*yawn* Sleepy...will post comments tomorrow. Now I have to go watch Viggo on Letterman
Part Nine
I awake with the unbearable urge to pee. It’s not the usual morning urgency – this feels like someone dropped a bowling ball into my crotch. I blink my eyes open and look down for the source of the discomfort. It’s not a bowling ball – it’s Maria’s head.
I suppose I should have been a gentleman and found a way to maneuver us out of this compromising position before she awoke, but I can’t help the snort of a laugh that escapes my lips and it’s too late for being a gentleman. She lifts her head, blinking incoherently. Then she looks down into my lap and sits up abruptly. Her cheeks turn pink – a shade of pink more closely related to embarrassment than the peaceful blush of slumber. It’s an odd reaction for someone who has had “many boyfriends” and has been intimate with more than one of them.
I, however, haven’t had many girlfriends and have been intimate with only one person. My ears can always be counted on to burn immediately.
“I, uh…” she stammers, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“Sleep well?” I ask, lifting one corner of my mouth into a smirk. I slept well – but now that I’m awake I ache from the position I slept in.
“I, uh…” she repeats, then finally gives up and gives a sleepy giggle. “Yeah. Yeah, I slept well.”
I want to keep picking on her because it’s fun to watch her squirm, but her excessive pressure on my bladder has made getting up and finding the bathroom a priority. See, you apologize to a girl – and you wake up with her face in your lap not eight hours later.
Maria gets ready for work without mention of our position at awaking. I think we both take it for what it was – funny.
After she leaves, I quickly shower and dress. I can’t wait to get outside, to go somewhere I’ve never been before. I grab my wallet and my jacket since autumn mornings are brisk here and head for the street. I walk for a long time, just looking up at the buildings and taking in the busy sights and sounds of rush-hour Chicago.
I pass a coffee shop, turn around and go back to treat myself to a fresh cup and a pastry for breakfast. I sit at a window seat and watch the commuters bustle by – men and women in suits carrying briefcases. I wonder where they’re going, what their lives are like. I take my time finishing my coffee, but when I’m done, I’m on the move again.
I pick up a pad of paper and some pens at a drug store. Then I hop on the transit and go to the art museum. I wander its depths for hours, staring in amazement at the things artists can do with canvas and a brush. These were mortal, human men and women and the things they’ve done are extraordinary. This is being “gifted” in human terms – and it seems so much more wonderful than being gifted in alien terms.
After I’ve exhausted the paintings and sculptures, I find a bench in the garden and take out the pad and one of the pens. I want to see everything, do everything – I’m afraid I’ll forget, so I make a list. It’s laughable, really, but writing everything down makes me unbelievably excited to see the world.
I list the simple things first – books I want to read, movies I want to see, plays I want to attend. Then comes the rest – the places I want to go. I want to see Mount Rushmore. I want to go to Gettysburg and Williamsburg and Pittsburgh (just so I can visit Heinz Field). I want to go to New Orleans during the Mardi Gras and Daytona during spring break. I want to go to Alaska and climb Mount McKinley. I want to go to Paris and Rome and Pompeii. I want to travel to China to see the Great Wall and to Cairo to see the Great Pyramid. I want to go everywhere – I want to do everything.
I feel eyes upon me and I look up to see a couple of amused onlookers watching me with grins on their faces. Looking down, I see that I had started writing rather quickly and that my writing is somewhat fierce. I can only imagine that I looked like a mad composer leaning over his piano while I wrote. I give my audience an embarrassed grin, which they seem to appreciate.
By the time I return to Maria’s apartment, it’s dark, past dinnertime. When I enter, she doesn’t look anxious or worried – she’s sitting on the couch writing on a large pad of paper. I find the coincidence of that amusing. A pair of reading glasses is perched on her nose. I don’t remember her wearing glasses when she lived in Roswell – either her eyesight has changed or vanity used to prevent her from correcting it.
“Hey,” she says looking up. She doesn’t ask me where I’ve been.
“Hey,” I say, excitement from making travel plans still flowing through my veins. “What are you doing?” I point to the pad as I sit on the chair beside the couch.
Maria turns the pad around – she’s sketching something. I raise my eyebrows in question.
“It’s an evening dress,” she says.
Oh! She’s designing clothes.
