by Peter Cry
“I'm sorry I brought it up,” Rita carefully excused herself, squeezing the hand of her companion.
“It’s okay. Sometimes, when I forget about myself and hear similar stories about other people, I wonder if they really want to remember the past and what drives them in their search. As time goes by, I’m forgetting I’m a victim of retrograde amnesia. A hell of an irony…”
“It seems to me that there is something mystical in your story, there has to be some secret...”
“Do you believe in mysticism?”
“I do when I look into your dark eyes.”
Alfred smiled.
“You are a character or, should I say, a person, who is no less interesting than myself.”
“You have five questions which I will answer frankly and a hundred percent honestly,” Rita flirted with him, as they continued to walk, showing no interest in passers-by.
“I wonder why you are still not married and have no children? You are very beautiful, smart, hold a great position, and yet…?
Rita shrugged.
“I don't know, Alf. Either I'm too smart and attractive, or the men are too stupid, or it seems that way,” she chuckled. “But seriously, I'm bored with them. They are emotionally all like irons.”
“Irons?”
“Yes. Irons have zero emotions, same as men. Everything’s so primitive, standard, the same aspirations, and desires, as if they’ve all been made in the same mold. Of course, like any woman, I like attention, to receive presents, but I'm not looking for a moneybag. I want someone to surprise me with what’s inside them, and many of them are also whiners and ditherers. I’m not talking about the romanticism and excessive femininity of our men. I’m talking about the fact that they have too much self-pity and seek for pity from others. And when an adult, healthy man who’s not stupid asks you for pity, your interest is at first replaced by indifference, and then by disgust,” Rita sighed and, turning her head, looked fondly at her companion. “And I’m sincerely sorry for you, because you’re not asking for it.”
Alfred responded with a look of mild outrage and misunderstanding.
“No,” Rita stopped his negative thoughts. “I'm not talking about that kind of pity. I mean empathy and compassion, understanding of what a man had to go through before finding himself.”
“Well,” Alfred shook his head. “I don’t even know how to react to your words. On the one hand, you’ve offended all modern men, including myself, and on the other, you’re spot on.”
“And what is your question number two?” she moved, wanting to shift gears.
“Tell me, why are you so cold and sometimes even arrogant with people, and your subordinates?”
“I'm afraid of them.”
“Why?”
“Well, you're afraid of them too.”
“That’s not an answer to my question,” Alfred insisted, smiling.
“I'm the director of a department in the head office of the FBI. My department investigates the most resonant abductions and murders. Why do you think I'm afraid of people? A calm, beautiful, friendly mother, whose two children had been abducted, turns out in the end to be their killer. She gave interviews to reporters while their bones were in her refrigerator. Or a guy, handsome, successful, rich, who loves to give clonidine to his girlfriends and then rape them. What’s amazing is that they would not have refused to spend a night with him, but it was the ritual itself that he liked. It seems I started to suspect there are worms in every person.”
“Even in me?”
Rita gave Alfred a reassuring look.
“There’s nothing like that in you. You’re sincere, and anyway, what kind of question is that?” She sounded indignant. “We’re on a date, or are you here to brainstorm me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s rarely an opportunity to interrogate your boss and delve into their soul. Next, they’ll be only questions that are supposed to be asked on a date.”
“I'm ready.”
Rita stopped by a red-painted wooden bench, lit by a tall, graceful streetlamp, which was slightly bent and tilted in the middle.
Alfred sat beside her.
“Why didn't you kick me out after I yelled at you in the office?”
Rita thought for a moment.
“You ask hard questions that are not always easy to answer. You know, they say that women are very precise in their desires. I guess I made some unconscious choice before that incident. Apparently, I also liked you back in Seattle.”
“Was it when you, without turning around, mentally told me to go fuck myself?” Alfred laughed.
“Stop attacking me! I feel constantly guilty with you,” Rita was miffed. “You know, you’re not peaches and cream either. A model of mental strength and equanimity. Why didn’t you resign after the conflict? You thought I was too weak and could be manipulated?”
“No,” Alfred took her arm.
Rita felt two warm, incredibly tender palms that seemed to hug not her wrists, but her entire body.
She breathed deeply, seeing his dark brown eyes about a foot away – eyes that made her completely soft and defenseless.
The August evening wind whispered something in Alfred's ear and swept through the leaves creating a pleasant rustle. The young patrolman from Seattle, not expecting it himself – a loser who wanted to invite the princess to the ball – pulled himself together, overcame his fear, and... slowly approaching Rita's lips, kissed her. She suddenly released her hands, laid them gently on Alfred's cheekbones, and leaning forward a little, prolonged the kiss.
Agent Hope had hit the jackpot. Beautiful, like a summer dawn, elegant as a panther, inaccessible, unapproachable, director Rita Coleman melted from the kiss like wax from a flame. She had turned into a dream that he never had, which had appeared in his life and given meaning to everything.
Alfred once thought that he was an avid asexual man who avoided sex not only because of a lack of interest in it, but also because it disgusted him. That’s how physically distant he was from women and from any physical contact with them.
