drain with the Drano, the washing away of my sins, the wasted time, wasted years.
Now the door bell rings, and it’s also six bells on the old antique Seth Thomas, so I know this time is accurate, reminding me of where I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to be doing now, and with whom.
Now I hear a loud knock at the door.
This must be the cinema scene where he comes to the door with only a towel draped around his waist, his biceps flexing and his long straight black hair flowing, past old Hollywood stars like Valentino, Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, and Humphrey Bogart, maybe. Or McQueen, Connery, Delon, Eastwood, Pacino, Hoffman, Cage, Cruise, Arnie S., Redford, Newman, Mastroianni, Belmondo, Douglas (2), Curtis, Hudson, Kinski, DeNiro, Depardieu, Portier, Nicholson . . . And now perhaps Pitt, Clooney, Depp, Bloom, DiCaprio . . .
Water dripping, making a dew-line from the bathroom to the front doorhandle. It turns easily, sliding with wet fervor. I open the door, and there are those large blue eyes, innocent and misty, refreshing yet cautious.
She says hello.
The words shatter the thoughts. I wrestle with the pregnant pause, struck by the little figure standing before me. She says, “Hi, Jess, aren’t you going to ask me in? Oh, you aren’t dressed! I can wait out here while you get dressed. Boy, was it hot today! How are you?” She gives me a bussi/kiss, on the lips:quick, crisp and meaningful, and then proceeds to walk past me, not once looking at my almost-nude body, and sits down in the living room.
“I’ll be just a minute. The time slipped by. I lost track of time. I was going to be ready when you came, but you know me, a little space-cadet.”
“How are you? You look good. Is that a new dress? It’s so nice and cute on you.” I think to myself how beautiful she looks. She is every bit nicer than that woman that I was salivating over. I do know her a little, too, which makes it a bit easier to break the ice. I mean, she knows me somewhat already, my idiosyncrasies and all. I don’t have to bother to introduce myself and then get slapped in the face. All that anticipation and expectation in meeting someone new, getting carried away in fantasies and all.
Let’s see, what was I doing?
I’ll just dry off and put on these socks and underwear. I’ll parade by her on the way to the bedroom. “Hello again, see my new Jockeys? I’m still a size thirty-two. I have to get my Body Glove shirt. Oh, I missed my workout at Gold’s gym today. I was pressing three hundred already. I’ll have to practice for my triathlon that’s coming up.”
“Ha, ha, I’ll bet you couldn’t do thirty push-ups right now!” I knew she was right.
“I’ll bet I can. In fact, here I go: You count.”
Anna is over me in a second as I ready myself on the hardwood floor. I am fit, but I am not really confident that the magic thirty will be reached, though that isn’t so much for a forties-something-year old man, I think to myself.
Suddenly I hear, “One, two, three, push those beef cakes all the way down now, six, ten, come on now, flex those muscles, watch that nose of yours, watch out, the sweat is spraying everywhere, fifteen.”
I begin to huff and puff, but I’m grateful to reach twenty. She says she has a surprise for me if I reach thirty. I am not quite so sure, as I hear, “Twenty-five, twenty-six, let’s go, fatty! OK, soldier, work it on out now, or you got KP duty at 21:00 in the mess hall,” she belts out, like a real sergeant. At twenty-eight, I call it a day, or rather I collapse in all humiliation at the feet of my honey. “That’s a good try, J. I knew you could almost do it. Not bad for an old man. You ought to lay off those Sacher Tortes! No, just kidding. That was pretty good. I don’t know if I could do twenty of the woman push-ups.”
I nod, huffing and puffing, but not blowing the house down, and head for the showers, or was it the bedroom? I just had a shower, didn’t I? And now the sweat from this and the hot shower bring beads to my newly-thinning hairline. I laugh to myself at how much fun that was. I like a challenge, and besides, I do need to work out a bit, not that this little session would make me look like Arnold: Austria’s – and now California’s – answer to Hercules.
Let’s see, where was I? Looking for some nearby Levis and a cool summer sport shirt. Oh there’s the one with the tropical birds and the purple and black background. That feels appropriate right now. What was Anna wearing? Did I notice everything about her? Something was different. The hair, of course. She must have washed it and cut it some. The split ends were getting a little tiresome, probably. OK, here I go. I find myself humming, “Just singing in the rain, getting soaking wet,” as I ease on into the living room, where she is reading my latest Vanity Fair. I give her a peck on the neck and make a loud sound.
This scares her and she looks up, frightened at first and then laughing a nervous laugh. “Oh, don’t you look the Jamaican, mon. I was just reading this horrid expose of the homeless plight in America. It’s so shocking. The pictures are enough, but the real live interviews with some of the women and children – it’s sad. It’s scary, too.”
I just now notice her new amber necklace. It’s quite nice, and goes perfectly with that new yellow dress. I say, “Wow, that’s a nice necklace!” as if on cue to change the subject and proceed to the kitchen to start preparing the meal. “Where is that lettuce? It needs washing. Ann, could you wash this salad while I get the rice and fleish/meat together? We’re going to have some Wienerschnitzel, if I can remember how it goes.
“Of course, dear. But I only came to eat, not to do prep work. I thought I was going to have a nice break from kitchen duty. Just kidding – I’ll be glad to do that, and even to set the table,” she says as she immediately moves in search of the colander.
“You know where the plates and utensils are. I thought we would have a nice candlelight dinner: It’s Shabbat, you know, so I picked up some nice wine at a Heurigen. It’s already chilling. Like, chill out, man,” I say, trying to be cute and funny at the same time. I am often at a loss for words, so I make up for it with some nonsensical talk perhaps better left unsaid.
“You know, I’m a bit thirsty myself right now, so why don’t we uncork one of those babies now? OK with you?”
“Sure,” she says, as she cuddles up to me and puts her arms around me while I cut the garlic and onions. This feels good to me. A little affection and human warmth never hurt anybody. Besides, I’ve been aroused and sexualified today already, and right now as I am feeling two warm jello molds of flesh pressing up against me, I realize I am shifting this anticipatory excitement onto the nearest fox. This is what I have been missing for a week now. Last Saturday at her place, we made beautiful music together. What was she talking about? Oh yeah, the hungry and needy in America. That’s a long way away now, and I think I’ll let that subject ride. I don’t want to get started on that one. Better just enjoy the present, and let those folks panhandle somewhere else.
We sit down to dine. It’s already around half past eight, and we are both famished. We light the Shabbat candles, or Anna does, as it is the woman who lights the candles since it’s the Shekhinah, the feminine energy, that brings in the Shabbat . . .
“Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher kidshanu, b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.” The two candles fill up the dark room with light. “Mahlzeit,” we say “Prost,” “L’ Chayim,” we also say, along with the blessing over the wine, “Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu melech ha-olam borei pri hagafen.”
We clink our glasses, this time for the third,
