Miriam

"Yeah, but I think they thought I was so depressed that they were genuinely worried about me. I was so low I couldn't really have a conversation like we're doing now. And so they had to talk on and on about something just to prevent a truly painful silence from enveloping all of us."

"Well, now that you put it that way," she said, softening somewhat, "But I hope to hell you can keep secrets."

"Yeah," I said, "I really can. For what little that's worth."

"It's worth a lot to me," she said, seriously.

"Well, what is your dream man or woman like?" I asked again.

"I'll do the woman another time, but maybe it's not that different from the man. And I know it's not that different from a lot of women: tall, handsome, funny, successful, rich, muscled. A bit of a rogue, but has morals when it really counts. Loves me to pieces, but also gives me my independence."

"Shit," I said, feeling a bit depressed at how high and stereotyped the standards were, especially for such an off beat and extraordinary woman. But then I quickly added, "Sorry." and then, "Well, good luck with that!"

"Yeah," she said, looking a bit moody herself, "But I'm also a realist, and go with what my choices are at the time. And often I fall for them harder than I should. Anyway, enough about me. Shall we get down to starting on your wife's clothes?"

"Yeah," I said, "Why the hell not!" Trying to muster up the energy for what was to come.

****

We opened one of the wooden sliding doors to my late wife's long closet.

"Wow, she had a lot of clothes," Miriam said.

"Yeah," I acknowledged, "She liked clothes. And we had enough money, so..."

I sighed.

Miriam was fingering through a long row of dresses of various kinds on hangers.

"Some of them are arranged by the kind of dress they are," I said, "but it's also somewhat chronological."

"And so here, on the other side," and then I moved to the other sliding door of the closet, and started opening it, "are the dresses from decades ago. Ones she couldn't wear any more because she was a different size, or they were out of style."

Miriam came over and fingered through the oldest ones.

"Oh, look at this one!" She suddenly said, holding it out but keeping it on its hanger. It was a petite, loose, and low cut tie-dye dress my wife had last worn in the 1970s.

Almost in a dream, I said, without really thinking, "I'd like to see you in that one..."

"Ha!" Miriam laughed loudly, and with an ironic and slightly cruel edge, "I bet you would!!" And she laughed again.

Suddenly it was too much for me to be laughed at, even though I deserved it. I was ashamed and hurt, and I knew it would show on my face. I felt such a powerful upwelling of sorrow that I couldn't say a word, couldn't even apologize, but just turned and quietly walked almost like a zombie out of the room.

What a fucking pathetic jerk I was, I thought, slumping over the breakfast nook table. What a weird thing to say. And how lonely I was without my late wife. Once in a while I used to make fun of her dresses, but I really liked to see her in them, and she knew it. And now, I never would again. I was so sad, I knew I had to get rid of them as soon as possible. I didn't need Miriam to help. I just needed to take them to Goodwill in vast loads as soon as I was safe to drive.

"Rick?" I hadn't noticed until that instant, but Miriam had silently walked up, and was now standing right next to me. I could feel her warmth. I looked up.

She was wearing the short and low cut tie-dye dress. Her long legs looked lovely, her breasts were barely concealed, and she had a sweet but sad smile. She looked like a time traveler from Woodstock—but a lot cleaner. She smiled warmly at me, but she looked pained and apologetic.

I remained sitting, still depressed in spite of this vision of hot hippie beauty in front of me.

And then she said, "Just a sec. Wait right there!"

She walked into the living room, and I could hear the click of the power button on the antique Marantz receiver, which I sometimes turned off after she arrived.

It was tuned to the local classical public radio station, and I could hear some soft Chopin piano playing.

Miriam walked back over to me slowly, making an entrance. She smiled more broadly, and said, "May I have this dance?"

Emotions swelled in me as she held out her hand, inviting me to stand up.

You can't really dance to Chopin, but she pulled me close to her, and then we were pressed against each other, slowly rocking back and forth. I could smell her hair, which had been washed with some nice shampoo, and then I sensed very clearly my wife's distinctive, old-fashioned, "4711" European cologne which brought back memories of holding Helen. I suddenly froze.

I stopped, pulling back from Miriam, a questioning look in my eyes.

She said, quietly and seriously, "I found it on her dresser and put on a dab. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," I said, getting mist in my eyes, and then I whispered "In fact, thank you."

Miriam then said, very seriously, "You didn't get to say goodbye, did you?"

