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Oranges sobered you up.
Then he flipped over so she was underneath. He was a famous poet, so they almost all submitted. Suddenly, she found herself off balance, falling on top of him. The child ran out again. Sometimes he missed and peed outside the toilet. She put it into his unresisting hand, then went to pop a segment into his mouth. But when she turned and helped him down, he pulled her down with him. Her three-year-old made the same sound when he peed. It just sounded like a tap running. She smiled witlessly, the way she might if a man started telling dirty jokes at a work dinner, pretending not to understand.
With her free hand she smoothed her messy hair.
Trying to be patient, he turned to the. He hesitated a moment and she was able to pull free. He lay back on the sofa, tipsy.
When she brought the professor back, the housekeeper had left. Suddenly she knew what to do and, hauling herself up, she dragged him to the sofa. That had really put him off. He was happy that she was resisting.
It was boring when they submitted straightaway. She peeled one for him, but he did not take it. She heard the tinkling. She liked cleanliness—but he was, after all, her guest today.
If no one found out, would that make it OK? If he had been, even if she did let him, she could just say it was the drink. But she was not that kind of a woman.
He was a renowned poetry critic with a successful career. This was cruel! The floor lamp next to the sofa fell over and woke the child, who started bawling. He reached out and turned the frame facedown on the table. Now she was lying on her back, on top of him, and he had his arms around her.
She was just an aspiring poet. She had seated herself opposite him, but now she hurriedly moved to the other sofa so that he was side-on to her. Furious, he grabbed the child and headed for the bedroom. When he came out, his belt hung loose.
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What on earth had happened? She felt something sharp, like a knife, prodding her soft flesh. For an instant, she was worried this man might do the same. She had invited him out for a meal and now they were back at her flat. She wanted to get away from the knife, but he was pressing down on her.
The only other person in the flat was her son, asleep in his bedroom.
She jumped up and went to retrieve the peel. She would have to work hard. There was no avoiding his gaze.
She shook her head. She caught herself wondering what the woman had thought, and then whether she was only afraid people would find out. It was a way of reminding the man of his status. He went to the bathroom.
The boy came out of his bedroom and she took him in her arms, embarrassed. She just wanted to write poems. It was true. The more she resisted, the harder he pulled. He put him down inside.
She said nothing. He stared at her.
It excited him, the way this woman tried to get out of his clutches. She was crouching on the floor, her back to him, and he grabbed her from behind. The jerks at first had the effect of dulling her embarrassment, then quickly reawakened it. Regardless, he gave a forceful tug so that she landed on top of him.
She loved poetry. He gave a half-hearted grunt. He was not drunk. Time passed slowly. She realized he was pulling down her pants, and held onto them firmly. Now it was obvious what he was doing and what kind of man he was. She struggled, but it was no good. So, worried about offending him, she kept still.
This kid was a nuisance! They were face-to-face, her pulling away, him pulling her toward him.
His pants seemed to be coming off. Where on earth did he got a knife from? Of course she wanted to be famous, too, and successful. Then they could go on talking about poetry—Rilke and Yeats, even Foucault and modernism.
Moving showed resistance. She just had to keep smiling. He liked a bit of resistance, however feeble, a bit of naughtiness and giggling, before they gave in.
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The child struggled. She offered him tea to sober him up. She wriggled free but he still had hold of her wrist. She felt nothing. A bit of the orange squashed in her hand and the rest flew across the room, taking the peel with it. It was not easy to be a successful poet.