Standing in his library amid raucous recollections, McEwan gazed at the framed lithograph of Thomas Hart Benton's poker scene from "A Streetcar Named Desire." He remembered the lad Maurice had brought to the party last night. Introductions were warm and earthy and all eyes gleamed. He remembered the creamy chocolate buttocks and sotto voce cries and whispers. "Be still, be still, my little hummingbird!"
The affair had been an olfactory buffet. Nutmeg, cinnamon and waswe seed.
The boy had been costumed as the Carnival character King Sailor. McEwan peered behind the sofa and discovered the white duck trousers and feathered crown. Evidently the boy had fled in his skivvies. Taking the bottle of spiced rum.
*
It took twenty minutes to fix breakfast.
Swiss muesli with skim milk and a stand-up pot of cowboy coffee. He was pouring another jolt of joe when Bernice joined him. She uncapped her St. John's Wort and downed a handfull with a swig of Evian.
"When did they all leave?"
He replied, "I have no idea."
He watched her walk shakily from the nook and wondered if she remembered the throes of athletic passion, when he fucked her as he had fucked the lad.
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