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[continued from page 2]
“Please,” she said, shy because the promises were new and still wet, unearned. “Say it again.”
“Don’t you believe me?” her lover asked, turning his small pink mouth down. He had thick dark eyebrows, a noble straight nose, a short blond beard that reminded her of her grandfather. Stella found him so beautiful that it was difficult for her to look directly at him when she spoke. But something in her tone had convinced him of a lack of trust. “I would not say these things if I did not mean them,” he said, putting a mournful hand to his neck.
Stella fell then into a paroxysm of apologies, “I’m sorry” over and over again, like a dusty mouthful of pebbles. The words haunted her now as she stepped down from the platform and eyed the Matterhorn on the horizon. His pale blue eyes had seemed to crystallize in the sparsely decorated room. He was from another country, and had not brought many things with him to America.
In response to her apologies he had taken off her clothes and spoken to her about the terms of their relationship as he massaged her crotch with one hand. Stella came to an irresistible state of alertness as he touched her. “Our relationship will not be without trial,” he told her. “It will be difficult. But I only want you to be happy.”
She could not separate the gasping response of her body from the impact of his words, or from her great fear that there was something wrong in what she spoke to him then in short breaths: “You’re the one, aren’t you?” she asked, eyes widening in fear and recognition.
“Yes,” he said, “I am. And you are the one for me.”
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