by Heidi Lowe
ELEVEN
Her duplex was a ten-minute walk from The Green Goose, located on a quiet, tree-lined street. Even her neighborhood was perfect.
We spent the journey engaged in a discussion about Mrs Howlett and her antics. Before I knew it we'd reached our destination.
"Excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting company," she said when she switched on the light in the living/dining room. There wasn't much mess – a couple of plates, cups and stacks of papers covering the table. She made an attempt to push the papers into one corner, neaten up a little, but gave up with a tut, and went to the kitchen instead.
"You mean you weren't planning on inviting your friend back here?" I called after her, and instantly regretted it.
When she reappeared with the bottle of wine and two glasses, she gave me a quizzical look. "That's an odd question to ask someone," she said, handing me my glass then pouring the liquid into it.
"Sorry, I don't know why I said that." I didn't, and for the second time that evening I felt like the biggest idiot.
"Were you planning on inviting your...friend back to your place?" She was teasing me now, her smirk evidence of that.
I shook my head so hard it felt like it would fly off. "We were out as friends, nothing more. I don't want to get into anything right now."
She nodded in understanding. "The whole memory thing?"
We sat down on the couch. She pulled a cushion onto her lap, swung her legs up and got comfy. I watched her in awe, awed at how easy she did things, how easy she made life look.
"The whole memory thing," I concurred. "Maybe it's silly, but what if there's someone waiting for me in wherever town, someone who loves me and is desperate for me to come home?" I wanted to believe that there was, that I was someone who people missed. I wanted to mean something to someone.
"I don't think it's silly. You're being cautious. There's nothing silly about that."
I peered down at my glass. "And then sometimes I think, what if the life I left behind was filled with heartache. What if I don't like the woman I was?" This thought had been troubling me almost as much as the idea that my memory might never return. I'd never shared that fear with anyone until now.
"You know what I believe, Abby?" She put her glass down, twisted to look me straight in the eye. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, and drew me in instantly. "I believe our hearts guide our actions. And if your heart is good, it will be good no matter the circumstance. The person you are now won't look much different from the person you used to be."
I found myself hanging on her every word, as though she was the goddess of wisdom from whom I would learn the mysteries of the world.
"I mean, we don't know each other very well, but I think you're a good person. Inherently," she continued. "So you have nothing to worry about."
She knew just the right words to say to make me feel better. That must have been a skill she'd picked up in nursing school. I also couldn't believe she still considered me a good person after what I'd done to her.
I laughed. "You're a fine one to talk. You nurse sick kids back to health, read to them, help silly amnesia patients settle into their new lives... I'm surprised they haven't named a holiday after you yet!"
That was a segue into getting her to talk about her job. I wanted to know more about the saint that was Nurse Tiff.
"Well, I decided I wanted to be a pediatric nurse after the death of my niece. She was born premature, with a congenital heart defect."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's okay. She would have been thirteen. As hard as her death was for the family, it pushed me to do something meaningful with my life, help other children, do for them what I couldn't do for her. I've never looked back."
I'd been under the impression that she couldn't get any more saintlike, but I was wrong. Listening to her talk with passion about her work, about the lives she'd improved or outright saved in her decade-long career, my admiration for her grew.
We managed to finish the bottle of wine, so she went to fetch another.
"Of course, being married to the job doesn't exactly leave time for a real love life," she said. "Not a meaningful one anyway." Her tone changed here, and my curiosity was piqued.
"The tattooed bad girl, that's a start though, right?"
She snorted a laugh. "The tattooed bad girl. Her name's Sarah. Is that what she looked like to you, a bad girl?"
I shrugged. "I guess. Her arms were covered in tattoos, she had about a million piercings in her ears – which must make getting through customs a real pain in the butt – and she smokes."
"So tattoos, multiple piercings, and smoking constitute bad behavior to you?" She couldn't even get the words out without laughing.
"Well they don't exactly scream 'I'm a respectable, responsible woman who can always be relied on'."
"Looks can be deceiving, don't judge a book by its cover...remember any of those sayings?"
"I'm sorry, I should shut up now, it's really none of my business."
When she stopped laughing, she just looked at me, a grin on her petite face. Her features were so symmetrical.
"Relax, I'm sure you're not alone in your thinking. You're also probably right."
"I just wouldn't have thought you'd be into someone like that..."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? And why's that?"
Dammit! Why'd I have to open my big, stupid mouth?
"You just seem so...I don't know...not like her." The words failed me, and now I was rambling.
"And you came to this conclusion after knowing me for only a few weeks?" I was relieved to see that I hadn't offended her; if I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the night, I could still avoid that.
But nope. "Forget I said anything."
"That's no fun. Truth is, I've been choosing women like her all my life, and it's done nothing but cause me heartache."
A slight dizziness swept over me – the effects of the wine. I put my glass down, afraid that if I drank any more I would step over the threshold and into full-blown inebriation. Where I was now was the perfect spot: not drunk, but just tipsy enough to feel the nerves flutter away.
"So bad girls are your type?" I asked. "Tattoos and piercings and smoking, you like that sort of thing?"