"No," I said, holding a hand up to my face as I choked up.

"Would you like to say goodbye now," she said, and suddenly she was almost as trembling and choked as I was.

"Oh god!" I whispered, in a quiet cry, and I started weeping.

But then, I managed to say through my tears, "Yes. Please."

I held her arms, looking at her, but because I was weeping barely able to see, and said, "Oh, Helen. I'm so sorry for the pain you had at the end. And I'm sorry for the times when I hurt your feelings. But I...loved you. Goodbye, Helen. Good bye."

Tears were dropping from my face, and I sat down again at the table, buried my head in my arms, and wept.

Miriam hugged me from behind, and then got a few kleenex and leaned down to give them to me.

I lifted my head to get them as she was leaning over to give them too me, and I accidentally got another view of her breasts.

I laughed, and croaked, "Again!"

She laughed too, but then stood up and concealed the view, and said, humorously again, "Now I know why you wanted me to wear this dress!"

"I'm so sorry. I apologize," I said, shaking my head, and looking down, ashamed again on top of everything else.

"It's OK, Mr. B. It's only human. And I think it's good that we could share this moment."

"Yeah," I said, almost recovered. "Thank you. I should be paying your the rates of my therapist! You're better than my therapist."

"Now there's an idea!" She grinned. And then added, in a business-like way, "But our session for the day is up. I'm going to go change, and I then I have to go."

"Yes," I said, almost matter-of-fact myself. "Let me get the money."

I was glad I'd gone to the ATM that morning to stock up. $80 her normal pay for three hours, but this was definitely worth double that. I wondered if I should go higher, but decided that might be weird. And so I kept it at $160.

Soon, she came in again, dressed back in her own clothes with her sweater on, smiling and looking pleased with herself, but clearly checking to see if I'd recovered.

"Sorry about the crying," I said, suddenly apologetic for losing it, "Pretty pathetic."

"Not pathetic at all, Rick. I think you needed that. And I have to admit I'm proud of myself for helping you through that. I've thought about going into psychology for grad school. I've been torn between that and International Relations."

"Well, psychology would be my recommendation," I said, offering my honest advice, "because I think you'd make more money! Speaking of which. Here's $160. You're worth more, no doubt, but...is that OK for now—future Dr. Ottinger?"

To my surprise, she took the money almost solemnly, "Yes, that's fine, Rick. See you next time for our next appointment. Keep working on the things we've been talking about. And, with your permission, I'll take the clothes to Goodwill as well as vintage clothing store I go to."

"Yes. Thank you again, Doc," I said with a smile, and then added, "Patient-doctor confidentiality?"

"Definitely!" She said, smiling, "And I know it goes both ways."

"Definitely," I repeated.

She leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Next time maybe we should get out of the house and try do something away from the memories?"

"Sure," I said, and smiled.

***

"I've got an idea of what we could do today," Miriam said, just a few seconds after she got in the door, dressed again in jeans and a t-shirt, and carrying her little black purse. Fluffy was, as always, glad to see her, and did a little wag-dance.

"Oh yeah?" I said, curious.

"You're a member of the Granite Club, right?"

The Granite Club was the private swim club a few blocks away from my house, which as you can guess was put in a former granite quarry.

"Yeah. I try to go almost every day when the weather is good."

"I've never been," she said, enviously, and added, "My parents haven't found a sponsor yet."

"You know I would sponsor them, right?" I quickly explained, "but I don't have an ownership certificate for that. Only people living within a block of the place have those."

"Yeah, I know. But you can bring guests, right?" She looked hopeful.

"Sure. The guests tickets cost of few bucks, but...Do you actually want to be seen with some old guy at the pool?"

"If that's the price of getting in," she said with a smile, "I'll just have to grin and bear it."

"Well," I said, thinking that it would probably be more awkward for me than for her, I stalled, and said, "Wouldn't you have to get your swimsuit?"

"Right here," she said, smiling, and waving her little black purse back and forth.

"No way," I said, "A swimsuit can't fit in there."

"Wanna bet?" she said, and opened the clasp, pulling out two white pieces of bikini that clearly wouldn't cover all that much.

"Wow." I said.

"Wanna see me in it?"

"You got me there," I admitted, "But I'm not sure being seen with you that way is such a good idea."

"Just say I'm the daughter of a family you're trying to find a sponsor for."

