Sex and Rage

Sonia laughed; her laughter rolled around them like soft pearls.

And then he was gone and the door closed, but the room was still trembling with unrequited love.

It reminded Jacaranda of the way her grandmother had always sighed, unable to hide the depth of her disappointments at the way life had cheated her of her natural place and forced her to live among those who could never understand and would wallow content in ordinariness. When her grandmother sighed, it inspired bleak gloom in all who heard. The more you tried to liven things up, the blacker and stickier you got.

The way Gilbert’s eyelids made his eyes blur out from a back-street romance and the way his mouth seemed cruel beyond redemption struck up the band in celebration of folly, causing all else to pale. His ash-green eyes, veiled by his newly dyed dark brown movie-star lashes, poked around the room, slowing down the march of time.

Jacaranda realized that no matter where Max was sitting—what hotel, in what city—or when, he would forever feel like home. He was a tango partner whom, after an absence of forty years, she would remember perfectly, even if she was blind.

His eyes were still as blue as postcard skies and as impossible.

How could anyone be so beautiful? Jacaranda wondered once again.

And once again Jacaranda felt the aching waves roll over her from wanting what she couldn’t have.

The place was much more muted and uninteresting; no Duchamp chess players enlivened the walls. It was as though everything had given up its claim to vivid purpose in order that Max might stand out with further definition.

Jacaranda wondered if she’d ever be impressed again or if she was too jaded to regain her innocence.

Hemingway, in his typical grandiose way, said that courage was grace under pressure.