was a woman holding the edge of the pool, the ends of her hair floating on the surface.
The woman turned her head. She had large eyes. Bold-stroke brows. A wide, dramatic, high-bridged nose. Full lips, like the wax lips children put on their mouths.
Then she turned her body. And there were her breasts. Bare.
Easy, the patient told herself. Europeans go nude all the time.
The woman made no effort to cover her breasts, only crossed her left arm beneath them, which had the effect of raising the nipples so that they played hide-and-seek, hide-and-seek, with the lapping surface of the pool.
My name is Dorotea, said the woman, who seemed to be in her mid-thirties. They exchanged pleasantries, how long they’d been here, how they liked it, where they were from.
Argentina, Dorotea said. Nice to meet you, she went on, laughing and extending her hand under the water.
The woman was so striking that the patient could not stop gazing at her. She seemed to have been painted by Picasso during his cubist phase, with all the planes of her face broken into sharp angles, each eye so powerful that it needed a separate space, four planes for her nose, six for each high cheekbone. But the mouth, the mouth: blooming dark red amid the hard angles. The patient finally took the offered hand. She said a bit more about herself. She tried not to look at the breasts Dorotea was cradling, not at the dark-pink aureoles as they tightened in the cool night air, not at the nipples, pebbled, erect.
Dorotea held on to her hand.
I saw you earlier, Dorotea said. I was with the group—
The economics conference?
Yes. And I saw you …
I was at the bar, said the patient.
Earlier, said Dorotea. With your friends. There was a long pause. She was still holding the patient’s hand. Then she said: Your friends. They are … together?
Is this happening? thought the patient.
Yes, she said. Together.
Dorotea released the patient’s hand, then slowly, and with some sense of demonstration, let go of her breasts. And you? she asked.
Now the patient allowed herself to look down at the full forms hiding like slick fish beneath the surface of the water, ready for the net.
I’m alone, the patient said.
Dorotea took a step closer.
They stood facing each other, saying nothing as water lapped at the rim of the pool.
Then a hand was tracing the patient’s hip.
Okay? asked the woman.
The patient gasped.
Under the water, Dorotea’s fingers were wandering to her waist, her belly. Slowly they circled the rim of the pelvic bone, down the thigh, across the gap between the legs, then back up again. The patient felt her clitoris grow, flourish, in the center of this circle, being the object of this circling, some kind of shrine the fingers had to walk around seven times, eight, nine, but could not enter. Finally one fingertip stopped on her pelvic bone, a spot just above the clitoris: the crown of the clitoris.
Oh! exclaimed the patient. She felt her clitoris must be inches high. If she got out of the water, everyone would see it, a finger poking out of her suit. She could barely focus on Dorotea’s face, which showed something triumphant. What was the patient supposed to do? She had never done anything like this before. Something in her said, Don’t do this. Be careful. Who is this woman? What are we doing here, outside, in public, in this pool? But then that fingertip slipped a little lower. And she had no more thoughts.
Meanwhile Dorotea’s free hand went to the patient’s breast, which was smashed under the spandex of the tank suit.
It comes off like this, the patient said to her new friend, undoing the clip at the back. When the water licked at her nipples, the patient’s legs went weak, and she could do nothing for a moment. Then she roused herself and reached for the breasts that had lured her here. Her companion rewarded her touch with a long, low moan.
Dorotea’s exquisite finger began massaging the skin below the crown bone, the skin that was connected to … everything. The patient fell against the wall of the pool.
Is this all right? she asked. I mean, what if someone sees?
What will they see? said Dorotea. As long as we don’t kiss.
They let their nipples touch, part and touch under the water; nothing else, only the nipples.
I can’t stand this anymore, said the patient. I’m going to faint.