Excuse Me

glance at him beside me. His hair looked especially spiky under the
light of the lamp and without thinking of anything except that I had
permission to touch him left over from years before, I ran my hand
over his head to see how it would feel; it was prickly, but not quite as
prickly as I had thought it would be. Then I was surprised at myself,
and embarrassed. “Excuse me,” I said, straightening up. “I didn’t really
mean to do that.”
Slowly George looked up. “Are you sure?” He was still leaning
on the table, bent over, looking up at me from below. I could feel
myself turning red; my neck and face were warm. I didn’t have being
fifteen to hide behind anymore, or inexperience, or the blind naiveté
that had gotten me through a few sticky situations I didn’t even
recognize at the time. “My curiosity got the better of me,” I said, but
that didn’t stand up any better than what I’d said before.
George straightened up and faced me; he examined me from
head to toe, taking his time. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and I
felt his eyes linger on each part of me as if I had nothing on. “I, too, am
curious,” he said, slowly, as if to make sure I heard each word.
“Terribly. I have been ever since I walked into this house.”
His face was such a definite shape now, his eyes and his whole
self focused on me in a way that almost felt intimidating. I could see
how much he needed, maybe more than anyone could give. And if I let
him begin, which I wasn’t going to, would he still be able to be gentle
with me, would he still let me tell him when to stop? He reached his
hand up and touched my hair as I had touched his; when I felt that he
wanted to pull me toward him and kiss me, I moved away.
“George, don’t.”
I could feel a hot wave of frustration flash out from him, beating
at me, almost visibly disturbing the air between us. Instinctively, I
drew back and almost at the same instant he caught my wrist in his
right hand. “Please don’t say that,” he said, more like a command than
a request.
We were frozen there like two people in the middle of a fight,
neither one of us yielding. “Let go,” I said. “You scare me.”
He released my wrist. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and turned his
back to me. He picked up the model and hefted it as if guessing its
weight – for one moment I thought he might throw it in the direction of
the back stairs – turned it upside down and looked at its bottom, but I
was sure he was only trying to find something to occupy his hands. I
remembered the way he had looked, years ago, when my fear that
things might get beyond my control made me refuse for a few days to