The Earth Moves
What a night! But all’s well. Irving informed the police and the nursing home that Millie is with him. She doesn’t recognize Irving or anyone else, but her bed is familiar to her and all she wants is to sleep. Last night’s Gang of Fifteen, as we are calling one another, will take turns watching Millie as the others rest. Jack and I bow out.
Well, here we are. Six A.M. In my bedroom at last. We throw ourselves on top of the bedspread, still in our clothes, kicking off our shoes. Jack mumbles before he drops deeply into sleep, “How do I not make love to you? Let me count the ways. Pago Pago. New York. Key West. My bedroom. Your bedroom...”
The last thing I remember before I pass out, too—Jack is snoring and I’m laughing.
I think I’m dreaming. But I’m not. My eyes peel open and I see the clock. It’s eight something. We are moving in slow motion. He helps me off with my clothes. I help him with his. Clothes are tossed. We kiss. I suggest a shower to get rid of last night’s grunge. He doesn’t care. He suggests later. Together. Arms and legs entwine. I don’t know where one of us leaves off and the other begins. We are still tired, so our movements are unhurried. We are whispering nonsense as our bodies respond, ignoring our words.
I say, “It’s been such a long time.”
He says, “It’s like riding a bike.”
I say, “I never rode a bike in the Bronx. My mother wouldn’t let me.”
He says, “I have a bad back, it could go out any second.” I tell him about the arthritis in my knees. “I might cry out in pain.” We name all our old-age ailments.
He tells me, “I have battle scars.”
I say, “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” I giggle.
He says, “We’ll work around them.” What we are doing to each other has us sizzling. We moan in pleasure. He says, “I think I hear the phone.”
I say, “No damn way.”
He says, “Kidding.”
We are no longer talking. We are in the moment, in the second, enveloped in bliss, peaking to rapture.
“The earth finally moved,” I say afterward.
He says, “It’s about bloody time.”