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His stuff was scattered all over the floor.
“You’re such a slob.”
But then they were kissing again and he was unbuttoning her jeans and she was shaking.
“Stop shaking,” he whispered.
“Georgie knows. I can tell she knows. And I’ve never noticed how beautiful she is. All dark hair and white skin. No freckles. How did she get to have that color skin with no freckles?”
“You’re babbling, Finke.”
And she was wearing too many clothes. Jeans, skirt, and probably, under it all, tights.
He bent and pulled down her jeans first. “How short is this skirt?” he said with wonder. No tights.
“It’s why I wear the jeans. Siobhan gave it to me.”
“How white are these legs?” he said with more wonder. Goose-bumped to the hilt. He ran his fingers over them. When he stood up again, he pulled off his sweater. She was still shaking.
“You’ve got to stop shaking, Tara,” he had said gently. “It’s just me.”
“I can’t do this if Georgie’s downstairs. Tom. It’ll be like having my mother there.”
He had tried to take off her top, but she was shaking her head emphatically. “With the light off.”
“No light off,” he argued. “I want to see you.”
And he saw a bit of fear on her face and he didn’t want that between them, so he reached over and switched off the light and then took her hand.
“We’ll lie down. I promise. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
Please, please, say we can do anything you want to do.
“It’s just if Georgie wasn’t downstairs . . .”
And he was holding her to him and then they were underneath the blankets and she was trembling and he wanted it to stop and for her to go back to being Tara in charge and bossy, so he wouldn’t have to deal with this vulnerability. The skirt was still on, but it barely covered her and he pressed his knee between her legs.
“Come on, baby girl,” he had whispered.
She stiffened. “Don’t call me baby girl!”
“Okay, honey.” He imagined the look on her face but couldn’t see it in the dark. “No? Bu
And she was doing that wheezing laugh again.
“Doll? Treasure?”
“Enough.”
“Petal.”
He kissed her again because he couldn’t stop.
“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ve just got to go somewhere. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Where?” she had asked, alarmed. And then he was crawling under the sheets and he was peeling her undies from her. He loved that they were lace and cotton and he loved the smell of her and he wanted to be all poetic, but in an instant he forgot Joe’s poem about Japan except the part about “you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,” and a new sound entered his life, like when he was a kid and he first heard the sound of horse hooves clip-clopping and he asked his mother in wonder, “What’s that sound, because I’ve never heard it before?” At that moment he was hearing the sound Tara Finke made because of what he was doing to her and it was a good sound, a great one, and he had no idea why he was thinking of horses and stuff, but he wanted to hear that type of music for the rest of his life.
When he was up beside her again and when he thought he was going to burst from wanting, he rested on his elbows looking down at her.
“Am I heavy?”
“No. Yes.”
“I thought you were getting all religious on me with your ‘Oh, Gods.’”
He lay back and she rested her head on his chest and then she looked up at him and he could feel her breath on his Adam’s apple.
“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” she had whispered and he felt her hand crawl down his boxers and he wanted to warn her, because she was not prepared for what was about to happen. And then she started talking.
“My mum and dad . . .”
“No, no, no, no, no,” he had gasped. “You can’t bring up your mum and dad while your hand is down there, Finke.”
“They’re going to the Entrance next weekend,” she said. “Such an underestimated place. And I can’t go because I’ve got exams. So there’ll be no one else in the house. No one downstairs.”
And her tongue came out and licked his throat.
And then he got all religious on her. Very quickly.
Later, when they were almost asleep, he had called out to her.
“Finke?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll make a good team. You plant. I build.”
To: [email protected] /* */
From: [email protected] /* */
Date: 30 August 2007
Dear Tara,
It’s been very remiss of me not to ask about your boyfriend. I can’t imagine him not being your intellectual equal and I’m presuming that you talk books and film and music and politics and that there’s a passion to your conversations, despite the fact that you disagree on heaps of things and that he makes you laugh until you make that wheezing sound and that when you’re really cranky with him, he knows how to snap you out of it and that when you turn into a bit of wallflower, because sometimes you’re a bit awkward with people, he makes sure you’re never out there on your own.
I can imagine him being that type of a guy.
Love, Tom
To: [email protected] /* */
From: [email protected] /* */
Date: 30 August 2007
Dear Tom,
I’d prefer not to talk about the guy I’m seeing. No offense, but it’s a private thing. Except to say that he doesn’t have to prove how smart he is 24/7, which I find very refreshing. We always see eye to eye and he’s not too intense. And dare I say it, for someone like me, who’s never gone for appearances, judging by the one guy I’ve been attracted to in the past, I can’t get over how good-looking he is. A six-pack up close is a very attractive thing and I would strongly recommend it. But enough of my superficiality. How’s life with you, Tom?
TF
Oh, she’s good. He is so impressed with her aim for the jugular.
To: [email protected] /* */
From: [email protected] /* */
Date: 30 August 2007
Dear Tara,
Okay, then, while you’re at it. Give me the textbook reading of Thomas Finch Mackee that will convey my mediocrity. I promise I can handle it.
T
Despite how hard he tries, he can’t get the images of the other guy out of his mind. The next night while he’s carving out the sirloin at the pub, he’s using the chopping board with fury. Ned reaches over at one stage and removes the knife from his grip wordlessly and hands him the lettuce to wash.
“Ned?” he says after a while. “Oi, Ned?”
“What?”
“If someone says to you that the guy they’re going out with doesn’t have to prove how smart he is, what’s your response?”
“That he’s dumb.”
“And if he has a six-pack?”
“Dumb jock.”
“Not too intense.”
“Dumb jock with no personality.”
“And they see eye to eye?”
Ned pauses. “With the spitfire from Dili?”
“Same,” Tom corrects him.
Ned holds up a hand to where Tara would reach him in height.
“Dumb jock with no personality and short-man syndrome.”
“Thanks, Ned.”
“Anytime.”
It’s a madhouse the next night, with visitors coming and going for Grace and Bill, who are heading home the next day. Later, when the guests are gone, Georgie tries to organize di
“Can you do something to help around here?” she asks, irritated.
“Can’t, because I’m lifting a few weights before di