Everything had remained the same for him. Women were still beyond his interest and touching any of them would surely have caused unbearable discomfort, followed by several days of self-humiliation and depression. But had Rita Coleman been among them? Of course not! And he understood that perfectly well. Rita was a creature of special beauty and nature, somewhere between a fairy, an angel, and a living woman. That’s why, Alfred enjoyed kissing his boss, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, something he’d never experienced before.
Without lowering her arms, Rita removed her lips from Alfred's mouth and, opening her eyes, sweetly exhaled. Seeing how her companion slowly raised his heavy eyelids, she smiled.
“I should ask a judge to issue an order to arrest you.”
“Why?” Alfred asked.
“I’m absolutely sure you’re a spy, because that’s how James Bond kisses.”
“And I know now how poison ivy kisses its enemies, while killing them.”
“You know, I don’t care what you say.” She kissed him again, even more tenderly than the first time.
Two grown up teenagers sat on the bench and kissed almost like Eskimos, talked about stupid things, and laughed a lot, causing passers-by to smile. With the first kiss that Alfred had risked, not only had the oppression of everyday work and routine, terrible stories from the past and personal failures fallen off their shoulders, but also the slavery imposed by life, the constant fear of everything at once. Discovering one another, they were so immersed in all the good vibes that for a moment they became absolutely free.
Without noticing how two hours passed, Alfred suddenly returned from paradise to reality. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost midnight.
“I’m sorry,” he tried to be delicate. “I’m sorry for chatting on for so long. You’re probably usually asleep by now.”
“Not at all,” Rita hurried with the answer, wanting to spend as much time with Alfred as pos
sible. “Firstly, I suffer from insomnia, so I don’t usually sleep at this time, and secondly, tomorrow is Saturday. I rarely have such a good time, so I’m not even thinking about sleep.” Rita stretched awkwardly. “The only thing is that I'm a bit hungry.”
“Then let's go and eat somewhere,” Alfred said, getting up from the bench and holding out his hand to her.
His boss got up with an embarrassed look. She was silent but tense, not daring to say what she wanted.
“What is it?” Alfred smiled, observing the bizarre Rita.
“Please, don’t consider me paranoid, but I don’t trust restaurant food or really like it.”
“So, what shall we do?”
“Just don’t get me wrong,” Rita nervously squeezed her bag behind her back.
“Well?”
“I live not far from here. It’s very close, so I can cook something quick and easy. We can chat, and after a couple of hours you’ll go home. It’s not an invitation for coffee, if you know what I mean.”
Alfred nodded his head and grinned.
“Of course, I understand, Rita, and I appreciate your invitation for such a late dinner. I’m starving too.”
“Perfect,” Rita grabbed the hand of her date and they hurried to his car.
***
Taking the elevator to the seventh floor, the dazzling couple held hands as if they had been in a relationship for more than a month, appreciating not only the physical, but also the emotional side of it. Tapping her heels on burgundy brown marble with white streaks, Rita hurried to the white carved door of her apartment. Opening the door, she took off her shoes with a groan and quickly went into the kitchen. Alfred entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.
“Would you like a sandwich or a salad?” Rita shouted from somewhere.
“Something, after which I will not have problems kissing you,” he shouted in reply.
Inside, the simplified version of Director Coleman’s Washington apartment was cozy and bright. Either because of the late hour, or because of the wallpapers and curtains, the rooms seemed to be shrouded in beige and pink warm light.
Such an apartment was a great place to concentrate on work with documents. It had a lot of upholstered furniture, all kinds of poufs, armchairs, and sofas. In the living room, there were two tall white cupboards full of new books, and on the walls hung a lot of old black-and-white photographs from Rita’s childhood.
“Make yourself at home, I will join you soon!”
These words overtook Alfred already by the bookcase.
“Thank you,” he said softly, scanning the covers of books with his eyes.
One of them caught his attention. Grabbing it, he looked at the title. “SAMAEL” was written in capital letters. Alfred grinned.
“And you prefer bestsellers, as far as I see?” he shouted softly.
“Yes, I do,” came a pleasant voice from the kitchen. “In this way I'm always sure that the book is good. I don’t want to waste my time and brain cells on some nonsense.”
Alfred put the book back in its place. Taking off his jacket, he carefully laid it on the soft sofa and checked if his white shirt was perfectly tucked in his pants. He approached the photographs hanging on the wall. Examining them one by one, he smiled. In none of the black-and-white photographs, no matter how fun the situation was, whether it was Rita’s birthday or her friend’s, or a trip to Disneyland, did she seem happy. She was just frowning and staring at the lens.
Alfred heard Rita enter and set the plates on the table.
“You were such a cutie in your childhood. But why didn't you smile?”
“Because everyone killed the mood, always.”
Alfred turned and looked at the funny Rita.
“Years went by, and you still think that everyone around you kills the mood.”
“It can’t be helped. It’s my life,” she spread her hands helplessly. “Sit down, and I’ll bring napkins.”
