are nice, they sure can get drafty. Guess people didn’t mind the cold as much back then. I shed my clothes and let them fall in a heap on the floor. I chuckle softly. James hated this habit of mine. Although I would always scoop them up and put them in the hamper when I was done, it drove him mad that I could stand to let my shed clothing lay in a crumpled heap while I bathed. He was just the opposite. As each article of clothing came off, it was folded and stacked in a neat pile. Never understood this extra step. I mean, the clothes are dirty and going in the hamper. What difference does it make if they’re folded or not?
I leave my clothes on the floor and, turning off the water, slip into the inviting tub. The moment I do, the warm soothing water washes away the day, and I close my eyes, lost in the luxury of my bath. What is it about a hot soak? How does it instantly relax, heal and cleanse?
I lay my head against the high back of the tub. Perfect height. Not like those modern tubs whose lip bites into the back of your neck. This tub hugs and supports my shoulders and neck and allows me to relax to the point that I almost drift off to sleep.
I soak until the water is cool and the chilled air seeps in. I turn on the faucet to add more hot water, only to discover that I’ve used it all. Damn! Gotta get a bigger water heater. Reluctantly, I pull myself from the tub and reach for my bath towel. I pat myself dry then wrap my hair.
By this time, the steam has begun to dissipate, and I can start to make out my likeness in the mirror. I don’t turn away. As the mirror unfogs, my image takes form. I see how my auburn hair shines in the light. It used to be longer, but I cut it to just below my shoulders. I admire the curvature of my hips and cinched-in waist and smile at my full breasts. A woman’s body. I lean in to survey the slight mask of freckles splashed across my nose and cheeks. Guess they’re always gonna be there. Funny. I thought…I don’t know…that I’d outgrow them? Can you outgrow freckles? Guess not, at least not in my case.
I hear the muffled ringing of the phone in the other room. Throwing on my robe, I venture to the bedroom and pick it up. “Hello?”
A familiar, “Hey there, Sally girl,” greets me.
“Angel!” I flop on the bed and tell her about meeting Carlos. She asks an endless barrage of questions, and I tell her what a fool I’d made of myself with my muteness. I remove the towel and absentmindedly run my fingers through my hair, combing out the tangles. My hair’s more than halfway dry by the time I hang up, and I can’t stop thinking about Carlos.
I throw on a pair of sensible flannel pajamas, not the lacy lingerie I used to favor, and climb into bed. I reach for my spiral-bound journal. Never got out of the habit of journaling in a simple notebook. Guess it reminds me of the original one James handed me, as my doctor, when I was an inpatient at the drug treatment facility. God! It’s only been four years? Seems like a lifetime ago. So much has happened, and yet….
I open my journal and begin writing.
I’m so torn. There’s James’ memory. All that we shared. His presence is everywhere in this house. And I like that. Comforts me. But…. Then there’s Carlos. Why’s he having this effect on me? Not like I was looking to find someone. Haven’t felt this way about another man since…. Don’t know what to do. What would James have wanted? Never had a chance to talk about it. Thought we’d grow old together. Have plenty of time to work those things out. Life didn’t play out that way. Has it been long enough? What’s the right amount of time? Would I know? Yeah. Guess I do. Think that’s why Carlos is having this effect on me. Maybe it’s time for me to move on. Allow another part of the healing process to occur. Doesn’t mean I have to forget James or what we shared. Think that’s what James would’ve wanted—me to go on living. Not be alone. Find happiness. Is that with Carlos? Who knows. Perhaps I’ll take baby steps. Have a dream or two about Carlos. If that works out, then….
I sigh. Cap my pen. Close my journal. Turn out the lights. Looking at the clock, I realize it’s still early. Perhaps there’s time for a dream or two about Carlos….
New Beginnings
I awake the next morning, glowing. Thoughts of Carlos still linger. Mmmm, such delicious fantasies. I roll over and view the clock. Still time. I roll back and resume my Carlos fantasy.
I wasn’t clumsy or awkward with words. Oh, no. I seduced him with my sultry voice, luring him into my world. Wrapped my leg around his upper thigh and pulled him close. Clawed my nails up and down his back, much to his delight. Stood on my tiptoes, nuzzled my lips against his neck to nibble and kiss just below his jaw line. Tasted the saltiness of his neck. I felt his body respond and trembled with the urgency of my own needs. And our passion had continued. Lost in each other, we forgot time, space and our own identities. The only thing that mattered was merging as one…. And in my fantasy, we had.
With the greatest effort, I extract myself from my Carlos fantasy. I pull myself out of bed, let Princess out and then take a bath. I smile as I wash myself, imagining that the hands that bathe me are not my own, but those of Carlos caressing each and every curve of my body…. I finish washing, towel dry and throw on a pair of jeans, boots and a sleeveless blouse.
I get the Sunday paper from the front walkway, then pour myself a cup of coffee and fetch a yogurt from the fridge. Settling in at the kitchen table, I skip the sections announcing world events and turn to the ad section. There I find it—my call-out. It reads:
Ladies, tired of not being able to face what’s reflected back at you in the mirror? Interested in taking control of your life and changing it for the better? If so, I’ve got the solution—pole-dancing classes. During my six-week course, you’ll shed some unwanted pounds, become comfortable with and accept yourself and have a brighter outlook on life. If this appeals to you, please contact Sally Whitmore at 555-4344.
Smiling, I lean back and take a sip of my coffee. I hear the front door open and with it, Angel’s voice. “Hey, girl. Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.” I look up and admire my friend as she enters the room. I swear she hasn’t aged a day since we met. Petite, five-foot nothing, 100 pounds tops, the only change is her new shoulder-length bob of jet-black hair that shines and swishes from side to side.
It finally happened. We grew up. Out of nowhere. One day we were being our crazy selves, flying by the seat of our pants, the next we assumed normal respectable lives.
Seeing Angel, a thousand memories of shared experiences flood my mind. Hanging with our group of druggie friends in high school. Having sex with all the boys in that group. Running away from home and beginning a life of prostitution that led to my getting pregnant. Angel by my side as I delivered that child on one of the same grungy beds where I’d laid hundreds of johns. Fleeing our pimp to become strippers. Angel helping me through overcoming my addiction to crack. Her shoring me up when my second son, born premature, lost his battle to live. Holding me together when my husband died in a car accident.
I smile as Angel passes by me and heads straight for the coffeepot. Grabbing a mug from the holder on the counter, she pours herself a cup—black—and holds the pot out. “More?”
“Sure.”
She freshens my cup, then returns the carafe to the warmer. Angel leans