"Hmmm," I replied, thinking.

"When in doubt, as Mark Twain once said," was her impossible to refute reply, "Tell the truth."

"OK," I said, "You win. Why don't you get changed in the bedroom, and I'll change in the bathroom."

A few minutes later I was in my dark blue trunks and she was in her skimpy white bikini, looking great.

"Hey, nice chest Mr. B!" She said with genuine enthusiasm, "You've been taking care of yourself."

I smiled, looking down at my somewhat muscled and hairy pecks, flattered in spite of myself. My chest was pretty good for a man my age, and I had an almost flat stomach.

"I'd try to say that same to you, but somehow it doesn't work that way. Plus I think you might slap me."

"I might," she said, but added playfully, "You like?" and swiveled her hips back and forth in a kind dancing rhythm.

"Stop that!" I laughed and looked away, "You're too much."

"See, I've taken ten years off your age already."

"Or ten years off of my life," I said, incredulously, rolling my eyes theatrically, "But either way, we're good to go."

"No way, Mr. B. What about sunblock?"

"OK," I said, although usually I skipped that because I always just went for a quick swim and then came back.

And so, we started rubbing in sunblock, and inevitably she said, "Hey, would you get my back?"

I rubbed sunblock into her lovely back. I was trying to be efficient, but I was entranced her beautiful skin, freckles, and small moles, as well as her side boob. My cock started lengthening a little.

"Enjoying yourself there, Rick?"

"Um, as your father surely advises some of his clients, 'I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may...'"

"OK, your turn," she said, and she got behind me and started giving me a wonderful massage as she put in the lotion.

"Mmm," I said, not daring to say more, but in fact it felt delicious as she rubbed the lotion into my skin, and I now had half of a hard on. Thankfully, however, my baggy swimsuit, at least when it was dry, hid a multitude of sins.

"Feels good, doesn't it? I took a massage class in college."

"Thanks," I said.

I won't bore you with much about the trip to the Granite Club, which is quite deluxe, but is basically the equivalent of two Olympic size pools housed in a converted rock quarry. There's also a separate kiddie pool, a lap pool, a work out room, and a snack shop. Plus a dozen of the most attractive lifeguards of both sexes you could imagine. The clientele was similarly upscale and good-looking, even some of the older ones.

We swam, and sunned. I discretely admired a few of the other women of various ages and shapes from under my sunglasses, and Miriam chatted up quite a few handsome young men, several of whom seemed almost as smitten with her as I was (and, yet again, I felt a very silly pang of jealously), before she found a sponsor for her family. Actually, I'd never heard of anyone getting a sponsor that quickly, but she was clearly a go-getter.

A few hours later, we were back home, and my time with her was almost up.

We were still in our swimsuits, and she was clearly in a good mood. Me, not so much.

"Hey, Rick, what did you think of all the women at the Club today? Several of the older ones were rather fine, I thought. Jeeze there were a lot of nice tits on display, didn't you think?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

"But you're not cheered up?" She looked puzzled and annoyed.

"Well," I said, and I admit this was pathetic and self-pitying, "seeing all of those almost naked women just emphasized to me that I might never again kiss a woman's breasts."

"Shit," Miriam said, and she seemed genuinely annoyed, "If you are all that desperate to kiss a woman's tits, why don't you hire a professional. I'm sure there are plenty in this city you could find. Or, I could even help you find one. Have you ever used the services of a professional woman like that?"

One look at my expression told her the answer, which seemed to annoy her even more. I tried to explain.

"Well, once, many decades ago, when I was in Amsterdam, before I met my wife, I thought about it. I looked at some pretty dancing women through the windows. But, at the last minute, I chickened out. Or, at least another guy got there first for the one I liked. Anyway, that's just not for me."

"Really?" She said, but suddenly she seemed more forgiving. She was clearly thinking about something. Then she slowly smiled, looked at me, and said,

"Listen. I gotta go, Mr. B. But give me a hug."

That seemed a like a risk, but I assumed it would be a light and quick hug.

But Miriam pressed her bikini-clad breasts against my bare chest, and her bikini-clad pussy against my already somewhat engorged dick in my swim trunks, holding me against her and not letting go, as she brushed her face against mine and clearly was getting ready to whisper something in my ear.

My dick twitched and started hardening against her. I was sure she could feel this and tried to pull away.

