Sleeping in Flame

"Let him smell you, then he'll be okay."

He walked over and gave her the once-over sniff test. Satisfied she was neither enemy nor large mouse, he began his normal weave around and through her legs.

"Can I touch him?"

"He'd like that."

She picked him right up and gently patted his head. He didn't purr, but I could tell by the set of his empty eyes that he was content to let this happen. Holding him in her arms, she walked into the living room. I followed, feeling like a real estate agent eager for a sale. It was important that she like where I lived, liked the space and objects with which I had chosen to surround myself. Sitting down in one of my expensive chairs, she looked slowly around, checking out the room from that low altitude.

"Which of these do you sit in when you're alone?"

"The one you're in."

"I thought so. The leather has the most wrinkles. Le Corbusier was such a goof. These are the greatest-looking chairs around, but there's nowhere to put your arms. He talked about the necessity for absolute simplicity in things, then designed snazzy furniture like this that's simple, all right, and totally impractical! It's the same with his buildings."

"That's true! I'm always looking for something to do with my arms when I'm sitting there."

She put Orlando down and worked her way out of the chair. "Sure. And they cost a small fortune, too. Do you have any pictures of your family?"

Nodding, I went to my desk and took out a large envelope filled with photographs. I felt a little exposed handing it over, though, because of the pictures of Victoria in there, the pictures of Victoria and me clowning for the camera, the pictures of me in costume for movies and ads I'd done. Besides the wrinkles on my face and personality, those shots were really the only concrete remnant, proof, to Maris York of my last few years. There was a pullover in the closet bought on a trip to Paris with my former wife, spoons in a kitchen drawer we'd chosen together at the Vie

"Is this Victoria?"

"Yes."

"She looks a lot like I thought. Your description was good."

She saw my parents, their house in Atlanta, my stepsister, Kitty, in the kitchen making brownies.

"Did you ever read anything about handwriting analysis?" She was holding a snapshot of me at the age of ten in a Little League uniform. I shook my head.

"The most interesting thing about it is that experts say you can never tell people's personality via handwriting until you've read five pages of their script. There are certain big companies that give a test when you apply for a job where you're required to write longhand for five pages. Then they give only the fifth page to a graphologist or psychologist and get their opinion. I think it's the same with a person's picture album. You've got to look at the whole bunch before coming to any conclusions. Right now I'm thinking 'How come he doesn't talk much about his family? Why does he only have a couple of pictures of his stepsister?' Things like that. But I know I have to go through all of them and see what they're of before I can get any clear idea of you."

"Would you like a drink?"

I must have said it in a strange voice, because she looked up quickly. "Are you angry, Walker?"

Looking at the floor, I shook my head. "It's fu

"I was adopted, Maris. I was found in a garbage can outside a restaurant in Atlanta. A bum discovered me while looking for di

An expression of pain and great wonder spread across her face. "Is that true?"

"That is true. I have a great family. I love all of them very much, but I have no idea who the real ones were. And you want to know something? Victoria always believed that's why I became an actor: so one day my real parents would see me up there on the screen and know their son. I don't know how they'd recognize me after thirty years, but she was sure that was one of the reasons why I worked so hard at succeeding in the business."

She came over and took my hand. "And that embarrasses you? It's like a German Mдrchen!"

"If it were a fairy tale it'd be all right, but it's a real life, Maris. My life!"

"It is not. It's the begi

"And my divorce?"

"Don't be silly. Something like 50 percent of adult Americans have been divorced at least once. How did it happen?"

"We cheated on each other too many times."

"That's not so nice, but it's one of the dangers of living today. Everything is open and easy, and you don't have to put much time in to get all those exciting things our parents told us came only after hard work and a lot of real love. I think our generation is still getting used to the fact that sex has been relegated from the main course to an appetizer on the menu. It's too bad, but it is. We just have to accept that and move on."

"But you said you're interested in me. Doesn't my being divorced make you skeptical about my staying power?"

She walked over and put her hands on my shoulders. "I'm skeptical, I'm scared, I'm excited. You don't get killed one day and then fall for someone the next. But that's what's happened, isn't it, Walker? What can I do, put on a crash helmet and duck?"

I leaned forward and just barely kissed her lips. She kissed back, but then her body began to tremble all over. Her mouth moved into a smile beneath my own.

"I'm sorry I'm shaking. It's been so long since I did this. It's been so long since I wanted to kiss someone."

I took her full into my arms and stopped the words with a real kiss. Her fingertips pushed on my shoulder blades. I could feel her breasts against my chest. I ran my tongue slowly down the line of her jaw to her throat. She shook harder, flattened both hands against my back. Her throat was soft and warm. When she swallowed, I felt her Adam's apple move beneath my tongue. She smelled of hours-old perfume and a human heat that made me want to shove my hands under her clothes, touch the skin it cooked from. Our kissing became less tender, more bold and wet. She kept shaking, but it was all one with our moving then, so I ignored it.

I turned her so her back was to me. Kissing ears and hair, I slipped both hands under her sweater and ran them slowly up a slim rib cage to her breasts. She put her hands over mine, not so much to stop as join them on their first, tentative move across her body. Surprisingly, she began to hum. It got louder the longer I touched her. Then she sang in a quiet, deep voice, "'Now is that gratitude, or is it really love?'"

"Is this passion, or are you giving a concert?"

She turned and faced me, smiling. "Do you know the rock group, Oingo Boingo? That's their song. It's exactly how I feel right now. What you're doing makes me so hot. Is that because it feels good, or because you're doing it?"

"Both, hopefully." I started pulling her sweater up and off. As soon as it was off and tossed on the floor, the quaking of her body increased. Looking me in the eye, she quickly shrugged off her undershirt. She wore no bra. Her breasts were large and I wanted to kiss them. But bared so quickly, I was suddenly afraid even to touch them. They didn't seem the same ones I'd held in my hands an instant before, when her black sweater and white shirt acted as stern chaperones.