"I guess they are." She got up to light the candle that sat above her mantelpiece. I noticed the photos there. Two children, a boy and a girl, no older than eight. Then another of an elderly couple on what looked to be a cruise ship. The last was a picture of Tiffany...in a wedding dress, heavily pregnant, standing beside the groom! I had to do a double take, blink several times just to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. That was her, wasn't it?
I had to ask, because no explanation I came up with myself made sense. "You're married?"
She looked at me with a frown, then followed my gaze. "That's my twin sister and her husband. People always mix us up. I have to remind them that I'm the gay twin."
"Who likes tattooed bad girls," I said.
"Yep. So don't worry, you're not my type. I won't be hitting on you," she said with a laugh.
My mouth dropped open as I gawped at her. I didn't know what to object to first. What came out wasn't planned.
"Why wouldn't I be your type?" I asked, outraged. She would choose a pot-smoking rogue over me?
"Well, for starters, I don't go for straight women. It's sort of this rule I have. It only leads to misery."
I shot up from my seat, ready to challenge her. "So now who's jumping to conclusions? How do you know I'm straight when I barely know who I am myself?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you pulled away from me like I was contagious."
"God, that wasn't what...I don't know why I did that." So she wasn't over it.
"Instinct. It's fine, I don't expect everyone I meet to be comfortable with my sexuality."
"But I am comfortable with it," I protested, louder than I'd intended. "It doesn't bother me at all."
She laughed. "Okay, I beli
eve you." She didn't sound like she did; she only said that to shut me up.
I was now more agitated than I had any right to be, and the fact that she found me amusing only added to that.
"Well for the record, if I were not straight, you'd be my type," I said matter-of-factly.
She waved a dismissive hand, cheeks heating up, and turned to light another candle. Maybe it was the candlelight, the dancing flames, the soft, sweet fragrance being emitted from the melting wax, but the atmosphere changed in that room. Went from contentious to...sensual.
The feeling that stirred inside me came from a place I hadn't tapped into since waking from my coma. I hadn't felt it watching Dennis at work, no matter how muscular he was, or how rugged. But here, with this woman, something awakened deep inside.
With a shaky hand, I pressed it against the small of her back. Her body became rigid, before she spun around to look at me, eyes questioning.
"What are you do–"
My lips were on hers before she could finish.
The soft feel of her mouth against mine didn't last long, before she yanked her mouth away and stared at me in horror.
"What are you doing?"
What was I doing? Why did I have this sudden urge to kiss her...and more? Was it the alcohol in my blood, or something else? A base instinct, perhaps?
I went to kiss her again, but she stuck her hand out, halting me in my tracks.
"Don't do that," she said, ire creasing her brow. "Why would you do that?" She sounded just as confused as I felt.
"I wanted to."
"Did you ever stop to think that maybe I didn't?" She seemed furious now. "No, of course you didn't. You thought that because I'm gay, I would instantly be attracted to you and sleep with you. How very straight of you."
"That's not it at all." Or was it?
"Then what is this?"
I threw up my arms in frustration. "I don't know. I just wanted...to kiss you. I wanted to know how you would feel. I'm sorry."
She stepped away from me, kept her distance, giving me the most suspicious look. I didn't blame her. I'd practically just assaulted her! God, what was I doing?
"It's fine," she mumbled, "just forget it. We'll put it down to the wine."
She went to pick up the bottle, no doubt to get it as far away from me as possible, so there wouldn't be a repeat.
"You know what, I'm not sorry."
She spun around to gawk at me, her blue eyes large and frightened. "Y–you're not?"
"No," I said defiantly, taking a few predatory steps toward her. "I would do it again...and again...and again." I was coming on so strong, and then I understood why. She'd mentioned her weakness for bad girls, women who dispensed with politeness in going after what they wanted. Well I couldn't think of anything that I wanted more than her at that moment, and with the alcohol running through my system, I was transformed into someone with the attitude for the job.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, regarded me with intrigue. "You've had too much to drink. And when I remind you about your conduct tomorrow morning, you're going to die from embarrassment."
She was probably right, about everything, but it didn't change the fact that my body seemed to be calling for her. The most intimate parts of me longed to connect with the most intimate parts of her.
"Can I kiss you again?"
She let out a startled laugh. "Oh, so you're asking me now? I thought I didn't get a say in–"
She didn't. I cut her off with another kiss, this time one that lasted, one she returned.
Then the talking was over. With the alcohol giving me the confidence I needed, eliminating some of my fears, I tugged the secondhand black dress off, separating myself from her mouth for only a few seconds, before hungrily reclaiming it.
I thought I would steer the ship, but she must have sensed my apprehension, the newness of the situation for me, because she took over, shoving me gently to the couch.
I actually gulped as she stood over me removing her red blouse in slow, painstaking fashion, eyes locked on mine. There was no turning back now, no matter how much my knees were shaking with trepidation, or how completely inexperienced I felt. I'd initiated this, and I had to see it through; I wanted to. The yearning and aching between my thighs wouldn't ever let me retreat.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" she said, down to just her underwear, her taut stomach and curves on full display. She had them in all the right places.
