by Cj Paul
Alex Armstrong – who is this man?
Persephone and Jasper come to my aid in cleaning up the spills, Jasper on the counter, Persephone on the floor. The birds cheer us on from the sidelines and Daphne is nowhere to be found, waddling her way in and arriving long after I’ve moved on to other pursuits.
It’s a humid day, something I’m not accustomed to and frankly, don’t enjoy. I feel a strange twinge of agitation and am not sure why, nor do I know what to do about it.
Back at the computer, I wonder is Alex single? Going straight to his page, I immediately check his basic profile info. No mention of a relationship there. What am I thinking? Of course he’s single or he wouldn’t have gone out with Strawberry-Rhubarb-Pie-Girl Kelly.
On second thought, if he were a Bret, he definitely would have gone out with Kelly. He just wouldn’t talk about it in a public forum! I actually wonder how Bret is doing and sincerely hope things are well with him, and that his home is becoming a happy one. On my show, I hear so much about cheating and broken vows, and have such a tough time coming to terms with it all. I get the part about feeling trapped, wanting out, wanting more. But what I don’t get is his dishonesty about it all. How does lying do anyone involved any good?
And come to think of it, what is this whole ‘I want more’ business? More than what? Perhaps more than the isolation so many of us feel, whether we’re flying solo, in a dysfunctional romance or even in a long-term, happy matrimony. What do humans really want? And why do they think they don’t already possess it?
And who the hell is Veronica Dodge?
Chapter TwelveGoing back several months on Alex’s timeline, I see a barrage of Veronicaness: mushy ‘thinking of you’ posts from her, poems by him, and lots and lots of comments left by her, all stating how brilliant and sexy
Back to Alex’s page. A hint of a triumphant smile begins to tickle the corners of my mouth as I note that Veronica’s interactions came to an abrupt halt just over two months ago. Good! She lives too far away from him anyway. They both have kids and it really could never have worked. I am happy for both of them that they were able to move on. ‘Yeh, keep telling yourself that, Claire,’ my yellow chakra butts in, back from Ft. Lauderdale and rested, with a suntan and what appears to be a tattoo of a Phoenix.
Besides, what’s it to me? I’m not looking for a relationship – certainly not with someone across the country. And frankly, I am not only enjoying time with my mom, but also, lately with Nimo! His younger brother was just recently diagnosed with cancer and Nimo has been spending a lot of time with him, successfully nursing him through surgery and chemo and radiation and doing all the amazing things big brothers should. Nimo’s family lives just fifteen minutes from me, and Nimo is there every moment he’s not working – or every moment he’s not with me.
The situation with his brother has really shown me a different side of him. He’s attentive, sweet, and looks for the good in people and circumstances a thousand times more than he used to. He actually listens to what I have to say, and has quit talking about our wedding and making sexual advances. He did slip up the other day, tearfully telling me how glad he is that his brother will be around to see us get married. I didn’t have the heart to remind him that I regard him as a friend, not a love interest. It didn’t seem the moment for it. But other than that, we’ve been getting on famously.
If I ever feel the need for some good old-fashioned swooning, I simply watch a movie starring one of my heart-throbs: either the man of the moment, or one who’s stood the test of time in my hubba hubba Rogue’s Gallery. Plus, there is always Facebook, specifically, Alex’s page, which has become a new favorite haunt. It’s sort of a one-stop shopping kind of place for me, where I can be tickled with humor, inspired to loving action, or downright turned on. His most recent post is about going for a walk by the river. He does that fairly frequently – usually in the dead of night. It intrigues me. And so does he.
* * *
This morning’s broadcast has been an easy one. In great part, because of a lovely group of participants whom one would think were shills, given their enthusiasm and show savvy. I wind down to the final segment, the “You Could Be the One” part. Today’s chosen caller is a gal named Trish who is so excited to be on the show that in her frenzied fan gushing, she somehow manages to disconnect herself, never to return. I then open up the lines to whoever calls first, and I am floored to find it is Kelly – Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie Kelly herself.
