Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 03

I was about to tell her that I loved her too, when she gave me a peck on my cheek, and before I could say 'boo', she had left and gone into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I was left standing there, flabbergasted. I hadn't been given the slip like that since college.

After a minute, I shook my head, and started my nightly routine. I checked all of the doors to make sure they were locked, turned out the lights, and walked back to the master bedroom. At least with the Margaritas, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep. I still lay there for awhile awake, thinking.

I just couldn't understand how or why I let myself get excited expecting something more from the woman. It was like that 'Peanuts' cartoon, where Lucy holds the football for Charlie Brown, always promising that this time, she'll hold it until he kicks it. But every time, she waits until he is fully committed to the kick, and then she pulls the football out of the way and he lands on his back.

The problem with what was happening between Martha and I was that every time I became disappointed and angry at the lack of physical relations, I found myself emotionally pulling away from her. Perhaps I'm just a stubborn man, but I was sticking to my vow that I had promised myself at Christmas, that I would not humiliate myself again by begging Martha for intimacy, sexual or otherwise. I was done with that; she was content with the way things were, and just became irritated by my bringing the subject up. Then she would say things that hurt me to stop the conversation.

To some extent, whether Martha understood it or not — and she didn't as far as I could see — was that I could find other women to provide me with my needs; but the consequence was that after becoming accustomed to relying on other women, I was starting to think of Martha in terms of someone with whom I shared a house, but not much else.

Isn't it amazing that women are supposed to be so much more sensitive than men to emotions and the 'unspoken' signs and signals in a relationship. Either Martha was much more insensitive than I would have ever imagined, or she had pulled her antenna in, just assuming that our marriage could run on autopilot.

The next day, Saturday, we were invited to go up and visit my younger son, Josh, and his wife and their two kids. After the night before, if I could have avoided going with Martha, I would have, but I had promised Josh I would be there to give him a hand with a few tasks.

They lived a further away from us than our older son; they were about a two-and-a-half hour drive away. That meant we had to get up early and get on the road, if we wanted to spend the day with them. It was also helpful, because in Los Angeles, even on the weekends, the traffic could get really heavy on the main highways. So Martha and I left by 7:00 AM, and arrived before 10:00.

It was always a treat to see the grandchildren; not as if our trip to Josh's was without a purpose.

While the women took the grandchildren out to a local park. Josh and I got to work. Josh was fairly handy himself, but there are things, such as stringing wires from the attic through the walls to switch outlets, that it helps to have two people, one on either end. Josh was wiring his entire house with Cat 5 wire to distribute TV, phone, and computer signal. He could have gone wireless network, but like me, he didn't like the potential security issues inherent with wireless systems, so we strung a couple hundred feet of hard-wire instead.

In the mid-afternoon, the women and children returned, and while they started cooking dinner, I snuck into the guest room and took a quick nap — something I've always liked to do on the weekends.

Dinner with the family, especially with young children, was chaotic, but fun. Remember the old 'mother's curse'? 'I hope you have kids who are just like you were!' — In Josh's case, it happened. Poor guy, he's exhausted by the time that dinner is over. Better him than me, these days.

We could have stayed overnight, Josh and Nancy had invited us, but instead Martha insisted that we drive back home. She claimed that she had a limited tolerance with the grandkids before she got too tired, but I figured differently. If we stayed at Josh's, we would have to stay together in the same room, sharing the same bed. That was what I thought her motivation was.

It was a long quiet ride home, since I didn't have much to say to Martha, so she fell asleep, leaving me to do the drive, trying to stay alert, in the dark. It was one of those times when it really hit home with me, that I was alone, even when I was with my wife.

Chapter 6.

By week four of the semester, everything was routine. The same classes, the same students, the same exams and papers. Not to complain, because in many respects, routine is comfortable.

Outside of my home life, I was doing well, and fairly happy.

I was still getting a kick out of the dance class, and felt like I was making progress. Next time I was invited to a party or event where there was dancing going on, I felt confident that I would be far more comfortable dancing that I had ever been before in my life. It was a point that Bob had made: even with just a little training and practice to get some basic skills, you can be better than 95% of the folks out there. In that sense, if all one wanted to get out of the class was the pleasure that comes of adequacy, it comes pretty fast.

