The Book of Form and Emptiness

by Ruth Ozeki

Later that night, in the darkened bedroom of the small downtown apartment that she shared with two others, Kenji unzipped the long satin sheath of her cocktail dress. As if in a dream, he drew it from her round white shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a shimmering puddle. How could this be happening? He unhooked her bra and helped free her arms from it, and then supported her elbow as she stepped from her underpants. When she was naked, he backed away and gazed at her. She stood there, uncertain, framed by a window that seemed to hold her in place. Outside, the light from a streetlamp shone through the gauzy curtains and turned her creamy skin pearlescent. She waited for him to indicate something, pleasure or displeasure, and when he didn’t, her hands moved to cover her breasts and groin. He felt his breath catch. She was magnificent. Standing in the pool of cheap aquamarine satin and dingy lace, she looked like Botticelli’s Venus stepping from the waves, or was it a clamshell? He couldn’t recall, but she was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and if he whispered Botticelli under his breath, his accent distorted the word and she didn’t understand. Confused, she turned away from him, and he was mortified. He stepped hurriedly forward. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her, pressing his palms on either side of her lovely face, and then he kissed her lips and felt her tremble. All of her. All over.