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When the broker told me that this house was called the Eleanor, I had laughed, amused that the most expensive property in the hillside subdivision shared my dull little name.
I've been in the dining room for over ten minutes now. It is an exotic, cavernous space, built in a distinct Cuban style with beautiful wooden slatted windows and a stratospheric ceiling. My plain wrap-around dress and old flats do not justice to the exquisite details of the house, but I remind myself that all I want is a tour.
Suddenly I hear a voice from the doorway.
Hello, Mrs. Dy. I'm the architect. I'll be touring you.
Strange. I was hoping to meet the broker, not the architect.
I turned around and I knew, that even after twenty long years, you had felt it too.
Eleanor? you whisper in surprise. How seamlessly my name falls from your mouth, how still achingly familiar. The world has always called me Lea or Ann, but you always refused to do so. I open my mouth to say your name, but my body only allows me a ragged exhale.
You're the architect? I ask in a small, incredulous voice as you walk towards me. I clench my hands at my sides, willing myself to stay where I am.
The air around us cackles; it is so alive.
You are older now, but oh Lord, I remember you. I remember every inch of those arms, of that chest, of that face. I look away as I struggle to breathe, trying my very best not to buckle as you stride across the room, but I fail miserably. In a second, the delicious gap between us is no longer a meter or an inch, it is now barely a point in space, and I swear I can no longer tell the difference between the throbbing of your pulse and mine.
My husband is looking for a new house, I stammer. I thought the broker would be here.
You stiffen at my careless words and I regret them instantly. You clear your throat and step back.
I can come back some other time, I offer weakly as I grip my handbag, wishing I had brought my cigarettes. I need to press my lips against something, against anything, because if I don't, I might press them against yours and I can't do that now. Not now when I had just come from church. Not now when I am so still weak and hurting. Now now when you are wearing a tailored jacket and a linen shirt underneath -- and since when did you learn to wear things like that anyway? You were always the drummer in black and in ratty jeans. Maybe your wife finally taught you how to dress.
I did not expect to be overcome with a wave of envy at the thought of your wife.
Broker's on leave and it's a long drive here, you say. But I can show you the house. Make it worth our while. Let's start from the top, you offer as you jog up the stairs. Your voice is halting, almost cold, as if you need to get the tour over and done with. I follow you up the dark wooden stairs, each plank perfectly measured and placed, and I marvel at your accuracy -- how beautiful the slope of the stairs are, how well-thought out everything seems to be.
I follow you into the anteroom and you slide the full-length glass doors, revealing a spacious balcony. Macajalar Bay, you say as you gesture towards the incredible view of the sun sinking into the gray-blue ocean. The moon is on the other side of the sky, getting ready to usher in the night. I lean over the railings and attempt to take in the breathtaking panorama, the wind teasing the edges of my dress.
The view is gorgeous.
Yes, it is, you reply. Your voice is still like warm honey.
I turn to see that you are not looking at the ocean.
I struggle to breathe. You always knew I was helpless when you looked at me this way, didn't you?
Your eyes never leave mine, so I have to look away. You would think the years would have rendered us strangers, but I'm beginning to believe that there may be fires that will never, ever burn out.
Let me show you the master's bedroom, you say, your voice thick and heavy. You turn and I follow you down the hall and into an elegant room accented with stained dark wood. It is bare save for a massive four-poster bed in the middle.
I dare not look at it.
We thought we were too young to go any farther back then, but my thoughts now surprise me. If we were to make love tonight, how would it be? If you saw the marks on my body and the scars from bearing two children, would you still want me? You probably still would. You would come to me strong and tender, making me feel like the most desirable woman in the world. There would be no empty, schooled techniques between us. You would look at me like the way you do now, and you would watch my face as I shudder. You wouldn't use me then discard me; you wouldn't collapse in a heap and fall asleep right after.