But dancing, I suspected, was like say, bowling or shooting. You can do well enough to go out and have fun with your friends with just a couple of hours of training — but to compete with the experts takes a life-time of dedication. Dancing took more effort to get the basic skills, and I could hardly imagine how much practice that professionals like Bob and his wife put in! And I had to respect them for it.

This year, Valentine's Day fell on a Friday, the end of the week.

Thursday night, after class was over, Stephanie was talking to me.

"Mark, I won't be able to come and practice tomorrow," she told me.

"Oh? Why?" I asked, somewhat disappointed, since I rather looked forward to our afternoon practices.

"Nothing important. I bought a new trash-compactor and a matching dishwasher for the kitchen in my condo, and I have to be there when they deliver them, which is supposed to be sometime in the morning," she explained.

"Ah," I observed, demonstrating my wicked fast repartee.

Stephanie looked a little irritated when she spoke,

"Do you what they want to charge me for 'installation'? Almost $300 for the two of them!" Stephanie told me, almost looking like she was going to stomp her foot, she was so upset.

"Tell you what, Steph," I interrupted, "there is NOTHING to installing those. Why don't you give me a call when they get delivered, and I can bring some tools over and put them in for you?"

"Oh Mark! That's very generous of you, but I couldn't..." she started.

"Steph, it won't take me more than an hour, maybe two! I've installed all of those in our kitchen at home, and even for some of our other friends. There isn't much 'real' installation, mostly putting in plugs and hooking up a couple hoses," I explained to her.

Stephanie's face lit up.

"That would be wonderful, Mark. OK, if you don't mind, I'll call you tomorrow" and she left for home.

The following day was Valentine's Day, and for the first time in our marriage, there were some things not happening.

I was not getting my wife flowers. I was not getting my wife chocolates. I was not even getting her a card, and I wasn't taking her out to dinner. It left a lot more of my day open when I didn't worry about catering to my wife, trying to find ways to please her. I did stop at a flower shop briefly that day, but that was for someone else.

As expected, Stephanie called me at 10:30 to let me know that her new appliances had been delivered.

I looked at the clock, and made a suggestion.

"Steph, tell you what. It's close to lunch time, so why don't we meet at L'Canard for lunch first, and then I'll follow you back to your place and do the installation?" I proposed.

"Fine by me, Mark. I love L'Canard. But we better get there early if we want to be seated — it's Valentine's Day you know, so every beau will be taking his girl out for lunch!" she agreed, with a light and happy voice.

"All right," was my sly reply, "let's meet there at 11:30, if that's not too soon for you?"

My sly reply, you ask? I had taken the trouble to make reservations, because even I knew that without them on Valentine's Day, we wouldn't stand a chance of getting into one of the most popular restaurants in the area.

When Stephanie walked in, looking simply ravishing, in a sleeveless floral-print dress, wide at the bottom, that showed her shapely legs off to her advantage, and with a collar that came up on her neck, emphasizing the extra button (or two) that was open revealing her cleavage. I wasn't complaining.

I was waiting when she made her grand entrance, and as she walked over to me, I handed her a long-stem yellow rose, which I was told, according to the language of flowers, was for 'friendship.'

"Stephanie, I am so glad you could join me this lovely Valentine's Day," I remarked. And it was true — it was one of those days where even in February, in Southern California it can be in the low 70's F. during the days.

"Mark, thank you so much for inviting me. And you are more sneaky than I thought," she chuckled, "When I tried to call and be sure that we could get in, they told me that it was too late, that they were already filled up. So, just on a hunch, I asked if they had a reservation for 'McDonald', and sure enough, there was a reservation for a party of two."

I just smiled back as the waiter seated us, Stephanie clinging to the yellow rose.

