I had been in love with Isabel before, maybe two times, maybe three. Each breakup had been progressively worse for me, maybe for her as well. I knew there were secrets we kept from each other. Maybe that was the reason.
I often wrote stories about her. I kept them in a journal. I never shared them with anyone. I knew no one else would understand. I often read them and thought about what it would have been like.
-
The web page of pictures of women missing legs slowly fills as my hand strolls over my erection, my pants resting on the floor around my only foot. I become concerned that I will cream long before they all display. I imagine that several look like Isabel, though I know it is impossible. It is an ongoing fantasy, that she would have wanted to be like the woman in the pictures, or at least pretended to be that way.
For seven years since our last - and probably final - breakup, I have dated a few women like those in the pictures. One had even lived with me for six months. Sex was great. We just didn't match in any other area. Thoughts of Isabel also clouded my feelings for the woman.
The last picture displays just as the glob of come lands on the desk and keyboard next to some dried remains of prior similar moments. A few more follow. I rip some paper towel from the roll on the desk and swipe at the globs and toss it in the trash.
I close the web page and shove my crutches under my arms. With a deft kick of my lone foot, my pants sail towards the bed before I make my way to the shower. The warm stream cascades tenderly along my body. I picture Isabel standing next to me in a tropical pool under a waterfall as we fondle each other's leg stumps. Such is a recurring vision, one that leaves me comfortable.
The remains of the past climax swirl down the drain like hopes of having Isabel back. My last encounter with any woman now months in the past, the last amputee even farther. I watch the water drain over the short stump of my left leg in drips and rivulets then splash over my remaining foot. The stump waves through the air, shaking water away, then becomes still. I have no regrets for having the leg off. I did it for my own needs.
As I crutch past the desk, I notice the bouncing icon letting me know I have aa new message. I don't recognize the sender, but read the text.
'Dave, I hope you remember me - Isabel. I know our times together have been, charged. I don't know the right word. There were some good moments. I choose to remember only those. Things have changed for me, as I am sure they have for you. A marriage ended and other things have happened. I would love to meet and catch up. No pressure for anything more, mind you. Let me know. XX - Isabel.'
I draft a reply, several times starting fresh, hating the way it sounds each time. Eventually, I proof the third try, what I am about to send.
'Isabel, I could never forget you. I was actually thinking about you in the past few hours. Yeah, I've changed some as well, probably not in the same way as for you. Wouldn't that be strange if it were? I would love to talk, meet, whatever. Call me. I have the same cell number. Dave.'
I click 'send' and my erection reaches for the ceiling, begging for release. I hop to the bed and flop on my back, one hand wraps around my shaft, the other around the soft end of my stump. I picture her missing a leg and us crutching together in some place exotic.
The phone rings just before I explode.
"Hello?" I say, slightly annoyed, looking at the 'Unknown' caller-id.
"Dave? It's Isabel."
All annoyance fades rapidly. Her voice is like music and all she has said are the three words.
"Wow. It is wonderful to hear your voice again."
"Likewise. It's been a long time. A lot of water under the bridge, as they say."
We talk for a few minutes, never explaining what we meant by 'making changes'. I offer to visit. We make plans and she gives me directions.
-
Lake Jefferson is several hundred miles away over mostly two-lane country roads. Fortunately, the scenery is lovely and the weather great. With the top down on the Miata and the wind in my hair, I have a blast racing though curves and over the rolling countryside. I got it because it was one of the few sports cars with automatic transmission. The last fifty miles rim the huge lake past large homes and fancy resorts. I take a quick peek at a buxom woman on skis dancing across the boat wake and imagine how her skimpy bikini would be ripped off if she fell, how much fun it would be to rescue her.
I glance up just in time to see I've drifted over the center line and heading for a large truck. I jerk the wheel and avoid disaster, but not before his loud horn leaves my ears ringing. I pat my chest to calm down and click the CD player on.
Ten minutes later I see the billboard she mentioned, then the milepost beside her drive. I turn and the rocks pound the underside of the car and a cloud of dust hides all behind me. I bounce over a railroad track then continue along the gravel road.
My heart pounds with the excitement of seeing her again. The fear of seeing her also fills me. I consider what to say about why my leg is gone. I have several stories I tell people when asked and I pick one. I want to tell her the truth, but fear that will queer every chance of having this be more than a quick meeting.
Before I dwell much longer on what to say, I see a single large one-level house with the lake just behind it. Parked near a wheelchair ramp leading to the porch is a dark-blue van. I take it all in, puzzled, confused.
I park, shut the door, and drag my crutches from the car. By the time I have them around my forearms and look at the house again, I hear her voice behind me.
"Look at-t you-u," she drawls.
I glance around and Isabel sits in a blood red, sports wheelchair with wire spoke wheels. The short skirt lays flat on the thick black cushion. Her hands rest on the top of each wheel, rocking the chair back and forth.
"Holy shit!" I exclaim, unable to think of anything else to say.
"I hope that is meant in a good way," she teases. "Bend down here and give me a kiss." Her hands reach toward the sky as if to guide my face towards hers.
The kiss is more than just welcoming. Her tongue explores my mouth in familiar ways. My tongue does as well, until an ache in my back reminds me how long I've bent over. I consider picking her up, but realize how quickly we would fall to the ground - a problem with having one leg. Instead, I stand and take in her new appearance.
"What?" I fumble for anything to say and fail.
"Let's go in. I got some Corona, that still 'is' your favorite beer, isn't it? I made up some sandwiches. There's a wonderful breeze off the lake today. Did you bring a swimsuit?"
Her words flow like water from a fire hose and I let them wash over me as I stare at her sitting in the wheelchair.
"At night, it is a little private here. We don't need swimsuits." She snickers and drags a hand over the front of my trousers. "Just checking ... still there." She snickers again.
I follow her up the ramp and through the front door. The home is mostly one large room with hardwood floors. Down a hall are what I assume are bedrooms, though it is not clear how many. A large stone fireplace fills one wall of the great room. Past the kitchen are two sets of French doors out to the deck.
"Great place," I say, still following her as I glance around.
"One of several perks from the broken marriage." She points towards the house. "Beer's in the fridge. Grab two."
She parks the wheelchair by a table on the deck and moves to a padded wrought-iron chair. I put an opened bottle in front of her then drag a chair so I can face her without anything between us.