I nodded emphatically, hypnotized. I was sure, more sure than I'd ever been.
Satisfied with my response, she straddled me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and we kissed. I put my arms on her waist. We kissed and kissed, and I thought we would never progress beyond that. Part of me, a tiny, anxiety-ridden part, would have been relieved had that been the case.
But when she removed her lips from mine, slipped her tongue out of my mouth, she began planting slow, gentle kisses over my face and neck. My eyes drifted shut, and I moaned with every kiss. It was with my eyes shut, while she was still sucking sensually at my neck, that I felt her hand crawling between my legs and into my panties.
The first contact her fingers made with my sex was like an electric shock sparking my entire body. As her fingers searched blindly in the cavern, which was more moist than it had ever been, my moaning grew deeper, louder. The seemingly incidental, infrequent brushing of my bean was calculated to tease and excite me, but never give enough until she was truly ready.
"Did I do that to you, huh?" she cooed, nibbling on my earlobe. "Did I make you this wet?"
Oh God, dirty talk! Her gentle whisper coupled with filthy words were going to make me expire before we even got going. I hadn't pictured her as someone who would talk dirty during sex. A lady in public, I guess. But it worked. Oh boy did it work!
"Uh-huh," I whined, feeling her add pressure and a rhythm to her movements.
She put everything into strumming my bean that night. And when the volume and frequency of my moans increased, she returned her lips to mine to claim my tongue.
She tortured my sex for several long, agonizingly delicious minutes, making my body jut and shudder beneath her.
"I bet you want to come now, don't you?" she breathed, gripping my face in her free hand.
I couldn't even get a coherent answer out – spoken or otherwise. I was so close, dangerously close. That smug little smirk on her lips when she looked at me suggested she already knew this.
And then she stopped abruptly, removed her hand from my panties.
"Lie down," she said.
I did as she asked, my body still trembling from its close call with the orgasm of the century. Thank God for her huge, spacious couch, which had the length and depth to hold me.
She wrested my panties off and tossed them behind her. I didn't see where they went.
I gulped again as she separated my legs and descended between them, head first. I shut my eyes and gripped onto the armrest.
The things she did to my sex that night with her tongue could only have been described as magical. It was as though she'd spent years down there, familiarizing herself with the landscape, all the secret spots that immobilized me. Had she known me – and my vagina – in my old life? Was that it? Or perhaps it was just that she had one of her own and knew what rhythms and movements worked. Whatever the explanation, she took me to heaven that night, relentless and ruthless in her attack.
I was crying as my orgasm tore through me, hitting not just my nub but my whole body, from the tips of my toes to the tips of my nipples. I dreaded to think what her neighbors thought.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then came up to meet me. "How was it?"
I gave her a tired, contented smile. "Great."
"Did I wear you out?"
I nodded and yawned.
"You're welcome to stay here tonight," she said.
"Thanks." I kissed her.
She snuggled behind me on the couch, tucking her arm under mine and pressing me to
her chest. I clasped onto her arm, and felt myself drifting off to sleep, peaceful, all sexed out, lightheaded and feeling as though I was walking through clouds.
When I woke up a couple of hours later and realized where I was and what I'd done, I freaked out, extracted myself meticulously from her embrace, pulled on my clothes, and hurried out before she woke up.
I never did find my damn panties!
TWELVE
Tuesday, May 20, 1997
I did contemplate not writing an entry today. Or, if I did decide to, whether I would include the details of my folly. Well, after some deliberation, I decided to say screw it! In a few years I'll laugh about this, even if I'm close to devastation right now.
I should preface this by saying that going forward, future me should always take past me's advice when it comes to dating and who to stay away from. And in case I contemplate doing something crazy like this again, this will act as a warning.
Okay, so here goes...
Sarah, the girl I met in the bar, invited me to dinner, which I agreed to, throwing caution to the wind. Getting myself back out there and all that jazz. She got us a table at The Green Goose (I didn't mention to her that this was the restaurant where Diana told me she'd met someone else. Story for another day). So I was already in an odd mood when the date started.
It got progressively worse when she kept cursing at the table, using the most foul language I've ever heard, stringing together words to make super curses. F-bomb here, f-bomb there, f-c-s-f bomb even! We got the meanest looks from some of the other patrons. It was very embarrassing.
Then she proceeded to help herself to my dessert, without asking, I might add. I barely got to taste any of it.
Needless to say the night was a disaster, beyond recovery. That's what I thought...until across the room I saw Abigail. Remember, the tragic beauty who lost her memory and ended up in my hospital? She too happened to be on a horrendous date (with a man).
Well, we managed to ditch our dates when the meal was over. We came back to mine for a drink, one thing led to another and we slept together.
It was, in a word: Resplendent (I looked up that word; it doesn't mean what I thought it meant). I'll go with enchanting. Her body was responsive, trusting, and we clicked in a way I never thought possible with anyone. Our bodies meshed together so naturally, as though we were made for... No, I won't even write something as ridiculous and naive as that. Not about Abigail. I won't torture myself like that.