After our return from Boise Rich and I concluded that although we had gone to the Rev's couples therapy with the intention of broadening our sex life we weren't quite ready to go as far as we had gone on that evening, at least not on a regular basis. We had peeked into Pandora's Box, as we referred to the wide universe of sexual activities that were not part of our regular world, and concluded that it was interesting, a little bit scary, and, at least as we had engaged in it that night, not something we were quite ready to engage in on a regular basis. We weren't ruling those things out, but for the time being we wanted to take a more modest approach to change in our lives. I said I wanted to take up golf and Rich said he wanted to learn to cook and spend time with me in the garden. Then we asked each other how we could include sex in those new activities. Golf seemed the most problematic.
As it turned out, the consulting services Rich was required to provide when the buyer of his company took over (which occurred shortly after we returned from Boise) were minimal so he soon had a lot of time on his hands. He found a cooking school, not to become a chef, but just to learn basic skills like how to chop vegetables without cutting your fingers off. As he took over some of my gardening chores, and helped out in the kitchen, I signed up for regular golf lessons. We also both began a training program at our local gym. I won't say the weight melted off, but we both made progress.
Now none of that involved sex but with the children gone and Rich no longer traveling there was time for other changes, the most important one being an increase in the frequency of our sex life. Instead of a once-a-month quickie, the habit we had grown into with teenage children around the house and Rich's extensive travel schedule, we were now having sex several times a week. It wasn't simply a quick missionary fuck under the blankets in our bedroom. We had adopted a habit of regular nudity around the house and the sex might be in any room in the house in any of a variety of positions. Rich's oral skills improved dramatically.
Life had become very comfortable—regular exercise for both of us, shared cooking, gardening, and golf and a good deal of nudity and regular sex. It was almost like being newlyweds again, except we had money. Then change intervened again, not necessarily to our detriment, but not as expected. I received a call from an old friend, Clarissa. Clarissa and I had worked together as rookie teachers shortly after Rich and I were married, and we had kept loosely in touch over the years, usually a coffee or two each year. Clarissa was single now, her husband having died a few years ago. I knew that she had quit teaching, but I really wasn't sure how she was spending her time these days.
"Can you meet me for coffee tomorrow morning?"
"Sure. Where?"
"Umm. How about at our store."
"You have a store? I didn't know about that. Where is it, and what is it?
"It's a bookstore. It's at 4321 S. Stockton. I don't 'spose you know where that is. It's in a little strip mall on the south end of town. My late husband and I bought it years ago and after he passed I just kept running it. It doesn't make much money. Enough to cover the rent and that's about it. But I kept it open because . . . because Sam loved it and because I was an English major in college and I love books. But right now I need some help and since you are a 'used to be English teacher' and you mentioned when we last got together that you have more time since your kids are grown and your husband retired and . . . well I thought I would at least ask. But if you don't want . . ."
I interrupted. "Wait. Let's talk tomorrow. How about 10:00 o'clock. Does your bookstore sell coffee or shall I bring my own?"
"We have coffee. You can't sell books without a coffee bar."
So Clarissa owns a bookstore, I thought as I hung up? I didn't think anyone owned a bookstore anymore. I thought Amazon killed them all. That of course is largely true, but there are a few left owned by die hard book fanatics who cater to other die-hard book fanatics who just can't believe anything could read as well in electronic format as it would in a beautifully bound hard copy or, for some, a well-worn paperback complete with a stained cover and dog-eared pages. Go figure.
I found the bookstore in a tired looking strip mall with a couple of vacant stores on either side. When I opened the door there was a little bell that announced my entrance and that classic smell of aging groundwood papers, binding glues, and inks all melded into one unique smell that only exists where there is a lot of printed material stored. There didn't seem to be anyone around except for a friendly tabby cat that appeared from between two rows of shelves and began to wind himself around my legs as he purred loudly.
"Hello Kitty. You're nice. Where's the boss?"
Moments later Clarissa appeared from between the same pair of bookshelves as had Kitty.
"Joan. Joan. I'm so glad you're here. Come let me make you a coffee and we can talk." Minutes later I was sitting in a comfy but somewhat frayed old armchair with a tasty latte on the table next to me and Clarissa sitting in a similar worn chair opposite me.
"So Clarissa. You said you needed help. What's up."
"Oh yes. I'm sorry to ask but I just can't get around this problem without help. Now you were an English major were you not? So you know about books. Right?"
"Yes, absolutely. And I still like to read. I always have a book or two going on my e-reader."
"Well as you can see we still do real books and there are just enough people around who prefer printed copies that the place at least covers the rent. Of course we also make coffee. You can't sell books without coffee. And, like any good bookstore, we have a cat. You've met Kitty I see. But we don't do e-books."
