by J. J. Murray
I am happy to be alive again.
18
Patrick could barely breathe. He remembered the scene. How could he ever forget it? How could any man with a pulse ever forget it? Fourteen years later even Google still had a screen shot of her partial breast a few rows down from the top on her first search page.
That is one sexy almost breast, he thought. Should I give her my opinion on it? I shouldn’t. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do, but it’s not the honest thing to do. She wouldn’t have asked unless she wanted to know exactly what I thought.
He made a decision. He would discuss Lauren’s breast and ignore Lauren’s mother. Because if I talk about her breast, it will be extremely creepy to discuss her mother afterward.
Lauren:
You have asked for my opinion on your almost breast, and I am happy to comply.
It is a flawless almost breast. I truly believe it is the most flawless almost breast in cinematic history. I have watched a lot of movies in my life, and I have never seen such a flawless almost breast. Trust me, I have seen almost breasts in hundreds of movies, and none of them could compare to yours. If almost breasts could receive awards, your almost breast would win all of them. I am sure it would make the Almost Breast Hall of Fame. When God made it, He smiled.
It has been my honor to talk about your almost breast. I have tears in my eyes whenever I think about it. I am most certain that the other breast matches the almost breast flawlessly. Thank you for having them. Thank you for sharing that almost breast with the world.
Oh, God, I hope she laughs at that. He wiped his hands on the bedspread. I had better continue with other parts of her body. Otherwise, she’ll think I’m fixated.
You also have sensational eyes. I don’t know if they’re flawless. I only have a 35-inch TV. :~) They look flawless. And the rest of you is equally flawless.
I need to make something flawlessly clear. I am not stalking you. I have long legs, but they aren’t long enough to stalk you from 3,000 miles away.
I will, however, secure a copy of I Got This and watch the almost breast scene in slow motion. I hope it’s on Blu-ray. The picture is so much clearer in Blu-ray. I want to see every square millimeter of your almost breast. I may even freeze your almost breast on my TV.
If I have embarrassed you, that was my intent . . . because you kind of embarrassed me when you asked for my opinion about your breast. Lauren, I think you’re . . .
So, do you want to make more movies like that one? Please?
Patrick
19
He is such a flirt! Lauren thought. I have missed a real man flirting with me.
She wiped her hands on her thighs.
And look at me, getting all hot and bothered. I have to flirt back now. It’s only fair.
Patrick:
You really know how to keep a girl hanging. And yes, I laughed my booty off. Well, not all of it. I’m afraid I’m stuck with most of this booty of mine for the rest of my life.
You think my almost breast is flawless! Thank you, thank you! Where will I put all the awards? I’ve been waiting a long time to do an encore performance with the other breast. She’s jealous. She didn’t make the final cut of that movie.
But please don’t buy or rent I Got This. It doesn’t come in Blu-ray, by the way. I checked (sigh). Your loss . . . : )
And seriously, what’s flawless about the rest of me? I have plenty of flaws, so it will be a short list.
Now, Patrick Alan Esposito, you must finish the following phrase, or I will stalk you until the day you die, and no restraining order will keep me from harming you: “Lauren, I think you’re . . .”
Go ahead. Finish the phrase. Now.
Lauren
PS: Since I have so much time on my hands right now, I might be persuaded to make a special movie, but only for you, provided your answers to the above are acceptable . . . and they embarrass me some more. ; )
20
The time between e-mails had been shrinking to mere minutes, and Patrick’s eyes shrank to little dots.
A special movie . . . for me?
My answers had better be good, then.
Lauren:
I think you’re flawless.
Really.
Here’s my list. I’ll start at the top of your flawless body and work my way down. Forgive me if I get stuck in parts.
Your hair is flawless because it’s yours and it matches your eyebrows perfectly. I like natural hair, and yours seems especially soft.
Your eyes are flawless because they have so much life in them. They also match mine. That doesn’t make MY eyes flawless. I’m just saying that our eyes match.
Your nose is flawless because . . . it is. What do you say about a nose? It’s cute, and as far as I can tell from all your pictures online, you’ve had your nose your entire life.
Your lips are flawless because they’re kissable. If I go into any more detail here, I will offend you. I imagine that they are soft and tasty and smooth.
Your cheeks are flawless because they are so smooth and smiling. You have the rare ability to smile with your cheeks, even when you’re frowning. You would definitely be hard to read. Is she happy or sad or both? Or neither? You are a woman of mystery.
Your neck is flawless because it holds up your flawless head. I know that was lame. I’m sure your neck is as soft as your cheeks.
I should probably stop there. For now. If I haven’t earned a special movie, I will continue.
Patrick
PS: I hope I didn’t offend you.
21
Patrick:
I was just getting interested, and then you kind of said, “Tune in next week. . . .” The suspense is killing me!
