Connect and Disconnect

Part 2

“Thank you for coming over again,” removing takeout sushi containers from the table. “I have been thinking about you all week.”

She responds by taking my hand, leading me back to the bedroom. With a little work, the dogs are exiled and she is under the covers, bare shoulders exposed. With wry-smile she whispers, “turn off the light.”

Obliging, stripping most of my clothes, not wanting to fully expose excitement, sliding next, alongside, facing, playfully placing kisses on her shoulder —momentary thought, lights needn’t be off, possibly more fun if every part is visible, if expressions are not only felt but seen. Only in passing thought, a moment of distraction.

Lips meeting, kisses not hurried, not immediate, forceful, but different, still not quite in sync. Hands passing down the small of her back, feeling no cloth or silk, caressing skin, buttocks. Anticipation growing, leaning forward, one hand unhooking bra, black lace tossed to the foot, eagerly attempting to remove boxer briefs one handed, awkward, not graceful, falling on top. Pressure of kisses increase, trailing to lobe, nibble, neck, bite, breasts; breasts without open sores, pleasure not pain; just slight pause, such beautiful breasts, hardening nipple, a flash of image of cancer, but pushed deep, focus on the moment.

Bodies repositioning, shimmying under coverlet, head beneath, familiarity as now the second time, better able to sense pressure points, clitoris, steps, actions increasing movement, moisture building, flowing, whimpers followed by deep, deep exhale, appreciating attention and emphasis, fingers now join in. Minutes, seconds, and sudden orgasm, now demanding penetration, “with protection.” Clumsy foil tearing, doesn’t want to, now using teeth, happy lights are off. Deep, firm connection, hands lifting hips, feverish connection, the clock ticks and ticks, perfect tan legs wrapping around back.

Noses touching, eyes staring at closed lids, guttural utterances filling night. Corner of eye sees nightstand lit under phone florescence and apparition, memories of bottles, pills, set alongside journal tracking dosages, times. Body continuing action, mind wandering, her nightstand. Distraction refusing the enjoyment of the moment, the sensation, friction. No images of her, or of pain, but not in the moment, not in the half or hour. Sensing frustration, repositioning, laying with chest on mattress, positioning behind, the second-hand sweeps, the sound of time passing only further distracts. Fear growing, returning, not of propriety but of success. Sweat drips off brow, onto small of back, but once again not there.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she says, “you okay?”

I nod. “I will use the guest.”

In the second lavatory, leaning on the pedestal sink, eyes are focused in the mirror, wonder what is happening. Twice? Really? Behind, in the cabinet filled with guest towels, excess toiletries and tissue paper, eight gold labeled boxes. Eight boxes of Loreal Superior Preference, 6AM. Bought when hair returned, in between treatments. Boxes of hope for the future, a promise for what never was. Hair dye no one wants or will take, slumbering behind glass pane. A soft voice is appears:

“It is okay.”

Searching for the source, there, there, from the cabinet, eyes drawn to model, the bangs, the auburn hair; the face that she would look for to locate her color in the hair care aisle, never remembering the numerical designation.

“You too?” Voice betrays frustration.

“You like her and she is beautiful. You thought you were ready.” Sudden embarrassment, eyes find the floor. She continues.

“You waited an appropriate and respectable number of dates before inviting her to your home. You were trying to take your time.” Eyes drop to floorboards, her tone soft, the slightest hint of a French accent. Of course, Loreal.

“I needed this,” eyes rising to the shelve, begging for approval. “I need to feel alive, to connect. It is so quiet here.” Sitting on the closed lid, eyes find blue glass etched handle, unable to meet her gaze. “Is it wrong? Am I wrong for trying to find someone else, to be with someone else? What is wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with want or need,” she says. “But we are still here. You haven’t let us go.”

Pause of moments, seconds, minutes. Why have I kept the boxes, what reason is there?

“You still wear your wedding rings around your neck. And you never talk about before.”

“I do not think she wants to know. It bothers her when I talk about the past.”

“You care about her feelings, that is reasonable. Is that why you have moved most of the pictures?”

Correct. I have rearranged the house a little, but not just pictures, more items placed into her dressing room, a shrine behind a closed door, seldom opened.

“Are you okay with the changes?”

“Yes,” too quick in response. “Just rearranging. She never asked and I don’t need pictures in frames.” (I still see her in everything.)

“Are you already wondering if she will be the one?”

“No. I mean, I do not know, I am not trying to replace, and while I may have wondered, thought about whether it could even work, it was just a passing thought. I mean I like her, really like her, but I shouldn’t be thinking about that, not after only two months.”

Faucet drips in the silence, unsaid thoughts linger, pushing in.

“What if I am not really ready. What then?”

No answer forthcoming.

“Is this going to work when I still miss her so very much?” I realize the double entendre, not intended, but not wrong.

“Time. You cannot change your heart the way you change the color of your hair.”

In wonder if the words are a variation of advertisement, slogan while washing hands, splashing water on face and turning out the light.