Shout Her Lovely Name by Natalie Serber Read Free Book Online Page B

imagined herself, hand shielding her eyes from the sun, a dress blowing about her legs, gazing out to sea for a sight of Marco’s boat. And when he didn’t return, she would have the sympathy of neighbors.
    Where was the dignity in rejection? Slogging through the puddles she felt trapped by her own healthy, busy reproductive system.
    The last time she’d seen Marco he’d arrived on a Friday night, late, and they’d spent two days in bed. She was studying for her English literature final, warning herself that he probably wouldn’t call. That it was just as well he hadn’t invited her to his parents’ home for his graduation dinner, she had exams anyway. Then he’d knocked. The knot of his tie loosened, his breath sweet with vino santo, he leaned against her doorjamb, grinning so wide his gums showed slick and pink. His arms were loaded with supplies from his parents’ Italian market: Chianti, dry salami, Romano cheese, bread, and her favorite, a large red tin of amaretti cookies.
    “I’m starving,” he said. “Are you?”
    Opening the door just a few inches, she filled the space with her body, as if she had something to conceal.
    He peeked over her shoulder. “You have a surprise in there for me?” He leaned in very, very close and said, “I’ve saved a surprise for you too.”
    “Have you?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. If only she hadn’t let him in. If only she’d made him wait. If she hadn’t let him kiss her collarbone, press his knee between her legs, and whisper, leaning into her, “I’ve missed you.”
    “At least you knocked with your elbows.” She took the cookie tin from his hands and pulled him in. “I was getting bored.”
    The sheet rested on her bent knees and covered them both completely, like a child’s fort, turning the light beneath soft and opaque. Her skin, she knew, would be lovely as cream, and she hoped he noticed. With Marco leaning over her, poised to touch her, she felt she could breathe his exhalations, feel her own breath catch at the back of her throat when he pushed inside of her. She felt herself slipping, her chin and heart lifting toward him, his arm wrapped tight around her back. When Marco came, he moaned a combination plea and exaltation. She listened for her name, for love, but heard only syllables.
    Her tiny dorm mattress, squeezed into a corner, left them no space. Their bodies wedged tightly together, he slept and she crammed Dickens, delicately turning the pages so she wouldn’t disturb his arm tossed over her shoulder. Her prescription, which she’d meant to fill the day before, which she would absolutely fill on Monday, was in the bottom of her pocketbook. Surely, she’d reasoned, missing one, two pills at the very most, wouldn’t make a difference. Between naps and sex, she fed him cookies, licking crumbs from his lips, tossing wrappers on the floor. Monday morning, when she wanted to go out for coffee and poached eggs, he buttoned his shirt. “I’ll call you.”
    Even if she knew how to reach him now, what would she say? She imagined him on a Vespa, on a cobblestone lane, his collar blown open by the wind, his teeth flashing in the sunlight. How could he even hear her calling, see her waving at him from the sidewalk, saying, “Marco, I’m pregnant”? She could imagine herself neither in Europe nor pregnant. It was only over the telephone that she could imagine telling him, a long black cord snaking over a fluffy, down-covered bed, the Alps out the window, the phone clutched in his hand, his face horrified as he listened to her distant mousy voice bothering him in his hotel room all the way across the Atlantic.
    She fought to light another cigarette in the rain. At this moment she needed to be outside her own life. She thought if she could pull far enough away, imagine her life was a movie, she might know what she was supposed to do. She pictured her own wet hair, gamine face free of makeup, drenched blouse clinging to her