The hungry agent sat down on a comfortable soft white ottoman by a wooden coffee table. Rita reappeared, holding a bottle of wine under her arm, a corkscrew, two glasses and napkins. She seemed to be floating a few inches above the floor.
“You could have asked me for help,” Alfred took the wine and glasses.
“I’m a strong independent woman,” Rita said and went to get her music system going.
A couple of short beeps sounded, and a slow Bossa Nova began to play from everywhere in the room. Rita sat next to her guest and took her glass of white wine.
“Thank you for this wonderful evening. I felt very, very, good and had lots of fun.”
“Thank you.”
Their glasses touched and clinked gently.
“And now we eat,” Rita joked, attacking her plate of salad.
The two of them emptied their plates in just a few minutes, after which the noble wine and lounge music took hold.
“You have two questions left, by the way,” Rita reminded Alfred, looking playfully at him.
“You didn’t like my questions, as far as I remember.”
“Yes, but they were interesting, although not very romantic.”
Thinking, Alfred stroked his chin.
“Ok, I’ll ask you a simple question. Have you ever loved someone?”
After sipping some more wine, Rita placed her glass on the table.
“Well, it’s not such a simple question.”
“And still?”
“Yes, I did. And more than once. But I never managed to be with someone to whom I had feelings for.”
“Why?”
“Because I always put my career in first place, I had no time to love someone. I’m thinking more and more now whether I made a mistake not having shared my life with one of them. Today I would probably have children, a house, a loving husband, and not the tears of victims, corpses and criminals.”
“You see, I don’t ask tactful questions.”
“It’s okay,” Rita assured him kindly but in a melancholic tone.
“Hey… Hey!” Alfred jumped to her knees and hugged her. “What’s wrong? Have I offended you? I’m sorry, dear. Do you hear me? I’m sorry, I didn’t want to.”
Pressing her to him, he gently kissed her lips, cheeks, closed eyelids, continuing to soothe and ask for forgiveness.
Suddenly he saw tears flowing from her eyes.
“Oh, why are you...” he became worried. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Rita hugged her guest tighter. “All is fine. For a long time, nobody has kissed me so sensitively, saying so many sweet things. I'm just like a puppy now. I am squealing from joy.”
The wine was taking effect. Rita kissed Alfred's lips, and he responded gladly. She kept up the ardent kisses. She was turning from an innocent angel into a blazing flame, making it clear what exactly she wanted. The third kiss was a French one.
Alfred felt Rita’s breathing becoming deeper and intermittent, and her heartbeat increasing. He decided to follow his instincts.
Rita’s loud breathing was full of pleasure. She clearly was letting herself go. But something was holding Alfred back. He felt more like an observer than a participant in the magical process.
Rita switched to Alfred's neck and began to cover it with her gentle wet kisses. She moved her hips forward to nestle on Alfred's legs. He suddenly winced and leaned back, breaking free from her embrace. Rita did not immediately realize what had happened, but, having regained awareness, understood that something wasn’t right.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked perplexedly.
Alfred seemed no less bewildered than his boss. In addition, he also looked tense and was shaking a bit.
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “It’s probably time for me to leave.”
Rita helplessly threw her hands on the pouf.
“Sure, if you want to.”
Burning with incomprehensible shame, wanting to leave Rita’s house as soon as possible, Alfred put on his jacket and rushed into the corridor. She had to virtu
ally catch him before he jumped out of the door.
“Wait!” she stopped him at the very last moment. “Where are you running, did I do something wrong?” It was clear she was offended, and she was not just worried, she was on the brink.
Standing at the door, Alfred turned around, looking at Rita in despair.
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don't leave,” she went up to him, placing her hands on his chest.
“After I lost my memory,” he confessed awkwardly, “I’ve never had sex.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, in fact, I have never done this before. At all. Never.”
“Wait,” Rita tried to calm him down. “You definitely had sex with someone before losing your memory. You are an attractive young man, it’s obvious that you did.”
“I might, but as an emotional or a physical experience, I’m not aware of it. So, consider there was nothing before.”
“And because of that, you’ve decided to leave now?”
“Not really.”
“Then because of what?” Rita wanted to hear the answer. “You can tell me everything, you can share everything with me. I am your friend.”
Alfred sighed heavily.
“I have incredibly strong feelings for you – tenderness, passion, sympathy and respect. I do want you, and I know that it’s mutual. But, not knowing whom I used to be, I have this constant fear that I will let everybody down. I will disappoint you sooner or later. This thought is unbearable to me.”
Rita's face showed a touch of skepticism.
“So, that is why you have decided to stop at the most interesting moment, to switch off? You decided to disappear so as not to disappoint me, right?”
“Forgive me, it’s all because of my emotions.”
Rita, placing her graceful hands under Alfred's jacket, hugged him.
“Listen, there’s nothing that could push me away from you. Nothing. Even the fact that my man is a virgin seems funny and sweet, and by no means repulsive. Therefore, all you need, when we are alone, is to be yourself and not to worry, not to think about the past,” she tried to convince him. “Think only about how you want me, how you like me and how good you and I feel.”
“I still have one more question?” Alfred changed his voice, looking down at Rita hugging him.