“I don’t know what to do about that guy who made me dinner,” she laments.
I am tempted to reply, Oh you mean Alex Armstrong?
“I’m sorry to hear that, Kelly. What seems to be the trouble?”
“I feel like we have nothing to talk about. Like he’s so worldly and educated and smart. He knows about so many things and I...well I’m not anything,” she complains.
“You mustn’t be so down on yourself, dear. I’m sure you have plenty to offer.”
“Yeh, that’s what he says. I mean, I know he thinks I’m hot and that I have a good body and am really sexy. I can tell by the way he looks.”
“Well, it’s lovely to have a man look at you that way.” I am beginning to steam.
“Yeh, that too. But I meant I can tell by the way he looks...ya know...in his pants? The bulge I mean...”
“OK! Good to know!” I bark, shuddering at being given TMI for my liking – Too Much Information in cool online denizen speak. “So if he’s clearly attracted to you, then what seems to be the problem?” I ask, straining to maintain some semblance of professional decorum and helpfulness.
“I don’t know. If I knew I wouldn’t be calling in to a talk show,” she says.
I bristle, though I am not exactly sure why.
"I guess I just don’t know if it could really work out. I mean, he is the man of my dreams. He’s wicked smart, sweet, sensitive, funny, patient, wicked hot...”
“Yes he is!” I blurt unconsciously.
“What?”
“Ehrm, nothing. Please continue, Kelly.”
“He’s everything I could ever want. I just don’t know if I’m what he really wants. I don’t know what kind of woman he wants exactly, but I know she would be like Wonder Woman or something.”
“A man like Al...like you’ve described needs a woman who is intelligent, independent, confident, mature, sexually adventurous, spiritual, funny, loving...did I mention intelligent? That is the kind of woman he would most want, the kind that would make him happy. Do you feel you’re that woman, Kelly?”
* * *
There are two times in recent memory that I have been underhanded or played dirty – the first, literally – with Mom in the muddy hand on her white pants episode. The second was my handling of Kelly when she last called in. By the time I’d done with her, she went from tears over not feeling she was good enough for Alex, to beaming with joy that she could someday find a man on her level. She actually thanked me for helping her feel better about herself than she ever had, and for giving her hope of attracting the perfect man for her. The Kelly problem: quashed! My powers as a master manipulator: off the charts!
I’m not so proud of myself.
A spot of tea, some almond biscotti and a nap while reading a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt set me to rights. By nightfall, I have forgiven myself for my lapse of character, and dress to go out to dinner with Nimo. We’re trying a new Cuban place in Mill Valley, and I’m quite pleased with him for consenting to go. In the past, he would only eat at places he knew and had been to many times. He never wanted to try anything new and would always upbraid me when I would dare to order something daring on the menu. It always turned into a nasty tiff. Now, he is more open, adventurous and increasingly enjoyable to be around.<
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After a festive meal of slow-cooked pork and arroz congri, we decide to do our painfully full stomachs a favor by taking a brief walk. Nimo reaches to hold my hand and, being too stuffed to get into a scuffle, I let him. It’s actually rather nice. I am very fond of him and he really is a basically good man. We can’t all have 007 types like Armstrong, Alexander Armstrong, whisk us off our feet. I wonder what he saw in Kelly, other than her obvious attributes of both T and A.
Back at home, Nimo opens my car door for me. Yes, I can more quickly do it myself, but I graciously let him do me the courtesy. It feels good to be a little spoiled, even if it’s just with the opening of a door. When we go to hug goodnight, it is a longer embrace than usual, primarily because I haven’t put a stop to it as quickly as I typically do. Tonight, he is the one to interrupt the hug, and he does so in order to kiss me. It is a long, passionate and altogether lovely kiss, much to my happy surprise.
When I thank him for the wonderful evening, and bid him goodnight, he asks, as always, if he can come in. And as always, I say, “Not tonight, Nimo.” But this time I think twice before answering. I really am a very lucky girl. A good, decent man wants to marry me. What more could a girl really ask?
