53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I swirl my tongue around the edge, under the head. He jerks. I look up and find him watching me with an intensity that shoots electric arcs of desire straight between my thighs.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers hoarsely.

  I keep my eyes on him and keep going. He tugs my hair, signaling his climax, but I keep my lips wrapped around him, pushing my face further between his legs.

  “Unhh!” He pounds his fists back into the wall.

  The immensity of his explosion fills my mouth. I wrap my arms around his clenched buttocks until I’ve milked every last drop. The gagging sensation is overwhelming, but I don’t want to waste a single drop. I want to absorb all of him, every last bit of his essence.

  He leans back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

  I let him slip out of my mouth, holding him with my hand, while I run my face back and forth over him. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want it to end.

  He slides lower, inch by inch, dragging his back down the wall, as if he can’t hold up any longer. He tucks the towel around himself and pulls me into the crook of his arm. We sit like that for a while, our eyes closed, listening to each other breathe.

  “You turn me inside out.” His voice crackles with emotion.

  Then he looks at me and frowns. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Now that I’m with you.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  He leads me into the bedroom and turns the light on.

  What used to be a window seat is now converted to a custom desk, set flush against a view of the lake.

  I’ve always wanted a place by the water.

  On the desk is a leather bound notebook, a laptop, fine sheets of cotton vellum, notepads; pens, pencils, sharpeners, erasers—neatly arranged in mini silver pails.

  I wanted to be a writer, to touch someone with words, to inspire.

  Four colorful photos hang on the wall, arranged in a two by two configuration: an endless stretch of blue sky, melting into the ocean; a bungalow on stilts, perched above a tranquil lagoon; colorful fish nibbling on coral; a fern-bordered waterfall surrounded by red and pink flowers.

  ...a trip to the South Pacific. Falling asleep in an overwater bungalow to the sound of swaying palm trees. Snorkeling unexplored reefs, dipping your feet into waterfalls that cascade over volcanic cliffs.

  “You like it?” he asks.

  This is what it feels like when someone wraps up your hopes and dreams, and presents them to you on a sunny afternoon.

  There is nothing to hide anymore. When love looks at you, when it truly pins you down and stares into your soul, it renders you defenseless. And in that moment, in that state of humbling nakedness, it makes you completely invincible.

  I reach down the front of my blouse and undo the first button. The rest come apart easily. I shrug out of it and unzip my pants, letting them fall around my ankles. My bra drops to the floor, heavy with the fake breast forms. I stand before him in my panties, letting him see me for the first time.

  He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t cover it up either. His fingers trace the jagged incisions. The left one is squiggly, veering up and then taking a downward swoop. The right cut is longer, extending under my arm.

  “God, Shayda.” He drops to his knees and pushes his face into my stomach, as if trying to find comfort in the soft roundness there.

  You have beautiful breasts, Shayda.

  I should be eating this cake off those breasts.

  His arms go around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel his shoulders quake. Quick, short, soundless heaves. Of helplessness. Of being unable to protect someone you love.

  When he’s done, he gets up. The power is back on. I see will and strength and determination in the set of his jaw.

  “Come here.” He pulls me into bed.

  His kisses are long, languid sips of lips and tongue and hope.

  At first.

  Then he takes me hard, without a shred of tenderness.

  I know what he’s doing. He’s punishing my body for turning on me.

  Take that, you evil, insidious sickness.

  You can’t have her, you rogue, renegade, diseased cells.

  He flips me over and claims me from behind, one hand holding my face down to the mattress, the other digging into my hips. He chases the demons away, fast and furious. And in that exorcism, the darkness disappears.

  I cry out as brilliant white light explodes around me, shattering into a billion jagged shards. But he keeps going, like he’s on some mindless, frenzied quest. When he finally reaches his release, he pulls out and comes on my back, panting, heaving, covered in sweat.

  “Shit,” he says between shallow breaths. “I wanted it to be more special.” He rolls over and enfolds me in his arms.

  “It was exactly what I needed,” I reply, nuzzling into his chest. “I’m tired of everyone handling me with kid gloves.”

  “Oh? Why didn’t you say so? I’ve been waiting to introduce the leather paddles and restraints.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “It didn’t look like you were going to stop for anything.”

  “Quiet wench, or ye shall be punished some moreth.”

  “Moreth? I think Shakespeare just rolled over in his grave.”

  “Thankfully, I’m not the one who’ll be writing on yonder desk.”

  I turn to my side and look at the little corner he’s carved out for me in his room. The late afternoon sun filters through floaty curtains, turning it into a golden, ethereal space.

  “I love it,” I say.

  He tucks his arms around me and we watch the clouds cross the sky.

  “They’re white,” I say.

  “The clouds?”

  “Your bed sheets. I used to wonder what color they were.”

  “Are you telling me you used pictured me in bed, Beetroot?”

  “I did.”

  “For future reference, I’d rather you picture me without the sheets. Are we clear?”

  “Clear.”

  We close our eyes, feeling the sun on our skin.

  “So when do you start the chemo?” he asks.

  “Next week,” I reply.

  We lapse back into silence.

  “Troy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are they really ugly?”

  “What?”

