My first impression of the place was that it appeared unlived in. Everything was so perfectly placed, so unsullied by life.
Chairs had no apparent depressions from past occupants; coffee table books seemed deliberately angled on pristine tabletops; dried flowers were dashes of contrived colour in contrived places — it was as if the living room had been decorated for optimum affect, and then abandoned. And the other rooms were no different. The spare bedroom had the ersatz feel of a high-end hotel room; the bathroom gleamed as if ready for a photo shoot — even her bedroom was so Vogue-like that when I poked my head in I got not the faintest thrill of titillation. And that's saying something because Susan Cullin is one of the sexiest looking women I had ever seen. She always has been.
In fact, as she showed me around I wasn't so much troubled by the antiseptic environment as fascinated, so I almost didn't catch her words "... and this would be your office."
When I heard the words I was indifferently leaning through a doorway looking absently into a good-sized room that lead to a terrace. It took a moment for her words to register and when they did I almost lost my balance as I looked back to try to read her face. She just smiled, then turned and walked to a chair in the living room and sat down. When I sat on the couch across from her she got up, went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of beer which she handed to me. "This was why I made you wait in the hotel lobby for a half hour. I realized I didn't have any beer in the place and unless you've changed, you probably still believe that a beer-less place is an empty space."
I smiled and dutifully drank, disguising my revulsion at its tepidity, and waited for her to explain herself. But she waited, too. I wasn't sure if it was to allow me time to guzzle the rest of my beer, so I dutifully drank — as much to steady my nerves as to quench my thirst. "You aren't going to explain?" I was looking over the bottle at her.
I knew she had been successful, very successful. When I first met her twenty years before she was working as a secretary for a hotel chain. Today, she was a vice-president of the chain and she looked like one. Her apparel was conservative and beautifully tailored, and what lay beneath the smart blue suit appeared to be the results of some very fine work by a very skilled personal trainer.
"Do you want the long story or the executive summary?"
I looked around for a clock, but there wasn't one. "I'm in no hurry."
She smiled, "Ah, but I am." She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of herself, "I almost called you at 3 this morning when I figured it out."
This wasn't the girl I remembered. That girl was happy, almost constantly joyful, simple and fun to be around. This rendition seemed to have lost a lot of her joy and had gained a lot more complexity. I thought I noticed this two days before when we had a quick drink after meeting by accident in the lobby of one of her hotels. My initial observations were confirmed during our long dinner last night. I didn't know what she had figured out, I didn't know what there was to figure out.
She was looking straight into my eyes. "I'm not sorry I didn't go with you."
I knew this, she had said as much last night. We had dated for maybe a year and a half then I left town for another job. I had asked her to come with me but she felt her job was more important and declined. I fully understood. I wasn't much of a catch then: I had no solid career prospects; no money in the bank; average looks, and a growing dependancy on booze. At the time, I was surprised she had asked for time to think it over. "I know you're not sorry."
"But I never got over you."
This surprised me.
"We were good together." She stood up and went to the kitchen again and when she returned she handed me another bottle of beer and put the glass of wine down on the table beside her.
As she sat back in the chair I thought back to the 25 year old woman I had know and, probably, loved. We were good together. We hadn't really share any interests but I liked being with her, liked the way I felt about myself when I was with her. I was usually a fairly rotten date, inconsiderate and selfish, but with her I had always made an effort and, as a result, I had liked myself. I liked her, too — but what was not to like? She had a face that was more pleasant than pretty, very narrow hips, beautiful legs and enormous tits that were sometimes enormously embarrassing, like when we went to the beach, or once, when at a new years eve party the blue lights in the darkened room stripped her of all her clothes but the huge white bra beneath her sweater. I nodded, "We were."
"I want us to be good together again." She felt for her glass without taking her eyes from me.
I waited for more while I watched her sip from her glass, but there wasn't any. "That's the executive summary?"
"You've said you're researching another book. You said you had pretty much decided to write your book some where other than your home. So why not in this state, why not in this city, why not in this apartment, why not in that room," she pointed to the room behind me, "and why not as my partner?"
With the last words her confidence seemed to dissipate. She looked a little scared, certainly apprehensive; she seemed to shrink a little into the chair as she nervously crossed her legs, and when she reached for her glass, I thought I could detect a slight tremour in her hand. But I gave her full marks for trying to look composed and poised. And I gave her full marks for the set up — because I couldn't think of a single reason why I shouldn't move in with her. I had never really gotten over her, either. Plus, she had a fantastic, if arid, apartment; the room behind me would make a perfect office, and the large municipal library was only a few blocks away. And the timing was right, I really needed a change. So the idea of moving in with her didn't take long to process. But even at that, all I could think to say was, "Twenty years is a long time."
She smiled, "You still drink beer from a bottle."
"But not as much of it."
"No, that shows."
"And the rules are?" I drank to hide my nervousness. It was slowly dawning on me that I really wanted to be with her.
She smiled at this. "Ah, there's always a catch, isn't there. Always." Her smile faded to seriousness. "You have a single responsibility."
I knew her pause was for dramatic affect and it was effective, I had no idea what the responsibility would be. I guess my face showed that I was concentrating too hard on the negatives because she said, with a little exasperation, "Oh, for God's sake it's not as bad as all that. I just want you to put the fun back in my life. I basically haven't had any since you left." She reached for her glass again but she didn't drink from it, instead, she held it up in front of her as if poised for a toast, "I want to love you again and I want to be loved by you ... again." She smiled and brought the glass up a little higher. "What do you say?"
"Are you sure you want this?" I was pretty sure I did.
She put her glass down, got up and held out her hand to help me to my feet. When I tightened my arms around her she seemed to melt into me and I could feel her warmth instantly. I was savouring the moment and I guess she was too because we just held on to each other, not moving, just squeezing as if preventing the other from escaping. Then she broke away, took me by the hand and we walked to her bedroom. As she collapsed on her bed she pulled me with her.
"Do you want to hear something pathetic?" Her face was just inches from mine as we lay on our sides.
"No." And I didn't.
She brushed away some hair that had fallen into her eyes. "Well I'm going to tell you anyway." She kissed me lightly on the nose. "Years ago, my doctor said I should have them reduced. But I didn't. Do you know why?"
I had just figured out that she was referring to her breasts when she answered her own question. "Because I just knew I was going to be with you again and I knew how much you liked them."