“It’s a hobby of mine, just a fantasy,” she sighs as she turns the pad back to her chest. “One day someone will walk down the red carpet at the Oscars and tell Joan Rivers that they are wearing a vintage Deluca.” She punctuates the thought with a laugh. Then she points at my much-smaller pad of paper. “What have you been doing?”
I look down at it sheepishly, then hold it up – because it’s show-and-tell time at the Deluca house. “Creating my own fantasy.”
Maria takes the pad from me and flips through the many pages I have scribbled. She raises one eyebrow and hands the pad back to me. “Very ambitious of you, Mr. Evans. So, planning on doing all of that in one day?”
“Hell, no!” I laugh, sitting back in the chair. “Then what would I do tomorrow?”
She giggles and shakes her head. “You’re a funny one, Max.”
We spend the rest of the evening watching television and chatting. When it comes time for bed I get ready to crash on the couch, but Maria takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom instead. We slept there over the weekend, but at the time we were both clinging to one another for support. Now we’re a little more stable and the “excuse” seems to be gone. But, she takes me there nonetheless. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t wondering what her intentions are, but it’s soon apparent that she has no intentions – she just likes having me there.
And I like being there. I forgot how comforting it is to share a bed with someone, how nice it is to curl up next to another person who feels safe and caring.
We fall into a bit of a routine. I feel less like a guest and she treats me less like one. We sleep together, eat breakfast together. Sometimes I’m home for dinner, sometimes not. Same with her. And all the while I feel us becoming closer. When we lived in Roswell, we were always friends but never companions. We were never buddies. But now we’re moving past the friends stage and into the companion stage.
Thursday morning, a week after my arrival in Chicago, I’m finishing my breakfast while Maria puts her plate in the sink. She’s already ready for work – all that’s left is a touch-up of her lipstick and she’s ready to go. As she turns around, she eyes my clothes and wrinkles her nose.
I swallow my last forkful of breakfast and meet her gaze. “What?” I ask.
“Did you bring any other clothes with you?” she asks.
I look down at my shirt. I had packed lightly – only a few changes of clothes. I shake my head. “No, why?”
“Well, you’re coming to hear me sing at Casper’s tomorrow, right?”
I nod.
“So, you might want to get something new.”
Something new? I’ve already been to that bar a week ago and what I wore that night seemed to have been okay. I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Since you have a date and all,” she concludes.
The eyebrows travel higher. “A date?”
She nods. “Yep. Mae-Ling. She’s another buyer at my company. She’s Chinese. She doesn’t mind if you call her Mae – we all do.”
“Mae-Ling?” I echo, still floored that I’ve been set up without consult.
Maria sighs and crosses her arms. Is that a defensive maneuver? “I have a date with Ramon Friday,” she announces. “We set it up long time ago, before you came here. I didn’t want you to feel left out.”
“Oh.” I can’t come up with anything better than that. It’s not that I mind having a date – it’s just unexpected. But what’s more unexpected is that I didn’t mind having a date until I found out that Maria also had one. That’s interesting and confusing all at the same time.
“You’ll like her,” Maria says, her voice a little less certain than when she’d first announced her plans. “She’s pretty. And smart.”
I give a shrug of acceptance. “Okay.”
She smiles, glad I’ve agreed to her plans. Then her eyes drift downward and she bites her lip. “There’s one more thing,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows in the silent question again.
Maria walks over to the table and picks up my left hand. Gently, she tugs my wedding band from my finger; I watch it slide off and try to ignore the naked sensation I now feel. The skin beneath the ring is discolored, lighter than the rest of my finger. I look up into her eyes, which are very serious.
“It’s time, Max,” she says.
With one last meaningful look, she deposits the ring in the teapot on top of the refrigerator where she keeps her spare keys. She grabs her purse and heads for the door, but not before giving me a pat on the shoulder in passing.
I sit for a long moment, staring at the teapot. I could get the ring and put it back on my finger. I have every right to…but maybe Maria is right. Maybe it’s time to move on with my life. Maybe that ring was an anchor holding me down. I’m supposed to have a new attitude now, an attitude that I won’t let anything hold me back.
So I get up from my chair and go shopping for new clothes for my date, leaving my ring and part of my past behind.
Friday night comes and Maria gives me the thumbs-up on the clothes I bought – dress slacks, a nice shirt and a causal jacket. I’m in the living room finishing up getting ready when she emerges from the bathroom wearing that shiny black skirt she brought home at the beginning of the week. She’s also wearing a thin black shirt that clings to her in all the right places.
