There was no foreplay, no kind words, no touching, no music. I just jammed it in.
She was bent over her cutting table, slicing the delicate bits of fabric with her rotary cutter.
“I wish you would let me hold you. I would love to run my hands all over your naked body, again. I miss that,” I said.
“When I go to bed, I just want to sleep,” she said (again).
“Let’s do it, now,” I said.
The silence filled the room like smoke, like a giant cotton ball, sucking the air out of me (again).
She turned back to her joy.
I made Espresso.
The deafening emptiness in the room, so different from the echoing quietness of a library, was muffled, like a funeral parlor, like it must be in the grave.
I sat at the table and turned on Morning Edition.
“Turn it off,” she said. “The noise bothers me.”
I went to my library and blew into the coffee cup. The rich scent, so thick, so comforting, cleared my morning-sinuses. The first sip was too hot. I sat the cup down. I stared at the walls. I picked up a book. I sat it down.
The coffee cup was empty. My head ached. I went into the bedroom, feeling like a cockroach. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. I got dressed. I put on a pair of corduroys and a burgundy-colored shirt. I sat down at the computer and typed this.
She walked by the table, where my laptop sat, open and vulnerable. She didn’t glance at it. I wanted to pull her down and make her do it.
I went to the refrigerator and filled my coffee mug with crushed ice and Spicy V-8. I walked to the cupboard and added some Chili Habanero hot sauce and a splash of Worcestershire sauce to it & stirred it up. Yum.
“I need to dress like a clown,” she said. “I’m going to the Red Hatters’ meeting”.
“Wear what you’ve got on,” I said. Ouch.
We were turning into my parents.
“You don’t like this outfit?” she asked, feigning sadness.
I had told her a dozen times before that her teal-colored lounging outfit made her look like a Christmas Ornament.
“Put on a Ronald McDonald wig and you’re good-to-go,” I said.
She ignored me and went to get ready.
My morning cocktail was gone.
Before I knew it, the front door opened and shut, and she was gone, too.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning.
I got out a whiskey glass, filled it half-full with ice cubes and poured four ounces of Makers 46 into it. I left the bottle on the counter.
I turned on the radio. Dvorak’s Symphony Number 9 (Allegro Con Fuoco) was playing. That always made me feel like a matador.
A Faust Symphony by Franz Liszt came on. I turned up the stereo and poured myself another drink.
There was a knock at the door.
Montana Wildhack was there, waiting for me, with a great big smile.
“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is,” I said to her as I opened the door wide.
She stepped in so gracefully.