  “My scars.”

  He turns me on my back and kisses them gently. “They’re your battle scars, Beetroot, a testament to your strength. But I never imagined anything so harsh. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s going to take me some time to adjust to your noobs.”

  “My noobs?”

  “No boobs. And I don’t just mean physically. I mean in my head, because I fantasize about you all the time. So do I go with boobs or noobs? What’s the proper etiquette?”

  “There’s no place for etiquette in fantasy.” I play with his fingers. “You think I should get implants?”

  “Get them, don’t get them. It won’t change the way I feel about you. You are pure delicious, through and through.”

  I lift the bed sheet over our heads, letting the light filter through the soft cotton, while we hold hands in our private little fort.

  40. New Girl In Town

  October 29th, 2000

  Ambush hugs. That’s what I call them. Hugs that catch you unawares.

  It’s part of Hafez’s therapy, a daily exercise in intimacy. The rules are simple. You start with one minute and work your way up. Face each other, no talking. Your bodies have to touch. No space in between and no ‘there, there’ pats on the back.

  “Bye.” I say at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister.

  He comes out from the bedroom and ambush-hugs me. “Bye.”

  I don’t tense up like I used to. Somewhere between the mandatory hugs, I realized that it’s possible to love two people in two completely different ways. And I can allow myself, I can allow Hafe
z, the simple comfort of closeness, of acceptance, and not feel like I’m cheating on Troy. I wonder what the therapist would make of my twisted mindset.

  The hugging is nice, a daily disconnect from incessant thoughts and guilt and worry, a tribute to our nights up with sick kids, of raking leaves in the backyard and taking out the garbage. It’s the few seconds after that are awkward. The removing of hands, re-zipping of faces. Hafez knows something is wrong. He’s known since the day I left him standing in the driveway. But I’m too exhausted to take it on right now.

  The chemo has taken its toll on me. Brushing my teeth hurts. Long cuts extend through my gums. I rinse out toothpaste and blood. When I look at my face in the mirror, I realize how much of it I’ve taken for granted, how the bits I’ve paid only passing attention to make up such a big part of my identity. Like my eyebrows and my eyelashes. I miss them. Perhaps even more than my hair. My reflection reminds me of an egg—smooth and bland. And blank. When I’m surprised, I look blank. When I frown, I look blank. When they said I’ll lose my hair, I pictured a bald head. I didn’t think about all my hair.

  It started nine days after my first chemo. I woke up with long, curly strands on the pillow. Then they collected in the shower drain. My hairbrush. The towel. In a perverse way, it intrigued me to tug gently on a tuft of hair and watch it come out.

  Zain accompanied me to the hairdresser’s. If I was going to lose my hair, I wanted to do it on my terms. I think it was the first time the hairdresser had to shave a woman’s hair off. She had this pained expression, like I was asking her to break some professional code. She was supposed to make me look pretty, dammit.

  “I want to shave mine off too,” said Zain.

  There was no talking him out of it. And so the poor lady had two bald heads walk out of her salon, noggin to noggin, in shining solidarity.

  The eyebrows and eyelashes came later. After vaseline-smeared chapped lips and kleenex-stuffed bloody noses. Taste went, smell increased. Taste returned, vomiting started. Some days I lay face down on the couch, too tired to turn over. Other times, I put on my Beetroot Butterfly wig, and walked to the park. The wig was mostly for other people. It put everyone at ease. I took it off when no-one was around so I could feel the sun soak into my scalp.

  “Who called?” I ask Hafez, as I put my coat on.

  “Dr. Hardy’s office. They want to see you next week.”

  My physician, my surgeon and my oncologist. They stay on my mind as I drive to Jayne’s. Sometimes I see them as characters in a video game. A trinity of warriors, wielding surgical steel swords, summoned to a bloody tournament to compete against evil tumors and dark, inexplicable shadowy things. Mortal Kombat.

  Two cars are already in the circular driveway when I pull up to Jayne’s place. The house backs onto a lush ravine, with tall trees holding on to the last of their fall foliage.

  “Perfect timing,” says Jayne as she hugs me. “You remember Matt’s mother, Charlotte.”

  “Of course.” I smile at the bird-like woman with the perfectly coiffed hair.

  “Dear.” She takes my hands in a motherly gesture. “Thank you so much for doing this. I’m sorry I have to rush off.” She turns to Jayne. “Take care of my grandkid.” She pats Jayne’s tummy and says goodbye.

  “Come on in.” Jayne pulls me inside after she’s gone. We cross the gleaming marble floor into the formal dining room. “I’d like you to meet Gabriella. She’s the newest member of our committee. Gabriella, this is my dear friend, Shayda.”

  We shake hands across the dining table. Gabriella is stunning, with porcelain skin, silver blond hair and eyes the color of polished pewter.

  “Look at you two,” remarks Jayne. “It’s like having summer and winter at my table. I don’t think two people could look more strikingly different.”

  “I know.” Gabriella considers her arms. “I’m so pale I could pass for a ghost.” But her voice is warm and light, like she’s perfectly comfortable in her skin. “I would give anything for that delicious golden tan.”

