to Alex’s hand, and to the point between her legs, but as her pulse starts to quicken and her thoughts relax, the point is also a sewing needle, its eye glinting in the sew-on-the-go box her grandmother gave her when she turned ten, its point shoved deep inside a pink foam cushion in the box, the box shoved deep inside Vee’s stocking drawer, unopened for years. Vee has softened on Alex’s hand—she has lost her channel. If she loses, he wins. Again, she shuts her eyes. Alex is giving off an impatient heat but she steals it and drives his hand until at last the heat flares and she is satisfied. Then she pushes him out of the kitchen, wipes up his mess with the towel, and lets the help back in.
THE BOOK OF V by Anna Solomon. Published 5/5/2020 by Henry Holt and Company. Copyright © 2020 by Anna Solomon. You can buy a copy here. (When you buy something through our affiliate links, we may earn an affiliate commission.) Note to readers: "Fiction Friday" is a new Vogue weekly series showcasing original fiction from novels being published this spring and summer.
"book" - Google News
May 08, 2020 at 07:52PM
https://ift.tt/2Lh83q5
Friday Fiction: An Excerpt From Anna Solomon's The Book of V - Vogue
"book" - Google News
https://ift.tt/2Yv0xQn
https://ift.tt/2zJxCxA
Bagikan Berita Ini
0 Response to "Friday Fiction: An Excerpt From Anna Solomon's The Book of V - Vogue"
Post a Comment