“What do you think?” she asks, looking down at her body.
“You look great,” I say, smiling.
She grins in return and heads for the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. “You know,” she says as she jerks open the door. “I think tonight is going to be a special night, Max. I think I’m going to have the performance of a life time. I think…what are you staring at?”
Am I staring? Of course I’m staring. I’m a guy and any guy would stare. The brighter lights of the kitchen have turned her pretty black shirt transparent – and she’s wearing nothing underneath.
“What?” she asks again, snorting a laugh.
“The light,” I say stupidly, pointing toward the ceiling.
She glances up. “What about it?”
“Your, um…shirt.”
She glances down, then meets my gaze and shrugs. “What about it?”
Jeez, this is so hard. But I can’t let her get onto a brightly lighted stage at a bar and show the whole world her nipples. “I can see your, um…” There go the ears – bright red.
Maria’s mouth drops open. “You can see through this?”
I nod.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, not even embarrassed. She stomps off down the hall, mumbling something about a bra ruining the line of the shirt.
I blink a couple of times. Why is she so much more unabashed about her nudity than I am?
My musing is cut short as there is a knock at the door. Assuming Maria is busy hunting down the cursed undergarment, I answer the door and find Ramon on the other side. I give him a smile but receive none in return. He brushes past me, his eyes locked on mine. Tough guy, this one – if only he knew I could flatten him with one blast.
“Maria,” I call. “Ramon is here.”
“Oh – send him back,” she says, her voice vague from the other end of the apartment.
Ramon gives me one last glare and heads down the hallway. Within seconds, I hear hushed, strained voices coming from the bedroom. I can’t tell what they are saying as they’ve both slipped into speaking Spanish, but I know they are arguing and that they’re arguing about me. I sincerely hope that my being here doesn’t become a problem in Maria’s love life…
“Are you Max?”
I jump, startled, and look back to the door – I’d left it wide open in the wake of Ramon’s entering. In the doorway is a breathtakingly beautiful Asian girl. She’s not what I expected – she’s tall, almost my height, and her English is flawless. She may be of Chinese descent, but she is all American.
“I am,” I say, smiling and extending my hand. “You must be Mae-Ling?”
She returns my smile and takes my hand. Her skin is soft and warm. “Call me Mae.”
“Okay, Mae. Come in.” I step out of her way and shut the door behind her. “Maria and Ramon will be out in a minute.”
She continues to smile. Ah, awkwardness. But she’s hardly bashful – her eyes are glued on mine and she appears to be trying to stare straight through me. She might not be awkward, but I sure am.
“Maria was right,” she finally says. “You do have interesting eyes.”
“Thank you,” I laugh and feel my ears start to burn. I wonder what else Maria told her…
We exchange a couple of nonsensical comments, then Maria emerges from the bedroom, Ramon closely behind. Their expressions are impatient and irritated, respectively. When Maria’s gaze falls on Mae though, she breaks into a grin and rushes to embrace her friend.
“I love your outfit!” Mae says, checking out Maria’s new clothes.
Maria pulls at her shirt, frowning. “I couldn’t go braless with this,” she pouts. “Max said he could see my nipples.”
“Pity,” Mae says matter-of-factly.
Ramon is staring daggers at me. This is going to be a fun night.
“Let’s go,” Maria says without consulting her date. She grabs her coat and the four of us head out to the street.
As we walk, Mae slips her hand through my arm comfortably. I look down at it, her perfectly polished nails against my jacket, and realize that I don’t hate it. I don’t mind this stranger, this beautiful woman touching me. Maybe this night won’t be so bad.
But then I look at Maria and Ramon walking ahead of us and think that her body language is not what it usually is. She’s taking quick, long steps, like she’d rather be away from him. Her arms are wrapped around her body, as if to ward off the cold. But it’s not that cold tonight and I know she’s upset about something. I wish I could have understood what they were saying in the bedroom.
Then I tell myself that it is none of my business – Maria might not want me to know what they were discussing.
As I turn a smile to my date, something rather amusing dawns on me: Together, the four of us represent three continents and two planets - we look like the Warhol version of “It’s a Small World”.
tbc
)
Thanks very much!
Not saying it will make you cry - just maybe I need some Midol or something 