  “It’s not a tan. Shayda’s like this all year long,” says Jayne, scrunching up her nose. “I know.” She looks at Gabriella. “It’s disgusting.”

  We laugh and chat over a selection of Jayne’s latest cravings: cheese on rye with thinly sliced zucchini pickles.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t here yesterday. It was cottage cheese with BBQ sauce and ketchup chips.”

  Gabriella laughs. “Remind me to keep tabs on the menu for our New Year’s Ball.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly fine hostess.” Jayne feigns indignation. “All of my events garner rave reviews.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” replies Gabriella. “I’ve been over the figures for the last two events. I’m so excited to be a part of it.”

  “And. AND.” Jayne pauses for effect. “We have an awesome line up of speakers this time, starting with this one.”

  “What? I’m the first one on?” I ask.

  “Think about it this way,” says Jayne. “Once it’s done, you get to sit back and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  I look at her dubiously.

  “Here,” says Gabriella, pulling out the agenda. “Let’s go over the options.”

  She walks me through the sequence of events, the timing, the presentations. Her confidence soothes my jittery nerves.

  “So? What do you think?” she asks.

  I think of the reclaimed dreams Troy dug up and hung for me on his bedroom wall. Perhaps there is more than one way to reach out and inspire people.

  “I’ll do it,” I reply.

  “Fantastic! We have a rehearsal the day before. I would love to see you there. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, here’s my card.” She gets up and collects her kelly green leather satchel. “Jayne, thanks for the pickles.” She gives her a cheeky grin. “It was lovely meeting you, Shayda.”

  I glance at her card: ‘Gabriella Kensington CFA, Financial Analyst.’

  “I like her.” I say when she’s gone.

  “Isn’t she great?” says Jayne. “She’s smart, she’s funny and we’re incredibly lucky to have her. It was Troy’s mother who convinced her to join the charity.”

  “Troy’s mother?”

  “Yes. She’s also on the committee.” Jayne leans forward. “She’s been trying to set them up for months. To be honest, I think that’s part of the reason Gabriella took on the position. The girl has a massive crush on Troy. I mean massive.” Jayne holds her arms out wide. “If you thought I was sweet on him, you should see the look on Gabriella’s face when he’s around. She’s ten years younger, but can you imagine the kids the two of them would make? Ugh. But anyways, tell me how you're doing”

  Her voice fades as realization hits me.

  Gabriella.

  Ella.

  The same Ella that Troy’s mother mentioned when she called him at the cottage.

  41. A Fairy Tale. Kind Of

  November 11th, 2000

  Troy’s loft has become my sanctuary. With Bob insisting I take some time off, I have whole days to myself when Hafez is away. My favorite days are like this, when I’m chasing words on the desk in his bedroom, and I hear the front door open. These chance intersections, unplanned and unscheduled, make me feel like we’re real, like the intangible between us has turned into a common space that we can walk in and out of.

  I listen to the sound of his footsteps, stopping at the kitchen counter, the cushioned thud as he lowers his briefcase and lifts the plastic dome covering the plate. Steak, medium rare, mini roasted potatoes, sauteed vegetables. I know his favorites now. But he doesn’t pull up a stool and dig in. He walks over to the stove and I hear the scrape of metal as he finds the rack of brownies, still warm from the oven. I can almost hear his smile.

  The tearing of a paper towel. Two, maybe three pieces of brownies. He walks down the hallway and into the bedroom, placing them on the night stand. With his back turned to me, he reaches for his cell and punch
es a number.

  “Hey,” I answer on the first ring.

  He swings around.

  Winner of the biggest, sexiest grin ever.

  “Hey,” he says into the phone before turning it off. “I didn’t see your car.”

  “Visitor’s parking. I thought I’d surprise you,” I reply, surprised by my own reaction at the sight of him, the way his jacket hugs his shoulders, his undone collar, his face rough after a long day.

  His phone rings. He glances at the number before picking up.

  “Sam? Yes. Got them. The initial figures look good. I’ll go over them tonight.” He taps long fingers on the night stand. “I need that confirmed. Okay. Call when you have it.”

  “Hong Kong?” I ask when he hangs up.

  “Uh-huh.” He downs a brownie in one bite.

  “When?”

  “Mid-December.” He stretches out on the bed and props himself up on his elbow. “Why so far?”

  “I’m writing.”

  “What about?”

  “A prince.”

  “So it’s a fairy tale?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “No! It’s not ready yet.” I flip the cover down on the laptop.

  “How do you know I haven’t read it already?”

  “Because it’s triple password protected,” I reply smugly.

  “You forget I know a thing or two about security.”

  “You would hack into my computer?”

  “I could.” He throws me a wicked smile. “But you keep distracting me.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and rolls my chair over to him.

  “Still too far.” He lifts me off the seat and onto his lap.

  “Hello, Beetroot Butterfly.” His fingers slide into my hair.

  “Hello, Scary Cherry.”

  We fall back on the bed, kissing softly.

  “Still tired?” he asks.

  “On and off.”

  “No more cooking and baking. You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.

  “It gives me something to do.”

  “I think you know what you really have to do.”

  “And I will, as soon as I’m done with the chemo.”