But she held me against her as my cock grew, and then slowly whispered,

"Next time, Mr. B., for an extra hundred, I'll let you kiss my titties." She paused for a second, "And I'll give you a hand job."

My dick throbbed against her with a sudden jerk, and was now completely hard against her fabric-covered cunt.

"Yeah!" she said, smiling and laughing as she separated finally, "that's what I'm talking about!"

She looked down at the tent my dick had made in my trunks, and addressed my cock, saying,

"I'm trying to make an appointment to get you some special attention. But right now I really gotta go."

I started to say something, I don't know what, but Miriam in her bikini was already walking quickly toward the door, showing much of her lovely ass, saying behind her:

"Think about it!"

****

The next day, as I let her in my house, she was wearing a cute yellow sundress with small blue flowers on it, which showed her lovely legs and a modest bit of cleavage. She was also, I noticed, wearing a small but noticeable amount of make-up.

I'd practiced my speech, and as she came in she read my face and did a subtle double take, going from looking confident, to suddenly somewhat vulnerable.

As she followed me into the kitchen, she could tell I'd been cooking and sniffed to try to sense what it was.

"Vegetarian curried split pea soup," I said, stirring it up and serving it into bowls, "I made it just for you—and for me too, of course."

"Ahh, Rick!" She said, looking at the pot and smelling it with pleasure, "you do care!"

"Yeah, Miriam, I think I 'care' too much," I said, setting the bowls down at the breakfast nook, "and we really need to talk."

"OK," she said simply, but didn't look entirely pleased. She sat down with me, and looked at the late lunch all laid out, with cheese, bread, fruit, and even flowers on the table.

"A date?" She said, suddenly sly, "Before the main event?"

"Um, I wanted to talk with you about that. But let's sit down and start eating."

"Sure. I'm hungry. Smells really good."

She sat down, and, blowing on her soup spoon with the complex, rich, and spicy soup, took a delicate sip.

"Oh my god, Rick, that is really good. You *have* to give me the recipe."

She took another spoonful.

"Yep," She said, "That is without doubt the best pea soup I've had in my life. Is that fresh ginger I'm tasting?"

"Yes, fresh ginger, fresh lemon juice, cumin, a little bit of ground cloves, and all sorts of other things. It's basically from the Greens cookbook," I said, pleased, "but I've added a couple of extra spices—and some extra butter."

"Delish, Mr. B, really yum."

I let her finish her soup. And then she went on to some cheese, the rye bread from the bakery, and the fresh sliced peaches from the farmer's market. She had a good appetite. And then I tried to start my speech.

"Miriam?" I finally said, as she was getting the last bit from her soup bowl with a scraping sound of her spoon.

"Yes, Professor?" Miriam said, looking up at me, warily, "I feel like I'm about to get a lecture. Is this class pass/non pass or for a letter grade?"

At that I winced, and my speech mostly crumbled. Instead I blurted out:

"I think what happened was my fault, Miriam. I corrupted you."

At this she held her head back, exposing her lovely neck, and laughed a long laugh and couldn't seem to stop.

Finally, she said, still giggling a little, "*You* corrupted me?"

I was a little mystified by her response, but said, "Well, as you figured out, I'm desperate to get laid. And, not just with anyone—you know I've been lusting after you. Although you have to admit," I added, "that you are one of the worst flirts and exhibitionists to ever grow up in an upper middle class Jewish home."

She smiled and said, "Got me there, Mr. B. Although I have some friends who are pretty much just as bad. We tend to goad each other on."

"Well," I said, trying to continue, "Anyway, obviously you...your charms...have overwhelmed...or I allowed..."

"Obviously," she said, smiling and looking sexy while raising her eyebrows.

"And obviously I'm lonely, and have more money than I can spend,"

"That was clear to me too, Mr. B," She said, smiling.

"And so I corrupted you...?" I trailed off lamely, feeling puzzled. And then added, "And, I'm sorry...?"

"Are you done?" She said, wryly, "Can I talk now?"

"OK," I said, but added, "It's a special occasion to have someone over for lunch, and I got a bottle of good Merlot. Would you like a glass? I really could use one."

"Sure, Rick," she said, "Pour away."

And so I spent a few minutes opening the wine and pouring us each generous glasses.

We clinked our glasses, and then each took long sips. I took two, in fact.

On her second sip, which was almost a gulp, Miriam savored some of it on her tongue, and then swallowed it, and said,