Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

William looked up from the desk and shook his head. “I need to work.”

In the two hours since he had sat down he had done nothing but stare at an empty sheet of paper, one finger absently rubbing along the hairline at his temple. Conny felt the stir of unease. She had not told William about the invitation from Brian, the man who owned this house and the car they—she—had been using for weeks now. William only knew they were invited to a party.

“Then I’ll stay,” she said, half hoping he would say yes, please stay, half afraid that he would.

“Don’t. You want to go. There’s no point in both of us suffering through this.”

Despite his open shirt and the cool breeze coming off the Channel, his skin glowed with a fine sheen of sweat. He slouched in his chair. A typewriter—a gift from Brian’s wife, who was in Paris this month—sat before him like a model of some improbable temple, but beside it lay sheets of handwritten manuscript, the ivory pen on top of them.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“It could be a late evening.”

He shrugged and picked up the pen.

She kissed him quickly on the head and hurried downstairs. She started the car and anxiously pulled away. She had not thought too directly about tonight’s party. Brian had given her directions to a house down the coast road east of Brighton and had somehow made it clear that, while certainly William was invited, he would prefer her to come by herself.

Her body told her the moment William touched nib to paper. The villa was two miles away. Halfway there she considered pulling over, but she kept driving.

A mass of cars filled the grounds in front of the house. She could hear the jazz band even before she turned off the engine. She sat in the car for several minutes, pressed against the door, waiting for the rush to pass, imagining the sound of his pen, the faint susurrus of his breath. Tonight’s work, she decided, would be very good and as unsalable as the rest. It was all for her anyway—he said so, but he did not mean it the way it really was—it was all he ever wrote anymore. Conny leaned her head back and closed her eyes, letting the tension between navel and anus twist into completion. If anyone walked by they would hear her small sounds, and politely veer off to leave the lovers alone. But, she wondered, if they did not go away, if instead they indulged a voyeuristic impulse and came to see, they would find her alone, legs drawn up, face bright with pleasure. Just me and his work…

She never asked if he received anything from the connection. They never talked about it anymore; he seemed antagonistic toward the subject. That and his illness. He refused to see a doctor, adamantly declared that his lungs were fine, the trouble was his bronchials, and then worked himself to exhaustion and coughed violently half the night through. They coupled so seldom that it always surprised her when he pressed against her and explored her. She made it as convenient as possible for him, opened herself, shifted at the slightest hint of where he wanted to touch her. She had learned all his wordless signals and more often than not paid no attention to her own pleasure. Afterward, every time, he went to his desk, naked, and wrote another letter for her. Some of them covered less than half a sheet, others went on for three or four. She woke in the mornings to find them beside her on the bed, William asleep in the next room. They went directly into the chest.

Her breath shuddered out in a last wave and she felt control return. She smelled pungent and dug out her bottle of perfume. A few minutes later she walked over the grass to the gravel driveway to the marble entrance, the music growing louder, now mingled with laughter. She thought as she walked into the storm of revelers, I’ve made a mistake.

Then she took a glass of champagne from someone and entered the beast. Hands, hips, elbows, and knees all touched her, seeming to caress her as she passed along, deeper into the antic folds of expensive clothes and cigarette smoke bluing the air. Everyone seemed on display, but crammed together so no one could get a clear look. Conny drank her champagne and made greeting noises, searching idly for a familiar face, one with a name that she could talk to. The faces all looked so earnest about being casual that they lost all legitimacy and their smiles seemed overburdened with meaning. She recognized no one. It was pleasant, though, to be stroked and petted through the careless gauntlet. She missed it, touching and being touched by flesh. It would, she thought, be pleasant not to miss it. She finished her drink and found another before she made it to the far side of the room.