Most of my readers know that I choose sexual quality over quantity, but new readers of my tales should realize that it does take a bit to get to the juice of the story. Thanks for reading and please feel free to comment.
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The water was piping hot, near the point of scalding, straddling that finite line between pain and relaxation. I carefully lowered myself inch by lip biting inch, submerging until I was up to my chin. I had it customized before installing it, big enough for three people, had massage jets and a temperature regulator; the closest thing to the Hot Springs of Mt. Zao I had the privilege of visiting while on assignment for National Geographic. All I needed was my personal snow monkey to pick fleas with.
Breathing a sigh of awaited comfort, I squeezed excess water out of the sponge, letting water trickle over my eyes, the soulful crooning of Alicia Keys from the CD player in the corner lulling me into a state of euphoria. It was quiet time. The kids were shuttled off to school, dog walked and fed, left to his own devices and my wife was across the hall in our master bathroom getting ready for another day at the clinic. I use to pray everyday for a life like this, but I should have been careful what I wished for, or least got a warranty.
Meiko, my beautiful wife of 10 years, and I have what many would call a storybook marriage. We live in the burbs, two wonderful kids, fulfilling careers, no financial worries. But somewhere along the way, we lost the thing that brought us together into this blessed union. *** I met her when we were both taking a Human Sexuality course at NYU. I couldn't stop staring at her; damn near failed the course due to my wandering eyes. She was clearly the smartest one in the class; most of us there for the shits and giggles of talking about anything sexual.
She was pre-med and took her studies seriously. I wanted to be the next big Hollywood director so I pursued communications for my undergrad. I kept my distance at first, daring not to cross that social boundary. I wasn't her type, if she even had one. I was a wise-ass bookworm from across 110th street, she a third gen immigrant from Kyoto, Japan. I doubt she's even been north of the Great Lawn. I was sporting knockoff Phat Farm and Sean John to class, trying to represent where I was from but not who I really was. She wore simple skirts and blouses with no brand names. There was something about her simple demeanor that drew me to her. The New York taint that encompassed all of us living in the Big Apple didn't rub off on her.
Thanks to a twenty I slipped the teacher's assistant, we were paired up for our mid-term project. Meiko seemed indifferent, not caring about anything but the work at hand, brushing off any small talk. We would meet every other day at the library to compare notes; I would always sneak in some food since the cafeteria would be closed by the time we were finished. She would politely refuse my treats, even when I made her my famous spicy ramen shrimp. There was no getting through her emotional fortress. I was ready to throw in the towel.
The first time she showed any emotion was after mid-term grades were posted; we received the highest score in the class. She gave a crooked grin as we checked the bulletin board, lips stretched tight around her teeth, not letting them peek through. I decided to give it another shot, sidling up beside her.
"Do you like the zoo?"
It was a stupid line, but the only thing I could think of at the moment. She stared at me for what seemed like the longest time, making me regret ever opening my mouth. A heartbeat later, I watched her walk away, leaving me at amidst the sea of commuting bodies. I took her silence as rejection and plodded through the rest of the day, dragging my pride behind me like a stubborn puppy on a short leash. The next time I bumped into her was in the unlikeliest of places.
Ground Zero.
Three years and a few months passed since that calamitous day in September, but me along with hundreds of others still show up every once in awhile. My fingers interlocked through the rusting fence that cordoned off the area, I stared at the vast space that has long been cleared of the smoldering husks of devastation.
Here is where I talk to my father. He was leading his class on a field trip when the first tower was hit. After getting the class to safety, he went back in to help and never came back out. Even though our conversations are one-sided, I know he is listening. I was just saying goodbye when I noticed someone standing close by. It was Meiko, holding some orchids and a note in her hand. She wasn't looking at me, but at the pit filled with earth movers. She breathed some inaudible words and lay the flowers down on the ground. I turned to go, leaving her to grieve in peace, when she spoke.
"I like the lions," she turned towards me, giving me the tiniest of smiles. Dimples sprouted on her cheeks and she covered her mouth with her hand to hide the crooked bicuspid, which I found attractive. I smiled back and we walked back to campus, talking about everything but school.
We went to the Bronx Zoo that weekend, started to study together on a regular basis, and then saw each other on the regular, much to the chagrin of our peers. The Black women in the class would stage whisper when I walked by, cut their eyes in my presence. Her Japanese counterparts would object more vehemently. I never studied the language, but "Gaijin" became my introduction.
All the dirty looks and sly comments wouldn't stop us as we began dating the rest of the year. Pretty soon the protest died down or we turned it into white noise.
We had more in common than death. Our tastes in music, food, and movies were almost scary. She also loved getting lost; a game I invented for myself when I got tired of the city. It was an adventure to gas up my 94 Explorer, cross the George Washington bridge and keep driving until neither of us could identify landmarks. Maps were for pussies. I taught her to root for the Mets, she taught me how to look at my old city in a new light. We both visited places that I grew up with all along but never bothered to see for myself like Ellis Island and the Museum of Natural History. My parents always tried to drag me along with them, but I would rather play on weekends then study more. My newfound interest started me on the road to photojournalism.
We gave in to each other during the week of finals. What began as celebratory night of sushi and watching blaxplotation films, turned into a weekend of sweaty tussling on a rickety futon. We weren't exactly virgins, but far from porn stars. After a lot of fumbling, muttered apologies, and an actual timeout for a charlie horse, we stopped fucking and started loving each other. It was then that I knew that I would marry this woman, follow her to the ends of the earth, give her beautiful brown babies.
Meeting the parents was a whole adventure onto itself. My mother, also a public school teacher in Harlem, welcomed our relationship with open arms. Her father wasn't so quick to give up his only daughter to someone without a little struggle. Still connected to the eastern ways, he wanted me to prove myself and my love of anime and adept use chopsticks wasn't going to cut it.
I had the bright idea of spending time with him at his Kendo club in Soho. After about a month of bruised ribs, sprained wrists, and a goose egg the size of a baseball protruding from the back of my head, I was given permission to see his daughter. I still flinch when he raises an arm in my direction. After graduation, Meiko moved to Boston where she was accepted in Harvard Medical School and I, true to my word, followed. I used my degree in photojournalism to string for local papers and some national magazines.
With the steady pay rolling in, I found a decent apartment not far from the Commons, and she moved in. Even though we were living in sin, I made an oath to her father that Meiko would become a Dr. before Mrs.. I should have gone into pre-law with all the loopholes I dived through to convince him that we could stay together.
She would get home at night, lab coat stained, hair mussed, to find dinner waiting or at least a scented bath drawn. I would sit with her while she soaked in the tub and listened to her rant about professors, fellow students, or anything else that she had on her mind. Sometimes she would prefer to hear about my day just to keep her mind off tomorrow. I usually left halfway through to let her bathe in privacy. After the water was cold, she would get out and after wrapping up in a towel, would join me on the couch during the eleven o'clock Sportscenter.