Chapter ThirteenI awake the next morning after a delightful dream of hot-air ballooning in Napa Valley. I rarely recall my dreams, but when I do, they are nearly always about David and me – David and me hiking in the Muir Woods, David and me cuddling in a Venetian gondola, David and me skinny-dipping under a waterfall. David David David. This morning’s nocturnal escape has me smiling as I stretch and depart Elysium’s honey ether. The dream was over in a flash and was lovely, not so much because of what happened in it, but because of how it made me feel – content and free. At first it was just me in the hot air balloon, soaring silently as the sun rose over the lush vineyards and quaint towns. A moment later it was sunset – still in the balloon – this time with a group of about half a dozen people who were extremely attractive in that liquor commercial kind of way: all physically perfect, seductive, laughing and well-heeled, including David.
As I shuffle into the warm summer kitchen, sans Bugs slippers, I trip on one of Persephone’s thousand toys, and end up sharply stubbing my toe. Now I am wide awake. I consider the day’s agenda as I make coffee: pick up Mom, take her to church, thereby racking up good daughter points, go to Boudin’s, come back home, do some gardening together. Easy enough.
I grind some Peet’s Kona coffee beans, drop half a bagel in the toaster, and hunt for some shmear in the fridge. While the coffeemaker groans into life, I check Facebook. What’s been going on while I was ballooning around greater Napa? Alex’s timeline loads automatically without my even seeking it out. Seems it’s become my default viewing page. Wow! I didn’t realize I visited it that often. Though his time zone is three hours ahead of mine, his bohemian lifestyle as a writer involves his going to bed much later than I do. I try to hit the hay between 11pm and 1am. He tends to call it a night around 7am. I always wonder what he does all night, and who he does it with. I picture the night as belonging to him, as being his mistress, his plaything, or maybe his muse.
My blood begins to pulse at the thought. It takes so little for me to feel sparked and enlivened when it comes to him. And more than once, his written words, his expressions of all that is beautiful, and his commanding online presence have had their way with me, giving me waves of touchless pleasure far more powerful than the lovely ones I’ve been enjoying these past few months. No wonder I hang on his every post. He’s an aphrodisiac to which I am becoming addicted.
As the page refreshes, I grab my iPhone and see I’d missed a text from the night before. It’s from Nimo.
Aww, that is so sweet. I text back telling him how much I appreciate his thoughtfulness. Given that it takes him forever to put a text together, I take a screencap of it to commemorate his triumph. I smile to think of all the time he spent working on it...and that he’d make a perfect match...for Kelly!
I return to my computer and notice on Alex’s wall that he too has written a ‘good night’ message.
The toaster pops and I amble into the kitchen, Alex’s words following me.
Sleep, I'm yours. Have your way with me.
I do my best to cobble my little breakfast together, but find myself in something of a wrestling match with the bagel and toaster.
Or put your throat in my hand, and I'll wrestle you into rough submission.
I toss a lump of sugar into my mug then douse it with milk.
But come.
Deep, raw, gripping orgasms take hold of me, and I convulse involuntarily until I notice that scalding coffee is pouring from the pot and onto my leg again. It is then that I recognize the effortless power this man wields over me – and all without his even knowing it.
FUCK!
* * *
There is some sort of special ‘thing’ going on at Mom’s church this morning and she wants me to take her to it, stay for it, and be sure to clip some roses and jasmine to bring, while I’m at it. The sermon is on finding a mate, and the pastor’s message is sincere and uplifting. He talks of the importance of giving oneself to another.
I'm yours.
How good relationships are unselfish.
Have your way with me.
And the kind of lasting, positive effect a loving mate can have on one.
Come.
I convulse anew, this time in a church pew, and for what seems like minutes. My mother scowls at me and I do my best not to smile or, worse yet, moan my ecstasy.
