He lay still for a second, feeling her, the moist inside now just part of his own body, permanently attached, then slowly began to move, drawing himself almost to the edge of her lips before sliding in again. Her vagina, already sensitive, continued to ripple against him, like aftershocks, urging him, and he began to go faster, adjusting his rhythm to her. She gasped out loud, a gift to the microphones, and he could hear the squeak of the bedsprings now, drowned out when his head had been down inside her, and their breathing, even louder, keeping pace, their strokes audible, a slapping of wet skin, the room alive with noise, as if the sounds themselves were racing, about to come. She clutched him and he felt her spasm again but now he couldn’t stop, thrusting on top of her orgasm, trying to keep it alive so that when finally he spurted into her they were both shuddering.
Afterward they lay curled up, quiet, his prick soft against her bottom, his arm flung over her, protecting her from the night air that crept along their bodies, drying the sweat. Neither of them moved, and he lay surprised by the stillness, wondering what had happened. There was none of the odd embarrassment he usually felt after sex, the impulse to cover himself, find his clothes and go. Now there was only an easy familiarity, as if they had finally run out of secrets and could lie here naked forever, everything known, an old couple. She turned and traced a finger along his face, reading it like Braille, wiping the wet from his mouth. “Look at you,” she said softly.
He reached over and brushed the hair back from her face, smoothing it, taking her in. “I like your freckles,” he said lazily.
“I used to have more.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh. You lose them as you get older. Like hair,” she said, touching his bare temple.
“Careful.”
She smiled, her eyes catching the dim light. “I was right, wasn’t I?” She kissed him lightly, then snuggled closer. She reached down to pull up the covers, but he stopped her.
“No, I want to look at you.”
“Then close the window. I’m getting goosebumps.”
“Where?” he said, running his hand along her hip. But he got up and went over to the window, closing the pane but keeping the curtains open to the street light.
“I love the way it jiggles,” she said from the bed, looking at him. “How does it feel when it bobs around like that?”
“Little,” he said. He stood by the bed for a moment, his eyes moving along her body.
“Oh,” she said, turning away slightly from his gaze. “Don’t. I feel so-exposed.”
No secrets. He bent over and kissed her breasts, feeling her shiver when he opened his mouth on her.
She was already dressed, putting on lipstick at the mirror. He felt the air on his behind, jutting out of the tangled sheets, and covered himself.
“Well, it’s alive,” she said.
“What time is it?” He glanced at the bedside clock. “Christ.”
“Sleep well?” she said. “It must have been the-” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, then put two fingers to her mouth, pretending to draw in smoke. “You know what.”
“Oh, that’s what it was.”
“What else?” She came over to the bed and sat on the edge, touching his chest. “Morning skin. Like a baby’s.”
He took her wrist, drawing her to him, but she shook her head. “You’ll muss. Anyway, I’m off.”
“Where?”
“See the sights. He wanted to meet you alone, didn’t he? Narodni Gallery. Better get cracking.”
He got up, holding the sheet. “You always this cheerful? Where is it, anyway?”
“By the castle. Take a number 22 tram. You can’t miss it. God, look at the bed. What will the maid think?”
He grinned.
She picked up her raincoat, then stopped. “Nick?”
He looked up, waiting, but she shook her head.
“Never mind.” Then, hesitantly, “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”
He nodded, still smiling as she closed the door.
In the lobby, he wondered if everyone could tell, read his mood, like a permanent flush on his skin. His face felt loose, ready to break into a loopy grin, but he came down outside, deflated by another dreary Prague sky. The rain had left the city damp and grimy, as if nothing could wash away its essential grayness. For the first time, the thought of seeing his father depressed him.
On the tram, bottle blondes and grim faces; no one talked. Had this conductor been someone else once? They creaked through the old streets, the passengers’ heads nodding with stolid patience, dazed with routine. No one had spent the night in someone else’s body, alive with sex. When they crossed the river, even the Baroque stucco of the Mala Strana, pale yellow in the sun that first day, had turned dark, a dirty mustard.
The gallery seemed to be arranged chronologically, so that the rooms began in the Middle Ages, static allegories with pudgy Slavic babies and soldiers holding lances and spiked shields, Christ rising from his coffin, his feet still dripping blood from the crucifixion nails. Artists painted what they saw; here they’d seen atrocities, a culture of occupation.
