The River Ophelia
By Justine Ettler
“Chapter 1”
I MET Sade at a party. I was standing next to the frig reading the assembled crowd face by face when a man with porcelain blue eyes motioned for me to join him from the other side of the room with his hand.
I walked across the kitchen—eyes taking in the empty bottles, dirty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, puddles of spilt drink—and then followed him through the French doors and out into the garden. He said his name was Sade and handed me a joint.
'So what do you do?' I said, dragging on the joint, thinking how incredibly good-looking Sade was—long lashes, full pouting lips, a strong jaw line and thick dark curly hair.
'I work for a magazine,' he said, blowing smoke rings.
'Which one?' I asked, curious.
‘Playboy,’ he said, his voice a sullen monotone.
The smoke rings disintegrated into wisps of grey.
'That sounds like fun,' I said.
'I hate it,' he said, his voice quiet but firm.
'Why’s that?' I wanted to know.
He offered me the stub of the joint. I shook my head and watched him toss the butt into a bush, the orange tip spiraling through the air. 'It’s killing me,' he said, dispassionately.
The butt glowed in the dark for a few seconds and then faded. He glared at me. I didn’t know where to look.
'Why’s that?' I ventured.
'I’m underpaid, over-qualified, and chronically frustrated,' he explained, his voice icy and controlled. 'My work is repetitive, boring and meaningless. I am totally dissatisfied. The only people who think writing for Playboy constitutes an interesting occupation are people I meet at parties. People like you.'
Sade fell silent. I shivered a little in the cold. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the French doors, everybody was eating and flirting and getting drunk and talking about work and real estate and children and who’s fucking who. Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing blared from the stereo and all around us suburbia laboured on, quiet tree-lined streets, rows of dark terrace houses, people watching videos and drinking beer late into the night.
'What about you Justine?' he said, his voice even and calm, 'what do you do?'
I looked at his neck caught in the warm glow shining through the French doors. His skin was pulled taught and smooth across clearly delineated strips of muscle and soft-looking cushions of flesh. A few small dark freckles dotted the lubricious olive surface.
'I’m writing a thesis,' I said, 'or I’m supposed to be writing one.'
He nodded and looked at me but not into my eyes.
'And what’s your thesis about?' he asked, his eyes watching my lips.
'Sex and death,' I said, smiling.
I watched his face, waiting, but he didn’t smile back. Instead his eyes stared straight into mine. They were wet, round and dark. I shivered again.
'It’s cold,' I said, taking a few steps towards the door.
I was just about to yank the handle when something made me pause and look back. He was standing right beside me, his hand mirroring mine, both of us frozen and with our arms outstretched on the doorstep. Smiling, we dropped our arms to our sides.
Soon my eyes were sinking down his face as my head inched towards him, slowly and jerking from my neck. I kissed him, crazy and brave, just the outer lips touching at first, and then inside. My body folded into his and I reached for his tongue with mine, his arms firm around my waist and me hanging around his neck. The kiss continued, too delicious to stop. The word “love” flew round and round in circles in the back of my mind.
Extract from Justine Ettler, The River Ophelia, Picador, 1995, Justine Ettler, 2017.
Buy a copy of the new edition here: https://www.books2read.com/u/4jwOqv
https://overland.org.au/2018/01/rereading-the-river-ophelia-in-the-era-of-metoo/
By Justine Ettler
“Chapter 1”
I MET Sade at a party. I was standing next to the frig reading the assembled crowd face by face when a man with porcelain blue eyes motioned for me to join him from the other side of the room with his hand.
I walked across the kitchen—eyes taking in the empty bottles, dirty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, puddles of spilt drink—and then followed him through the French doors and out into the garden. He said his name was Sade and handed me a joint.
'So what do you do?' I said, dragging on the joint, thinking how incredibly good-looking Sade was—long lashes, full pouting lips, a strong jaw line and thick dark curly hair.
'I work for a magazine,' he said, blowing smoke rings.
'Which one?' I asked, curious.
‘Playboy,’ he said, his voice a sullen monotone.
The smoke rings disintegrated into wisps of grey.
'That sounds like fun,' I said.
'I hate it,' he said, his voice quiet but firm.
'Why’s that?' I wanted to know.
He offered me the stub of the joint. I shook my head and watched him toss the butt into a bush, the orange tip spiraling through the air. 'It’s killing me,' he said, dispassionately.
The butt glowed in the dark for a few seconds and then faded. He glared at me. I didn’t know where to look.
'Why’s that?' I ventured.
'I’m underpaid, over-qualified, and chronically frustrated,' he explained, his voice icy and controlled. 'My work is repetitive, boring and meaningless. I am totally dissatisfied. The only people who think writing for Playboy constitutes an interesting occupation are people I meet at parties. People like you.'
Sade fell silent. I shivered a little in the cold. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the French doors, everybody was eating and flirting and getting drunk and talking about work and real estate and children and who’s fucking who. Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing blared from the stereo and all around us suburbia laboured on, quiet tree-lined streets, rows of dark terrace houses, people watching videos and drinking beer late into the night.
'What about you Justine?' he said, his voice even and calm, 'what do you do?'
I looked at his neck caught in the warm glow shining through the French doors. His skin was pulled taught and smooth across clearly delineated strips of muscle and soft-looking cushions of flesh. A few small dark freckles dotted the lubricious olive surface.
'I’m writing a thesis,' I said, 'or I’m supposed to be writing one.'
He nodded and looked at me but not into my eyes.
'And what’s your thesis about?' he asked, his eyes watching my lips.
'Sex and death,' I said, smiling.
I watched his face, waiting, but he didn’t smile back. Instead his eyes stared straight into mine. They were wet, round and dark. I shivered again.
'It’s cold,' I said, taking a few steps towards the door.
I was just about to yank the handle when something made me pause and look back. He was standing right beside me, his hand mirroring mine, both of us frozen and with our arms outstretched on the doorstep. Smiling, we dropped our arms to our sides.
Soon my eyes were sinking down his face as my head inched towards him, slowly and jerking from my neck. I kissed him, crazy and brave, just the outer lips touching at first, and then inside. My body folded into his and I reached for his tongue with mine, his arms firm around my waist and me hanging around his neck. The kiss continued, too delicious to stop. The word “love” flew round and round in circles in the back of my mind.
Extract from Justine Ettler, The River Ophelia, Picador, 1995, Justine Ettler, 2017.
Buy a copy of the new edition here: https://www.books2read.com/u/4jwOqv
https://overland.org.au/2018/01/rereading-the-river-ophelia-in-the-era-of-metoo/