The Spanish Steps

The “Spanish Steps” are not in Spain. I suppose a guidebook might tell
you why they’re called “Spanish,” why they’re famous, the number of
tourists who pass through in an average hour, and the closest restroom
— be sure to bring your own toilet paper, they’d remind you — but
I’ve chosen to forget all that. I was there in May 19__, my husband
(let’s call him Jeff) and I were on a trip to celebrate joint
promotions. Add it up and we were making over $60,000 a year between
us! What can I say, it was the eighties… two kids in their mid-20’s
who were inordinately pleased with themselves. It was a peak in the
relationship, things wound down from there.

We were scurrying between — oh, pick any two tour-book destinations,
say the Coliseum and some Vatican Postal Museum (that doesn’t sound
quite right, but who cares?) — when he spotted a shop his big sister
had told him he HAD to stop into. A little leather shop — belts,
gloves and bags, perfect for obligatory gifts for every female
relative on your shopping list. I’d shown him the right rack of
handbags for his sisters, talked him out of unlined white goatskin
gloves for his mother, then left him to haggle with the shopkeeper
over the Mastercard details. The sweet dark smell of leather was
intoxicating, but it gave me this overwhelming craving. In an awninged
alcove just outside the door I lit up and took a first drag. Yeah, I
was trying to quit… wasn’t everybody? But sometimes it feels SO
good. Warm, comforting. Inevitable.

The steps are dark. Close. Much more cramped and old than you’d
expect. Though it was a warm, dry day for Spring, the stonework gave
an impression of being wet, as if from some ancient underground
seepage. Under an unpronounceable Italian sign, partially hidden
behind some temporary barricade I saw a woman. A raw-silk dress,
vermilion with pearl buttons all the way down the front. Blousy
sleeves, front-slit to mid-thigh. A man behind her, his moustached
face pressed into her neck. Her eyes closed. Lips pursed. Back
slightly arched, short black hair draped to one side. Her ears were
exquisitely small, almost elfin. His right hand rested lightly on her
waist from behind, his left hand caressed the swell of her buttocks.
They could not have been twenty feet away. Suddenly his eyes flickered
open and swept the bustling piazza, came to rest on mine.

Luminous coal-black pinpoints. In vain I tried to pretend to look
away, but I could not. His mouth opened on the girl’s neck, his teeth
lightly grazed her porcelain skin as he stared me down. I took another
drag on the cigarette, held it poised in front of my chest, a futile
protective gesture. His right hand swept up across her slim torso,
past her ribs, his fingers raising the flesh of her light breasts as
his first finger and thumb closed on the spot where her nipple pressed
into the fabric. It was impossible, I knew, in all that hubbub, but I
could swear I heard her sigh. A delicate intake of breath, slowly
exhaled. His fingers twirled her nipple — deliberately, teasingly —
through the thin fabric. Her neck arched, for a second her swaying
hair obscured his eyes. I watched, mesmerized, as his left hand
circled her waist, tracing the row of buttons upwards. The top button,
taut, between the swell of her breasts, yielded to a twist of his
fingertips. He grazed the pale flesh thus exposed, moved downward
along the seam to the next button. The woman’s hips swayed in time to
some silent music only she could hear, or something he murmured into
her ear. His tongue slowly caressed the gold hoop earrings that fell
across her neck. Another drag of my cigarette, feeling the warmth in
my fingertips. Pulling the escaping remnants of smoke in through my
nose. A third button released. The skin of her belly was pale, lightly
dotted with freckles. Her mouth opened in the shape of an “O” as his
fingertips probed her navel.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out, a cloud of mist
surrounded me. Behind me I heard the door open. Jeff jostled out with
an armload of parcels. He bumped into me, fumbling a few.

“Shit, you still smoking those things?” he glowered as he bent to pick
up the boxes and bags.

Feeling guilty, I tossed the cigarette on the ground, stubbed at it
with my toe.

“So, what’s doing out here?” As if there were something else going on
besides a cigarette break.

I looked over at the spot where the couple had been standing,
wondering whether — or how — to explain it to him. There was no one
there. I looked back at him, my mouth open.

I loved Jeff’s blue eyes. Bright, clear, as open as an American sky.
But for a second — just a second — they seemed vacant, empty. I was
painfully aware that I must have seemed to be staring at him. I
touched my tongue to the back of my teeth for a moment, then asked,
“Did you ever want to grow a moustache? Was just thinking… might
look really nice on you.” He touched his upper lip with a fingertip,
furrowed his eyebrows.

At the pension later that afternoon I had him fuck me, standing, from
behind, my elbows pressed against the wall. He pounded into me for the
longest time while I stared out the only window in the room.

After he climaxed and fell to the bed I continued to stand by the
window, looking over the passers-by, while his discharge slowly oozed
down the inside of my thighs. It was unclear what I was looking for.