Reunion

Christine and I were in the same sorority in college—one semester we were even roommates—but in the years since graduation I’d seen her just once, at her wedding. She’d married a doctor, Tom. If I were interested in guys, he was someone I could go for. I think Christine knew I was in love with her, but we never talked about it. We talked about art and music and sometimes politics. She was studying piano, I was studying painting—something I would give up—not enough talent. I took photographs, even made a modest living at it, but it wasn’t the same thing.

From Facebook I knew where she and Tom were living, and when I had an assignment in the area, I emailed her suggesting we might meet for dinner some night. She wrote back insisting that I stay with them. “We have scads and scads of room—it’s obscene.”

It was late afternoon when I arrived. Their house, maybe it could be called villa, was on the bluffs overlooking the sea. It was a beautiful house with a beautiful swimming pool. Christine had been swimming when the cab dropped me off. “I’ll get you all wet,” she said, and then she embraced me anyway. “I always do a mile before bed,” she said. “I hope you have a suit. Or you can borrow one of mine. Or swim nude. I usually do.” Christine seemed almost giddy. “But I knew you were coming so I ... So I’m so happy to see you!” She embraced me again. “Oh, this is Tom. Have you eaten? Would you like a drink? You must be tired. I’ll show you your room. Do you still paint? Tom, Gwen was the most brilliant artist. There’s a cat around here somewhere. Oh, Gwen, I’m so happy to see you!”

After that Christine calmed down some. Tom brought us glasses of wine, a sliced apple, some delicious grapes, and we chatted until after midnight. The bedroom they put me in was next to theirs. I had a hard time falling asleep. Maybe it was the thunderstorm that rolled overhead or maybe it was the sounds of Tom and Christine making love on the other side of the wall, or maybe it was the cat nuzzling my legs.

Eventually I drifted off, only to be awakened a short time later by a car engine. Then it was quiet for a time and then I heard music. Christine’s piano. A sad, lovely song. I recognized it as a piece by Debussy. I got out of bed, slipped into my nightgown, and went to investigate.

I found Christine seated at the piano at the far end of the main room. She played the piece through again and then again. The sky was clear now and moonlight poured through the huge window. Christine was so beautiful, naked at her piano, I had to go back to my room to grab my camera. When I returned a moment later, she’d begun the last movement of the piece, which was more energetic, almost frenetic. When it ended, she sat there in the quiet. “Christine,” I called out softly. “Oh,” she said. She swiveled her stool to me. “Did we wake you? Tom had to go in. There was an accident. Some boy. I hate when this happens.”

“The music was beautiful,” I said. “You are beautiful. Would you mind if I took your picture?”

At this she seemed to become aware that she was naked. One hand went to her pussy. “Shouldn’t I put something on?” she asked. In answer I lifted my nightgown over my head and let it float to the floor.

“Okay,” she said. “How do you want me?”

“Every which way,” I said, “but for starters put your hands in your hair.” She looked down, perhaps thinking I meant her pubic hair, although she was smoothly shaved there, and then she lifted both hands to her head.

“Perfect,” I said.

Just then the cat padded across the floor. “Oh dear,” Christine said, “did my pussy ruin the picture?”

“Not at all,” I answered. “Your pussy made the picture.” I knelt down and aimed my Canon pointedly between her legs. “Go on,” I said.

Gradually, Christine’s legs slipped apart. I knew it would be too dark for any detail, but I didn’t care. It was the idea. For a minute or more the only sound was the tiny snick of my camera as it captured what it could of Christine’s cunt.

When Christine’s legs were as wide as they would go, I photographed her face. Shot after shot after shot. Then I stopped, and for a long time we just looked at each other. Then we both smiled and then we both laughed.

“Come to bed,” she said, and she took my hand and led me to her bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, shadowed, maybe stained, but she lay down and drew me into an embrace. For the next hour or two or three we breathed each other. In another world, water, earth, and fire would have followed, but as things were, air was enough.

We woke in each other’s arms. Tom was standing over the bed. “Did it go well?” Christine asked. Tom shook his head. “The boy died,” he said, and he took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m so sorry,” Christine said. She opened her arms to him. “Be in me,” she said. He glanced at me and then climbed into bed and knelt between Christine’s legs. A moment later, when he entered her, she gasped and then sighed. Then they were moving together. From time to time I caressed them as they fucked.

The lovemaking went on and on, like a gentle rain more than a thunderstorm, and when at last he came, she came too, with a soft but keening cry, and then they were still. I stroked their skin, feverish at first and then cool. They were asleep. I left the bed and found my own bedroom and my own bed and lay down. The cat curled up at my feet and purred.

In Concert

I was surprised when I woke up and shambled into the kitchen to find that Christine and Tom were already up. “Hey, sleepyhead,” Christine said, “want some fresh-brewed coffee?”

“You don’t happen to have tea?” I asked.

“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” Tom said. He was wearing pajama bottoms but no top. It was a very sexy look.

“Tom has a thing for green tea,” Christine said, “as for me, give me coffee or give me death.” She was wearing the top to Tom’s pajama bottoms. It was an even sexier look.

We took our drinks out to poolside. No one seemed inclined to say anything, but considering what had happened last night, I didn’t think the tension was too bad. When Christine sat in the chair the pajama tops rose up enough so that I could almost see her pussy. “What does the cat like, coffee or tea?” I asked. Tom and Christine both laughed.

“Can you spend the day?” Christine asked after a while. “Tom has the day off. We could do something, or we could just laze around. At some point I’ll have to get some practicing in, but other than that...”

“She practices about ten hours a day,” Tom said.

“Lazing about sounds good to me,” I said. “And I wouldn’t mind listening to you practice.”

“Good,” Christine said. “I’ve got a concert coming up in about three months and I’m no where near ready.”

“You sounded pretty good to me last night,” I said.

Tom and Christine exchanged glances.

“She gets very nervous about concerts,” Tom said. “It’s all I can do to get her on stage.”

Christine frowned.

“If it weren’t for a concert we wouldn’t have met,” Tom said.

Some color came to Christine’s cheeks.

“Was it love at first sight?” I asked.

“Was it ever,” Tom said.

“There was a blizzard,” Christine said. “They should have cancelled the thing. Hardly anyone showed up. And I had to play barefoot.”

“How come?”

“I only had snowboots. I’d forgotten my shoes.”

“And she had the cutest designs painted on her toenails,” Tom said.

“That was embarrassing,” Christine said. Luckily only about nine people were there.”

“Yeah, but I was there,” Tom said. “That’s all that matters.”

“He clapped and clapped,” Christine said. “It was almost embarrassing. It was embarrassing.”

“I wanted an encore,” Tom said. “I wanted a hundred encores. A million.”

“I only had two prepared,” Christine said. Her finger brushed something on her inner thigh. “It was a harpsichord, and most of the encores I knew were for piano. Luckily, everyone else was happy to leave after two. Probably worried about getting stranded with all that snow.”