Not really. I know you’ll tell me what I need to know. I am learning patience. I also know you will tell me because I will hound you to the ends of the earth if you don’t.
You didn’t offend me. You made my day, my week, my month, and my year. I’m 29+9 now and losing my looks. You made me feel beautiful again. Thank you. I really mean that.
You need to send me a picture of yourself. Or tell me what you look like at least. It’s only fair, right? You aren’t exactly Google-able. (It’s a new word. Deal with it.) Yes, I Googled you, and no, you didn’t show up. Some Boston Bruins hockey player named Phil Esposito appeared first, and that dude looked seriously like Rocky’s brother. Do you look like that?
As much as I appreciate your compliments, however, I do think you need a reality check where my body is concerned. Yes, my hair is my own, but the only reason it matches my eyebrows is something called dye. I buy Dark and Lovely Eboné Brown in bulk.
You’re right about my eyes, of course, and that does mean that your eyes are flawless, too.
My nose is my own. Sometimes I like it, and sometimes I tolerate it. I haven’t been kissed in a long time. Therefore, my lips must not be that kissable, but thanks for the thought. I never looked that way at my cheeks before. Good looking out. Maybe my cheeks have been my claim to fame all this time. I do smile even when I frown. My neck is soft, but it’s starting to grow little wrinkle rings. The rest of me used to be toned all the time, but I’ve kind of let myself go, especially this past week. I hope you understand why. I’m not going soft—I’m getting soft. There is a difference.
Alas, kind sir, you have not earned a special movie yet.
Lauren
PS: Please be kind. And if you can’t be kind, be specific. ; )
22
Continue, be kind, and tell her exactly what she looks like. Piece of cake.
He Googled the latest batch of Lauren’s pictures and compared them to the woman on the screen.
Lauren does not age. How is that possible? She could be twenty.
Lauren:
I will continue, but you must promise not to dispute what I write. I have excellent eyesight, and what I see is flawless. My eyes do not lie.
Your legs are flawless, shapely, smooth, and sexy. Overall, you are flawlessly flawless. I could look at you all day and all night and during sunrises and sunsets, too. I could look at you 24-7, and I wouldn’t curse the clock, because time would stand still.
I am not handsome. At least I don’t think I am. I am ordinary. I don’t have a picture to scan or send to you. I don’t think I look like anyone famous, or I’d tell you. I looked at Phil Esposito. There is a faint resemblance, but only in the scars on his hands.
I’m 6-2 if I stand up straight, and I weigh around 220. I have brown eyes, dark brown, almost black hair, and all my teeth, but I still have a couple dozen less than you do. I have 32. This is the first time I have ever counted my teeth.
I shave about once a week, usually before mass, if the tenants will leave me alone long enough for me to go. I’m in great shape from walking up and down stairs and crawling on roofs. My hands are calloused and dry and cut and scarred, and my nose is what you might expect from an Italian. I used to have some freckles, but not anymore.
How important is that picture? If I had a phone with a camera, I could send you any kind of picture you wanted. Salthead provided me with an old-school phone that only makes phone calls and sends and receives texts. My employer is cheap, and so am I, I guess.
I know there’s a joke about being cheap but not easy. . . . I may actually be both where you’re concerned. . . . ;~)
I hope I have earned at least a sneak preview of that movie. . . .
Patrick
PS: My mama once said I looked like Bruce Springsteen, but she was drunk most of the time.
23
Lauren smiled broadly.
A mother wouldn’t lie about what her son looked like, would she? Lauren thought.
She Googled “Bruce Springsteen at 40” and smiled some more. Bruce Springsteen was kind of hot when he was forty. He’s still kind of hot. So my handyman looks like the Boss, has big, strong hands, goes to church often, works sixteen-hour days, and is kind and humble. He says he’s ordinary, and that makes him extraordinary. He’s a noble orphan.
I feel like an orphan sometimes. I should call Mama. The last time I did, she listened to my voice for five whole seconds before hanging up. One freaking side of one breast! She should have been proud! Instead, she said I shamed my daddy, who died when I was fifteen. He would have been proud of what he helped make.
And it was only an almost breast.
She looked at her torso. He still thinks I have a nice body. He doesn’t see what I see in the mirror. Things have fallen. Parts have slipped. Gravity is working. What was once tight now wobbles. Parts of me look like Jell-O. Hair grows where it shouldn’t, and doesn’t grow where it used to. And yet he’s obviously interested in my body, with those honest eyes of his.
And it excites me so much!
Patrick:
I need a picture of you so I can have a visual of you when I read your letters. You’re looking at me on your TV, right? I need something to look at, too, okay? It’s only fair. I need to see you so my imagination will calm down. So far you’re Bruce Springsteen playing a guitar with Phil Esposito’s scarred hands.