For Valentine's Day, the lunch was a fixed price deal only, but that wasn't a problem, the food was exquisite. The lunch started with a lobster bisque, followed by the entree, a filet mignon on a bed of mashed potatoes and wilted spinach, with mixed vegetables, served al dente, and finished with a choice of either a Crème Brule (with lavender) or a Napoleon. A glass of red French wine, selected by the chef, was served with the lunch, and coffee or ice tea served after dessert. We agreed afterwards that we had made an excellent choice for our mid-day repast.

Stephanie and I spoke mostly about school, dance class, and innocuous events. Just pleasant conversation between a couple of friends. But there was an undertone to our chatter. After all, it was Valentine's Day, and I was out at a fancy restaurant with a female friend, not my wife.

We drove back to Stephanie's condominium, with me following Steph in my car. She only lived about 5 minutes from L'Canard.

The door opened, and Stephanie pulled into the garage. I parked in her driveway, and got my tools and a set of coveralls that I used for when I was doing repairs, out of the car, and then followed her through the garage and into her house.

The exterior was that standard French Mediterranean, that is often and incorrectly described as 'Spanish', of red tile roofs, with stucco applied in neutral (and homeowner association approved) colors. It couldn't have been more than four or five years old. Steph had told me that the landscaping was all taken care of by the homeowners association, as well.

We entered by way of the kitchen, so I just put my tools down there.

"Steph, I'll need to change into my coveralls. Where would be convenient?" I inquired.

"Let me give you the tour of the place first, and then we can change," she replied.

I'd been over to Steph and John's old house many times, usually with Martha, unless I was coming over to help John with some project. Otherwise, it was for drinks, or parties, or for dinner. Martha and Stephanie were both good cooks, and I enjoyed the food and the time that we would spend with John and Stephanie. But now, of course, John was gone.

The condo was a split level, with an entryway, living room, kitchen, dining room, and a powder room on the lower level, and two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. This was not an inexpensive development; it was a gated community limited to people over 50 years old, and surprising to me, although they called 'condominiums' there was a small separation between the homes, so they shared no common walls, but were each stand alone buildings. It was still technically a condo, but sure didn't seem like it to me.

"One of the fortunate things," Steph explained to me, "is that John did leave me in excellent financial shape. He had a surprising amount of life insurance — I guess that they got some special group rate at the hospital — and he had his own 401K, and other retirement savings. And his partners were able to sell his partnership, so I got repaid for what John had put in. When I sold our old house, after he died, it was at the top of the market, so I did very well there as well."

She continued,

"And it was just luck on my part that I rented a small place for six months while I was looking for a much smaller place to live, and that was when the real estate market went to hell. The result was, when I finally found this place, I was able to get a real bargain!" she told me, obviously very please with herself.

"It's a very nice area," I mentioned, "and it has a double garage. Great for keeping tools."

I realized I made a mistake, because I could see a cloud pass across Stephanie's face. Clearly I had reminded her of John.

"I'm sorry, I just meant.." I stammered out, as my embarrassment made me sound even worse.

"No, Mark, it's OK," she replied, and then smiled and touched my arm, letting me know that she wasn't overwhelmed.

"Here, you can change in the powder room down here, while I'll put on my official 'helper' clothes upstairs," she instructed. Then she turned and walked up the staircase, and out of my sight.

I had my coveralls on, and was opening the boxes containing the new appliances, when Steph came back down the stairs. She had changed into jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized sweatshirt. I wasn't entirely sure, but it looked to me like she had ditched the bra.

"OK," she smiled and said, "What can I do to help?"

That said, we got to work.

As I had promised, it wasn't too hard to do.

I removed the old appliance finish trim, and the used my power screwdriver to make short work of the screws holding the old appliances in place. In the case of the trash compactor, it just pulled out and unplugged. The new unit plugged back in, and I slid it into place, put new screws in to hold it in place, and popped the new finish trim into place. The most difficult thing was moving the old unit out to the sidewalk, where it would be picked up and disposed of later in the day.

The dishwasher was similar, I removed the finish trim, and pulled the old unit out far enough to unplug it from the electrical, and then I turned off the water supply valves, and began removing the water lines. Murphy's Law intervened, and one of the old valves wouldn't close completely, so it started leaking a little.