After the final hymn and benediction, the pastor thanks me by name for donating flowers and fresh veggies for the snack table the last few months. Evidently, my mother has conveniently forgotten the Thou Shalt Not Steal commandment. It’s my turn to scowl at her. Mom just shrugs.
In the car, headed for home, we chitchat. It comes up in conversation that I went out with Nimo the night before.
“You’ve been seeing quite a bit of that boy, haven’t you, CeCe?”
“He’s hardly a boy, Mom. He’s a grown man.”
“Yes...I know,” she says, sounding a little like William Shatner when he has something of import to convey.
“What does that mean, ‘Yessss, I knoowwwwwwww’?”
“It means that, like you, he isn’t getting any younger and that it is about time he settled down. Look, you’re obviously very fond of him and I know he is of you. What would it hurt to...”
Just then a booming clap of thunder rattles the sky. An unseasonal storm has gathered out of nowhere and we find ourselves in a downpour. Mom hates to drive in conditions like this, especially in the city. So, we head for my house to while away the afternoon. Fortunately, we’d already eaten at the church reception, and ate very healthily – there were tons of veggies. Ahem.
Back at home, the menagerie is in disarray. Big storms scare the dickens out of the little parakeets. And neither Persephone nor Jasper handles them very well, either. Only my happy, little turtle Daphne remains undaunted by meteorological events.
As usual, Mom asks for coffee and tea upon arrival. I make a concerted effort to pay close attention during the coffee-making procedure, my poor burned shins cowering under my skirt.
I sate my mom with coffee, tea, and two glasses of water, the first of which I have to re-garnish, since I had the audacity to serve it with a lemon slice instead of a wedge. Cursing her under my breath, I make some wisecrack about her having a hollow leg. Fortunately, she pays no attention to me, and merely responds by inquiring how she is to be expected to drink so many beverages without something to eat along with them. And where oh where did I get my manners? Surely not from her. Same old Mom.
The storm’s downpour makes me drowsy. I love the rain, and drift in and out of sleep while struggling to read my Eleanor Roosevelt biography. Meanwhile, Mom is working on a jigsaw puzzle depicting the flower fields of Carlsbad. I reserve a table at home for Mom’s jigsaws. Now that we’ve become ‘girlfriends’ and she visit
s more often, I needed to find some sort of activity that would keep her from snooping into my drawers and possessions. Turns out, the jigsaw ploy was a coup and she’s not only hooked, but feels she’s nearly ready to try a three-dimensional one! I already have a 3D Eiffel Tower puzzle hidden in the closet, waiting for her, come Christmas.
I’ve just fallen asleep and am succumbing to a dream unlike any I’ve ever experienced before. A faceless man has his hand around my throat and is kissing me, greedily. His hands are groping beneath my skirt and his breathing is heavy. He has just tossed me over onto my stomach when I am awakened by a scream from my mother.
“It’s 3 o’clock! It’s 3 o’clock! Dear Lord, don’t just sit there like your turtle, Claire. It’s 3 o’clooooooooooccccccckkkkkkkkkk!”
The upshot of all the caterwauling is that my mom has planted several virtual crops on Farmville, and if she doesn’t harvest them now they will wilt, and Betsy Duncan from her bridge group will have more fake money than her and will be able to buy the carousel Mom’s been eyeing and saving for, before Mom does. In other words, the sky is falling.
Spewing venom at me for my sloth, Mom demands I get on my laptop and log into her account. Apparently, I don’t fully realize the gravity of the situation.
I use a different browser for her account so that I can stay logged into it all the time, for emergencies such as these. While the Mom-dedicated browser conducts its opening ceremonies, my own account refreshes and I see there is a new status update from Alex:
I sit speechless and momentarily stunned until I am roused by Mom bellowing, “Claire! CLAIRE!” at incredible decibels as she shuffles her way over to me at lightning speed.
We make quick work of the harvesting and replanting, and Mom asks me to move some of her crops and gardens for aesthetic purposes. Since she can’t make heads or tails of my laptop’s trackpad, I get to do all the work while she gets to do all the ordering.