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Ritual, 1969 [two stories]
103
was drunk, she thought,
as she sloshed more wine
into a tumbler and drank
deeply.
‘Smells great!’ He was
standing in the doorway,
his hair still wet, his face
gleaming, a pair of loose
white
linen
trousers
covering his lower half,
while his chest was bare.
She turned away quickly,
again afraid to let her
gaze linger over that taut,
muscled skin, the black
hair that gathered in the
centre of his chest and
ran in a line over his flat
stomach.
‘Can I have a glass?’ he
asked and when she
looked up, she saw that he
had put a t-shirt on.
He began to potter about,
arranging cutlery on the
table in the adjoining
room, lighting the candles.
Then he put music on; soft
swirling pipes and insistent
drums, the sound of a night
far away in Morocco or
Tunisia. Hand claps and a
woman’s voice, a rhythmic
ululating lament.
She slopped the food onto
plates, splashes of tomato
everywhere, rice spilled
on the stove top, the floor,
the counter.
‘Can I help?’ he asked.
She shook her head,
unable to speak. A plate
in each hand and the wine
bottle tucked under her
arm.
‘Oops,’ he said, coming
closer, reaching behind
her so that she thought for
one moment he was going
to put his arms around
her. ‘You left the gas on.’
The pan that had held the
rice was blackening and