It’s okay if you don’t want to share a picture of yourself. You’re my friend. It doesn’t matter to me what you look like. Your words are beautiful. That makes you beautiful. You’re a beautiful man, and it has been my privilege to get your e-mails.
And you make me feel beautiful. You said I have “the three s’s”! I don’t know if I’m shapely, smooth, and sexy or not, because I’m all alone . . . all day and all night. All this possible shapeliness, smoothness, and sexiness is going to waste. What should we do about that?
I, too, shave about once a week.
Just kidding.
But you haven’t earned that movie yet. Sorry. You didn’t go into enough detail. I asked you to be specific. The word torso is vague. I know you can do better than that. Shape is vague, too, and I know you can do better than nice.
Look at the time! It has to be after 2 AM in Brooklyn. I’m sure you’re tired. I should let you go. I don’t want to, but one of us has to work in the morning, while the other one lounges around in bed all day . . . and all night . . . and all day. . . .
Sweet dreams.
Lauren
PS: You’re 6-2 and 220. I’m 5-5 and 130ish. Don’t ask for the specific number. My scale and I aren’t on speaking terms. Because of our height difference, my forehead would come up to your chin. I’d be staring at your Adam’s apple.
She turned out the lights but kept her laptop open after she sent her message. In moments, Patrick replied.
Lauren:
I am tired, but not of our conversation. You’re easy to talk to. I promise to continue my description of your flawless body soon.
“See” you tomorrow.
Good night, Lauren.
Patrick
PS: Soon is now! Your breasts look firm and soft, your stomach looks caressable—is that a word?—and your booty looks like the finest sculpture, but my dreams would still be sweet and hot if I could only see your eyes.
“Aww,” Lauren said. “That’s so sweet.”
I like him.
She wanted to write him back, but he had already said good night.
“Good night, Patrick,” she whispered.
Caressable isn’t a word, but it should be. He says that I’m kissable and caressable. Someone over at Webster’s needs to get on the job.
And he looks at my booty as if it’s fine art.
She went to the bathroom and posed.
He’s right. My booty is fine art.
Patrick has excellent eyesight.
Oh, except for that spot there.
Mmm. It’s kind of a divot.
I need to get some exercise.
But not now.
I’m on vacation....
24
Before Patrick brushed his teeth in the morning, he checked his e-mail and found an empty in-box.
It was late. She was tired. It’s cool.
He frowned.
Or I offended her with my description of her “torso.” I hope I didn’t. She asked for more specifics, and I gave them. Maybe I gave too many? Maybe I was too specific.
Although he had slept for only three hours, he felt more alive than he had in years because she had called him beautiful.
I have never been called beautiful before. She doesn’t even know what I look like. I might have looked like Springsteen when he was young, but I don’t look like him now. How can she say that I’m beautiful?
Wait a second.
She said my words were beautiful and that I must be beautiful by extension.
Or something like that.
He wrote her a quick message.
Lauren:
Rise and shine! It’s only 5 AM here in chilly (22 and cloudy) Brooklyn, so I imagine you’ll be up in about . . . ten hours.
You have my permission to be completely lazy today, not that you need my permission. Because you do everything well, I know you will do nothing well, as well.
Good morning or afternoon, as the case may be.
Patrick
PS: I hope I didn’t offend you with my description of your torso. If I did, I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment. If I didn’t offend you, well . . . good.
He sent the message, brushed his teeth, ignored his beard, showered, and put on long johns under his coveralls. He smiled. Putting on his coveralls wasn’t as much of a chore and a bore, and tying his boots wasn’t as unfulfilling.
Because someone thinks I’m beautiful.
I mean, because someone thinks my words are beautiful.
He grabbed his
tool bag and headed toward the door. He looked back at his laptop.
I could carry my laptop around with me today. Wi-Fi signals are everywhere these days, and many of my tenants have Wi-Fi, and that way I could check to see . . . He sighed. Whether I offended Lauren or not. Do I want to wait until this evening? Can I wait that long?
He took his laptop. Its case barely fit into his tool bag.
Because of the sudden cold snap, he started immediately for the apartment building on Baltic, hoping to get there before his phone rang.
The pipes in that building can’t handle major drops in temperature, he thought. They might even be frozen solid.
His phone rang.
Like clockwork. “I’m on my way,” he said immediately when he answered.
“I haven’t told you what the problem is or where I am,” the woman said.
That sounds like one of the Dutch women. “Mrs. Gildersleeve, right? You’re in one of the apartments on Baltic, and I’m going to guess that you have standing water in your kitchen sink.”
“I have water in my kitchen sink,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Your pipes are an inch away from the west-facing brick,” Patrick said as he started to jog, the tool bag banging against his hamstrings. “That’s the cold side of the building. This always seems to happen when the temperature drops below twenty overnight.”
“What can I do?” she asked.