Charles Durbin drove past the yellow-and-white cottage three times before parking two blocks away. He walked at a steady, unhurried pace beneath the overhanging trees, stepping from shadow to shadow, avoiding unnecessary exposure, finally stopping at the hemlock hedge. He scanned the street and adjacent houses, looking for the observant eyes of nosy neighbors. The night was still. The houses were quiet.
He moved quickly along the brick path, from the hedge to the porch. Using a gloved hand, he loosened the bulb of the overhead light. The front door plunged into darkness. The stark light of the moon cut across the edge of the porch. He stood motionless, listening and watching. He pulled the newly cut keys from his pocket. In a moment, he was inside.
He shut off the desk lamp and the light in the kitchen. Now, except for the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, the cottage was in darkness. He returned to the front door and removed his leather gloves.
“Marie-Justine, I’m home,” he called into the dark. He extended his arms, opening them wide, then closed them in a circle and pulled them toward his chest. He wrapped his empty arms around his waist and shoulder. “I missed you too,” he whispered. He pulled his right hand from his shoulder and rubbed it lightly against his left cheek. He closed the hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it tenderly at first, then with greater force.
“Show me what you have been doing while I was away.” He eased his head back from his hand. Extending his left arm, he moved in the half light toward the kitchen as if being pulled by an invisible force.
He stood next to the empty kitchen table and pretended to lift an object in his left hand. He examined it then turned toward the sink. “Darling, you shouldn’t have. It’s so extravagant.” He set the imaginary object on the table and embraced himself again.
From the refrigerator, he took an open bottle of white wine. “To love,” he said as he drank from the bottle. He took a dish towel from the counter and wiped the bottle, returned it to the refrigerator, then wiped the door handle. He folded the towel and placed it back on the counter. Bored with the kitchen, he walked into the bedroom.
At the foot of the bed, Marie-Justine’s folded nightgown lay atop a wooden chest. Durbin lifted the delicate garment with both hands and raised it to his face. Slowly, he pulled it closer as he inhaled deeply. The scent of sleep mixed with her perfume urged him once again into his fantasy. He set the garment on the chest and opened the closet.
He chose a dress he had always favored—sheer, but not too revealing. It was a sleeveless, lavender summer frock that had allowed him to glimpse the side of her bare breast one summer afternoon as he spied on her in the bookstore on Fifth Street. He held the dress against his chest, gradually lifting it toward his face, breathing in her perfume, musky with the memory of summer.
He began to dance, twirling slowly as he held the gauze-like layers hard against his body. He bent forward, allowing the fabric to drape across his left forearm. He buried his face into the bosom of the dress and hummed softly. He turned the front of the dress away from his body and took hold of a tiny turquoise star that was attached to the zipper. He held the dress up with his left hand, and with his right, he tugged gently on the turquoise star until the zipper was completely down to the small of the back. He felt a growing heat in his loins and dropped the dress to the floor.
The bathroom was too dark. He turned on a tiny nightlight attached to an outlet on the wall near the tile floor. He sat on the edge of the tub and pulled the wicker laundry hamper between his legs. Slowly, he opened the hamper and peered inside: a damp, green bath towel, a gray turtleneck, a pair of white shorts, and a pink shirt. One by one he lifted the items into the amber light and caressed them as he robbed them of their perfume with his heavy breath before dropping them at his feet.
His heart quickened. He felt the blood rush to his face as he lifted a flesh-colored bra from the hamper. He imagined it still held the shape of her breasts as he pushed it toward his face. He caressed the silken fabric with his lips and kissed the front of each cup. He unbuttoned his shirt and held the bra against his chest. With the smooth, sheer fabric in each hand, he moved it lightly across his skin. His nipples hardened and he began to massage his own breasts.
His left hand plunged into the hamper and grabbed a pair of pale blue silk panties. He brought them hungrily to his mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed in the perfume, searching frantically for her scent. His tongue probed the smooth fabric, and the wetness of his mouth moistened the silk.
He slid off the tub and kneeled on the hard tile. Spinning on his knees, he scattered the discarded clothing across the floor. His forearms crashed against the edge of the tub as he held the bra against his face. With his right hand, he forced the blue panties into his trousers and wrapped himself in their damp silkiness. He spread his knees and hunched his back as he thrust against the side of the tub. The smoothness of the fabric let his hand glide across his skin. The sound of blood rushing and throbbing in his head drowned out reality. He and Marie-Justine were two souls lost in their passion, one in his love.