It wasn't too difficult, even then. I just turned off the water supply to the house, removed the water line, took off the valve, and Steph and I ran down to the local plumbing supply story, and bought a new one. Reinstalled the new valve, turned the water to the house back on (no leak! Yea!), and finished removing the PVC lines that connected the dishwasher to the drain and the air relief.

With the valve replaced, the new dishwasher was equally easy to install, and again the hardest part, even with two of us, was getting it squeezed through the doorways without causing damage, and out to the curb, where the store, where Stephanie had purchased the new units, would pick up the old appliances.

Voila! By 3:00 in the afternoon, the appliances were installed, and the kitchen was cleaned up.

We were just standing there admiring the look, recovering from our effort when Steph poured us each a glass of wine.

"It's a great place you have here, Stephanie. I'm very impressed. I'm also impressed at how attractively you've decorated it. You're doing well," I declared.

"Yes, I'm happy here for the most part, Mark. But to be honest, I still miss John a lot. I miss having him in bed beside me. I miss making love with him," she laughed.

"In fact, I miss sex A LOT!" she told me, smiling again, as if it were humorous.

But I knew from my own personal experience that it wasn't something that was funny to a person who felt those desires.

"You're not the only one — I know exactly what you mean," I mumbled not so quietly.

I turned to go to the powder room,

"I'd better change and get out of your hair," I started to say, but I found my way blocked.

"Mark, I have to thank you, and not just for helping me today," she said, and I found my head being pulled down to where she could reach me, standing on her tip-toes.

Then she kissed me on the lips, her arm around my neck. She moved back just a short distance and looked up at me.

And then she kissed me again, this time, her lips were looser, and were gently moving in a way that I found sensuous beyond my recollection. I'd forgotten how much I longed for kisses, moist, slow, and delicate.

By the third kiss, we were embraced in passion, our tongues deeply probing each other, offering the promise of pleasures to come. My hands moved under her sweatshirt, where I discovered that I had been correct, she didn't have a bra on. She not only didn't seem to object when my hands found her breasts, but her nipples became erect almost immediately, as I caressed and rolled them in my fingers.

When we were done with that third kiss, Stephanie took my hand,

"Mark, if it's OK with you, I think we should adjourn this up to my bedroom," were the words she whispered quietly in my ear.

In her bedroom, the first thing I did was kiss her again — I'd had a shortage of kisses lately, among other things, so I was desperate for them.

Then I pulled up her sweatshirt, and she raised her arms to accommodate its removal while I pulled it over her head. When it popped off, releasing her hair, I threw it off to one side, and for the first time saw Stephanie in her naked glory from her jeans up.

Her skin was a redhead's skin, pale and milky, smooth and soft. Her breasts were, as I'd thought, on the smaller size, but as I leaned my head over and took her nipple into my mouth, I could feel them responding and swelling. I caressed them with my tongue, and sucked them into my mouth. Almost letting them escape, I held them with my lips and squeezed them ever so carefully.

Stephanie began to moan, and her back and neck arched backwards against the tension of my arm behind her.

After a minute of my ministrations, she straightened up again, finding my mouth, so recently on her breast, and we kissed deeply once more. I had the stray thought, that this could be habit forming.

She gave me a lustful look, and stood back, where she slipped off her jeans.

"I didn't have any panties on either," she said, looking at my face and seeing my longing.

She was like a dream come true, her slim waist widening to her hips, her perfectly shaped legs, tapering to delicate ankles and feet. Between her legs was a small trimmed patch of hair that confessed that she was indeed a true redhead.

She stood there in front of me, letting my eyes feast on her.

"Now, I'm at a disadvantage," she said, playfully as she reached for my coveralls, and in the dusky light, she unzipped them in a single motion. I shrugged my shoulders, and they fell to the floor, where I kicked them off to the side.

My naked nymph was kneeling in front of me, her hands on the elastic of my boxer shorts, which she began to pull down, until it released my now, as you might imagine, erect penis.