The wind from the storm had caused considerable damage to the roof of Clark's home. The roof was shorn of many shingles, a few strips of light blue aluminum siding were stripped from the front and side of the house, and the marble sized hail with the force of the wind cracked the house's large living-room picture window. The garage sustained little damage.
Clark gazed out of the picture window, noticed his car in the drive. Clark's light blue Thunderbird was pocked with indentations caused by the hail. His mind twinged with despair. He had bought the car the night before.
Clark heard barking and turned his head in the direction of the den. In the den Praado and Popeye were bandying their various pleasantries to each other. Clark again faced the window to continue his survey of the storm damage.
Janene was upstairs in the bedroom fixing the bed and cleaning the bathroom.
The telephone rang.
"Clark," Janene yelled from the bedroom upstairs, "will you get that?"
"Okay," Clark said, voice deep and resounding.
"And tell me who it is?"
It was Clark's former lover of a year earlier, Lori Wentworth.
Lori was a bewitching woman. With brown hair down to her shoulders, eyes of deep brown, and a wan freckled face, she sported an air of playful sensuality. She was a profoundly spiritual person and carried with her a modicum of spiritual pain. She possessed well-developed breasts, a slim waste, and tight hips. Her lips were sexually rounded. Her eyes were ardently pure. Her voice was dulcetly sensual.
Clark had loved this woman with zealous ardor. Their sexual encounters were highlighted with wanton abandon. Clark wanted to marry her, was about to ask this vixen for her hand when she had turned to the arms of a former lover whom she said had treated her like "spit." Ostensibly her idea a spit was pleasing to her taste. She rejected Clark's love for the pained love of this other man. Clark had learned to loathe this woman. What could this woman want, this vamp from Clark's past?
"Hello, Clark?" Her voice, mystically mellifluous, brought to his mind memories of warm humid nights walking under the stars, lusty and lustful moments embraced by the alluring atmosphere of her charm, passionate moments of sexual union where nothing existed but the sound of lovers in love echoing plangently in the night. Clark heard her voice and was transported to another time, another place. He knew that time and place now was forbidden to him. To re-enter it would cause more pain. He slammed the receiver into its cradle. A tear coursed down his right cheek.
"Clark, who was that?" Janene said stepping down the stairs that led to the second floor.
"Someone dialed my number by mistake," Clark said with dolor in his voice. He wiped his right cheek with his left hand, forced a smile.
Janene did not notice. She was looking at her feet while striding down the stairs. Praado greeted her at the foot of the stairs with a strident bark.
"Clark," Janene asked coyly, "when are we going to get married? I need to know."
"Janene, I would like to talk to you about that right now. . .
***
Janene stormed out of the house in rampant rage. It was done. Janene was out of his life, if not for good, at least for now.
All the nights of unbridled sex, Clark thought, led to nothing. There is a vapidness in sex without commitment. Why do I indulge in copulation when love--true love--is not present? Am I so afraid of being alone that I sacrifice love for sex and delude myself into thinking that sex can lead to love. Love is never a product of sexual intimacy. For sex to have any meaning love must be its foundation.
