two had arrived at Mishael 5. Donny asked to come up to use her bathroom, since he still had a long walk before he got back to his yeshiva in the Old City.
Wendy assented. Donny insisted on leaving the door to her apartment open. Amalia was staying over at Shani and Asher’s, and there weren’t other occupants who might come in, so the open door at the top of a staircase where there were no other occupants made no difference either way.
Wendy plopped down on the couch in her living room in a daze. The boxes of books were gone, their volumes unpacked and settled on shelves. The apartment was beginning to look like someone lived there. She needed posters and pillows, throw blankets and knickknacks, the little things that made a place special to its inhabitant. Should she offer Donny a drink or something when he came out? All she had was water and milk, though there was some of that avatiach she’d bought earlier. She should at least offer.
After he left the bathroom, Donny stood for a moment in the hall outside the bathroom to say the bathroom prayer. Wendy heard him saying something quietly, in a soft whisper. She called out, “What?” confused that he was not responding.
He finished his recitation, entered the living room, and stood above her, looking down at her on the couch.
“Can I get you something to drink, a slice of avatiach? I got it at the shuk this morning.”
“I should get back. It’s late,” he said rationally before adding, “Yeah, sure, I’ll have some avatiach before I go.”
Wendy stood, shakily, and then said, “I don’t even know what to cut it with. I must have some knives here.”
“Don’t worry, if it’s too much trouble.”
“No, I’m glad you walked me home. I want to give you something.” As soon as she said those words, she felt her error. He would take it as suggestive. It felt suggestive, though she wasn’t entirely sure what the suggestion would be. He smiled at her; she smiled back, looking at him facing her. She walked over to the counter where the knives could be. She opened a drawer and found a huge knife, long and sharp enough to cut the watermelon, and a new plastic cutting board. She took the hunk of watermelon from her fridge and surrendered it to the counter. With Donny watching, Wendy started to hack at the fruit. The knife seemed powerless, or she was just not strong enough to prevail against the tough rind.
Finally, Donny stepped in. “Allow me. I have great knife skills from my time as a line cook.” He expertly cleaved the chunk of watermelon in two and then dismantled it, stripping the pink juicy flesh from the rind and cutting it into even, bite-size pieces as Wendy stood back, gazing mutely. His body seemed different now with a knife, his movements confident and precise, knowing exactly where each digit and limb should go, how much pressure to apply where. He was in a zone of competency, wielding each section of his body with the same grace as the knife in his hand as he chopped. She looked at him from the side, noting the tautness of his body, the way his perfectly sized butt filled his black cotton dress pants nicely.
“Do you have a bowl for this?” he asked, stepping back, task completed.
Wendy stopped her admiration of his carving skills and opened the cabinets to find a simple clear-glass bowl. She handed it to him. “Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t know how to deal with the tough rind.” That sounded stupid, she thought to herself. Why am I worrying? I don’t like him. I’m just being polite.
He scooped the chunks of fruit from the cutting board with his hand, dripping their pink juices into the bowl. He handed her the bowl, smiling, and rinsed his hands under the sink. “You just need to know the technique. Do things as simply as possible, expend the least amount of effort. Make the fewest cuts in the rind and work the soft flesh.” He dried his hands on a dish towel, fished out a piece from the bowl, and started to hand it to her. She moved closer to him, and opened her mouth. He reached to her mouth and inserted the watermelon directly in her mouth, instead of placing it in her hand as she’d expected. She clenched her teeth around the fruit and he took his hand away without having touched her, as the laws of shomer negia, not touching a member of the opposite sex before marriage, would demand. She put her hand to her mouth to take the remainder of the piece, and when she was done with the first part, chewed the rest. “Mmm, you try some,” she said, handing him a piece. As she did, he moved close enough to take the piece in his mouth. She held it in his mouth; he made no motion to put his hand up to take it. Her hand was close to his mouth, though the fruit was between them so they were still not touching. After swallowing the first bit, he slowly reached his mouth around the fruit and her fingers. She held them there, enjoying the sensation of juices mingling with his tongue on her flesh.
She licked her lips, the sozzled feeling from the glasses of wine at dinner making her bolder than she was otherwise. She stretched another piece towards his mouth. He kissed her fingers as she positioned the watermelon between his lips.
Then, he put a piece of watermelon in his mouth and walked closer to her, close enough that she could take it from him with her own lips. They were standing so that only the piece of watermelon, clenched in both their mouths, was between them. Now, drops of pink juice were scattering the floor as they stood facing each other, watermelon between them. She moved closer, pink flesh mingling as lips and fruit met. They were kissing. He put his arm on her waist tenderly and leaned in.
Wendy felt surprised but pleased by this turn of events. She wouldn’t have pegged him a good kisser, but he was, knowing when to smooth over her lips and when to apply pressure. So different from Matt, the crew rower, who, though so suave in most arenas, was totally awful as a kisser, unaware of how to hold his lips on hers. I am going to enjoy this year more than I thought, she joyfully intoned to herself as she leaned closer to Donny.
He pulled back. “I shouldn’t. I’ve been shomer negia more than a year . . . I don’t know, something happened. Having that knife in my hand . . . Part of the appeal of the restaurant was the proximity of others; I had so many girls there . . . I’m sorry.” He put his head down to the ground in shame and began walking to the door. His manners got the better of his shame and he added, “I . . . you’re a nice girl. I . . . can’t just go kiss a girl every time I find her attractive. You . . . you’re not . . . I want to find my basherte. I wish I could stay . . . Forgive me.” He scuttled out of the room as quickly as he could in light of this confession.
Wendy stood in place, watermelon juice still dripping off her mouth. She found a dish towel on her counter, and wiped her lips and chin, still staring at the door. What just happened here? Did he seduce me and leave, or did I seduce him and he left? Did I want it or was I playing along, flattered as always at any attention? Did he take advantage of me, thinking secular women are easy? I felt like he was weak and lacked confidence, but then something happened; he was different with the knife; he had this kinetic energy whirling about him. Were we equal participants or was I playing a game of corrupt the yeshiva student? The rules may not have been fair, but she wanted to play. He didn’t seem averse; after all, he came into her apartment even if the door was open, and drew close to her to hand her the watermelon. But still, she shouldn’t have let herself play; he wasn’t someone she had any interest in, and it wasn’t fair to toy with someone else’s feelings. That was it: they each had an attraction for the other, but there was no feeling on either of their parts. She wasn’t religious enough for him and he wasn’t academically inclined enough for her; there was absolutely no reason for the allure between them. She could say she was slightly inebriated, or disoriented from the dislocation of being in a new place, both throwing her usual restraints off. Those excuses were false; she knew the kiss happened because of the attraction, which existed like so many other things in life: illogical, irrational, preposterous, but present and enticing. Like the gorgeous male voice in the synagogue, something she was drawn to without knowing why. How many more gaffes would there be this year? How many times would she be drawn elsewhere than expected with unknown consequences? Her desire was like a surging current; once she had thrown herself into the water after it, she would be buffeted to and fro until the waters finally ceased foaming. I want to find a guy worthy of risking the battering and buffeting of the current of desire, who would similarly want to hold