time to forget about scalpels and think about people. That’s what
appealed to me about this placeworking with kids and families. But
when I got here I found out that was all gone.
Bad vibes is right. That gypsy lady could tell the moment she walked
in the door. It might sound nuts to you, but she crystallized what had
been going on in my head for a while. Sure, Colorado’s gonna be
boring-sniffles and sneezes and diaper rash. And I haven’t been here
long enough to collect any pension, so financially the two years have
been a wash. But at least I won’t be sitting on the fence.
Cocka-doodle-doo.”
Robin called at seven to say she was on her way over. She was at my
door a half hour later, hair drawn back and French-braided,
accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black
teardrop earrings and a cool-pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In
her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.
When we’d lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed.
Back in the good old days I’d have led her into the bedroom, Joe
Suave.
But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had
shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room
table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the
kiss.
When we broke for breath she said, “I hope this is okay-not going
out?”
“I’ve been out plenty today.”
“Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the boys’ hotel. They wanted me
to stay and party.”
“They’ve got better taste in women than in music.”
She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated
heavy breathing.
“Enough with the hormones,” she said. “First things first. Let me
heat this up and we’ll have ourselves an indoor picnic.”
She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her
move.
All these years I’d never tired of watching her move.
The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart-lots of leather fringe and old
lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the
kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her
but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones’s
and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the
hospital again.
She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then
realized I hadn’t followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she
said, “Something the matter, Alex?”
“No,” I lied, “just admiring.”
One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous.
That made me want to kiss her again.
I said, “You look gorgeous.”
She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I
went into the kitchen.
“Tricky,” she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with
chopsticks.
“The idea,” I said, “is to show your devotion by knitting me a
sweater.
Not turning me into one.”
She laughed. “Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat.
At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay.” I stroked her
face.
Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty
flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand
into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin.
Propping herself up, she bumped her nose against mine, kissed my
chin.
Her hair was still braided. As we’d made love, I’d held it, passing
the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to
lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had
come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled
her under her chin.
Her head lifted. She massaged my chest some more, stopped, inspected,
looped a finger under a single hair, and said, “Hrnm.”
“What?”
A gray one-isn’t that cute.”
Adorable.”
“It is, Alex. You’re maturing.”
“What’s that, the euphemism of the day?”
“The trvth, Doctor. Time’s a sexist pig-women decay; men acquire a
vintage. Even guys who weren’t all that cute when they were young have