Healing What Ails Me

You welcome me at the door with that luminescent smile and give me a look of mock pity. It's a look others might use for a child who has gotten herself into an adorable predicament, but it's not condescending. "I figured it was bad when you asked to meet in the morning." You welcome me with a kiss, take my coat as you chatter. "But I didn't know it was that bad."

"Do I look that bad?"

"Did someone run over your puppy?" You start into the kitchen and I follow you.

Waiting until I get my seat at the tiny kitchen table, I say "you're closer than you think."

"I didn't know you had a puppy." You haven't sat down yet, you're pulling out two coffee mugs and getting that weird thermos-pot. "You want something a little stronger in here?"

"If we're going to start that, I don't even need the coffee." With your naughty look-at-you-breaking-the-rules smile you pour the mug full of Ballantine's whiskey. Thinking about it, I don't think I've ever seen you drink it and it's nice to think that you keep it just for me.

You put the mug in front of me. "What happened?"

"I'm an idiot."

I don't know why I do this. I get frustrated and I just want to come to you, get re-centered in my world, and get back on my feet. But I never come right out and say it. I don't say: 'I had a stupid, minor, entirely avoidable car accident and that - combined with being a full time single-dad - has got me feeling like I'm running on empty.' For the life of me, I wish I knew how to say 'I haven't felt this down since Marlene died.'

I just repeat myself. "I'm such a fucking idiot."

"Should I be drinking, too?" You ask.

That makes me smile for a moment. "Only if you want. I'm just. . . Before I had kids. . ." That's a sentence that's going nowhere, so I try again. "I'm just having a week where it feels like every day is harder to get through than the day before."

"Something happen?"

"No, it's something with me."

And then I talk. I tell you about the frustration of being on my own over a year with the kids and suddenly realizing I have no idea where the wound disinfectant is in my own apartment. Or the depression of realizing that I was getting angry at my Marlene for not putting the band-aids back where they belong, and then realizing that she's dead and I'm just being a dick.

And then you're behind me. I don't know when you stood up, but you did. Do you know that it's easier for me to talk when I can't see you? Or do you just think that the back rub is really necessary.

"Am I whining?" I sigh. "I didn't want to whine."

"No," I can hear you smiling behind me. "I like to hear about you. I like getting to know you."

I laugh. "You only say that because you don't know me yet." Even before I'm finished saying it, I know that that kind of American humor isn't going to work, and I have to insist that I'm not down on myself.

"I didn't even tell you the kicker, yet" I say. The accident. Distracted for one moment by my daughter pointing out boats on the river, hitting the car in front of us. Entertaining the kids while apologizing to the driver. Talking to the police, in German, and explaining that I can't find the insurance papers and that, no, I didn't realize the car was still registered in my wife's name. That, yes, I understood I had to get it transferred. "They were friendly," I have to admit, "but spoke to me a little like I was a child."

"They were the police." She said. "That's how they talk to everyone."

"Maybe."

"Do you need more?" You ask and I need a moment to realize what you're talking about. Then I realize that the coffee cup is empty and I say no, though the temptation is strong.

"You want to move to the living room? The bedroom?"

I know what you mean is 'You want to have sex?' And the answer is yes, obviously. I'm here, aren't I?

"Yeah." I know I don't sound as enthused as I should, but that's how I'm feeling about the world in general right now.

You lead me to the living room, help me out of my pants and, leaving them on the floor, set me on the armchair in my underwear and shirt.

I'm doing my best to give you an inquisitive, puzzled look but you're not willing to acknowledge that this is anything but how we always hang out. Sitting at my feet, you pull the sock off my left foot and begin massaging it.

"Tell me about her." You say.

"About whom?" About the daughter who insisted on showing the police officer the picture she'd made with glitter and glue in the school, super happy to have an audience.

"About your wife." Your head is down, you're not looking at me, you're just pushing your thumbs into my foot with an excruciating force. "I don't think you ever even told me her name."

"If I start down that road, I don't think we'll ever get to the good part." I say.

Then you do look at me, flash me that smile. "If we don't get to it," you say, "no charge. Come back tomorrow or whenever and we'll do it right."

"You're something else."

"I'm saying, she must have been something else."

"She was." God, but she was. I talk about the stupid things, about how much I loved being broke with her. Loved the summer when beer and cigarettes on the balcony had been the greatest luxury we could dream of. I talk about the way she used to dance to the music on the radio, about calling her a Muppet and how angry that would make her.

I talk about the fights.

You're change to my right foot and I talk about the fights. We could really fight. Fights about money, fights about Christmas. You laugh, and I insist you don't understand how much Germans can fight about their potato salad on Christmas Eve.

"She was from Saxony?" You say.

"Yeah."

"They do that here."

I laugh. "It's fucking church picnic food."

You laugh. "You don't have to raise your voice at me. I'm on your side. My family eats duck."

"See?" I say. "That's a holiday food."

"I know." You say. You're massaging my calf now. It hurts, but it feels so good, like I've been carrying cramps around all this time and didn't know it. "We eat it on the holiday."

You're moving up my legs faster now, and I'm suddenly afraid. I'm afraid that you're going to get where you're going and I'm not going to be hard. We've had so many amazing meetings. Often, I've been hard when I walked up the stairs.

It doesn't look like today is going to be one of those days.

"It looks like this guy is going to give me a challenge today." You noticed it, too. Then, you look up at me with a devious look on your eyes. "In situations like this, the smart money is on me every time."

Soon, I'm out of my shirt and you're leading me to the bed. You massage my back, knead my ass. "I could do this for a while." You say, and you do. Then you massage the back of my thighs again and turn me over.

I'm still not hard, but I'm enjoying this so much, I'm unwinding so much that I almost - but not quite - forgot that that was the reason for the whole special treatment.

I'm naked by this point, and you kiss my cock right on the head, but keep the massage going. Your fingers are rubbing my stomach, working your way up my stomach, moving towards my chest. In the process, it's becoming necessary for you to sit on my crotch and I can feel the warmth of your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties.

I realize that something is starting to stir down there.

You can feel it, too. Bending down, you give me a kiss and then, your face still just an inch or so from mine, you whisper "I told you where the smart money was."

Then, trailing your fingers down my body, you finally take me in your mouth.