| |
The political analyst ran the numbers one more time. No, it wasn’t a glitch. But she was damned if she knew what to make of it.
The numbers from several districts in the Northwest and the flyover states, districts that should lean conservative or libertarian, had varied from predictions. Of course, those predictions were based on polling that hadn’t kept up with recent developments: the newly enfranchised voters, the stored, were underrepresented, especially given their unexpectedly high voter turnout. But if anything, that made the results even stranger. The stored were disproportionately wealthy, and had been (should still, or again, be) powerful. Why would they be supporting more liberal, even what she liked to call communitarian, candidates and initiatives?
What the hell was going on?
* * * * *
It was never too late, Thea had realized, to get politically active. And according to the calendar and the sudden appearance of flowers, it was spring, an appropriate time for new beginnings.
It seemed that quite a few of the stored had felt the same urge. Not just one but two new discussion groups had started up to keep track of local, state, and national politics. Thea wasn’t sure which one she wanted to join, though. Her moods seemed to shift around a lot, at least where politics was concerned.
Max wasn’t likely to be too interested. But one advantage of sorts to their new separation was her freedom to do things that disturbed him without having to explain, at least not as often. There were enough aspects of storage that undeniably sucked: she might as well enjoy those few that could be viewed as silver linings.
It was a bit early to worry about the next election, but she did some searching to see who might be running for what, and what the hot issues might turn out to be. Then she could attend both groups and decide which, if either, might be ideologically congenial.
It would mean something close to having real company. And the people she met might share some of her other interests as well. At the meeting she’d attended so far, she’d been tickled and pleased to find that one of the other newcomers was the flutist who’d played her piece for the ad agency proposal. He’d recognized her name and complimented her work, even suggesting that they get together some time to play duets.
She’d also verified her guess that the stored could touch each other, and that it felt a lot like touching should feel. It made sense: if yarn felt like yarn, why shouldn’t a handshake feel like one hand gripping another?
Which raised more questions, some she was glad Max wasn’t around to notice (though he had never been as good at guessing her thoughts as she was at guessing his). They had never talked that much about fidelity, as it seemed to come naturally to them both. But now, if her only chance for tangible physical connections—for physical affection—came from other stored people, was she really going to rule it out indefinitely? And did she want to talk to Max about it, or make her own decision and then let him know?
* * * * *
Max didn’t realize he had been staring blankly at his recording equipment until a clattering outside, on the stairs, jolted him out of his daze. He hurried to the door and opened it to find the new neighbor, a woman who had moved in a couple of weeks before, staring at a busted cardboard box and at all the items that had fallen out of it down the stairs. Just as he took in the scene, she started cussing with a fluidity and inventiveness that made him want to start clapping. Instead, he skirted the mess to get to the bottom of it and started picking things up.
She stopped swearing and flashed a broad smile down at him. “Thanks so much! I should have checked that box, especially once I hefted it and felt how heavy it was. Let me run and get a couple of others.” She pattered off down the hall. Max paused once his armful of items threatened to spill back onto the stairs; his neighbor reappeared moments later and slid a box down toward him. He stopped it with his foot, dumped the stuff in, and resumed working his way up the stairs, filling the box to the brim. Then he hoisted it and waited for her to finish with the second box before following her up the stairs and down the hall to her apartment.
From that position, he couldn’t help but notice what a great shape she had on her. And her hair was a really cool darkish red—chestnut, he thought it might be called—that caught the sunlight when they passed the hall window.
The woman paused, balancing her box on her hip, to unlock her door. But before she actually put the key in the lock, she turned toward him and aimed that smile at him again. “I really appreciate this. And I’d like to start getting to know the neighbors. Do you have time to go get some coffee or something? You could show me where the good coffee is around here.”
It would have been easier to think without the edge of the box digging into his side. And without the scent of sunlight and clean hair drifting toward him.
Max was used to telling women “no” in a nice way before they actually asked a question that would get them embarrassed. Thea wasn’t the only woman who’d found him attractive. It sometimes surprised him how many women seemed to. So he shouldn’t feel as if some new problem had arisen.
But that’s how he felt.
He fell back on a noncommittal excuse. “I’m kind of expecting a call.” Which was almost true. Thea’s and his afternoon call usually came a little later, but she wasn’t anal about hitting the same time every day.
The woman didn’t stop smiling. That must mean that the way he’d responded, his body language and such, had left a door open.
And speaking of doors . . . He shifted the box to his other arm. The woman noticed and shook her head, hair swinging. “Sorry! Here I am keeping you standing around, weighed down with all my crap.” She opened the door quickly, then stood back just enough to let him in.
Not enough that he could avoid brushing against her a bit as he staggered past to put the box down on the nearest piece of furniture.
He backed out, searching for an exit line, and found a pretty feeble one. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” Then he fled back down the hall to his apartment.
He checked for missed calls. None. Good. He hoped, for once, that Thea didn’t call just yet. He wanted to think.
He’d been attracted to that woman. No hiding from that. And what’s more, he hadn’t shoved that attraction to one side the way he was used to doing.
It was time he sat down and talked to himself for a while.
Thea wasn’t gone. But her body was. She would never have one again. All the wonderful things their bodies could do together, they would never do those things again.
And Max was a young healthy guy with a body that needed to love a woman. Well, not only a woman, necessarily, but that was how it had always worked out so far.
If the aneurysm had taken Thea away from him, and she hadn’t secretly had herself recorded, he would simply be a too-young widower. And apparently, he would be starting to notice other women again. Because he just had.
Thea would never have expected him to live without women forever. Without sex. If she ever thought about it before she died, she might hope he’d wait a few months; but she wouldn’t have wanted him to swear off sex forever. Or love.
Of course, he could talk to her about it. She might call any time now.
But the thought of that talk made his stomach squirm.
Sometimes phone sex worked. Sometimes phone sex was great. Not tonight, not so far.
Max had set up pictures of Thea to look at. He had just one nude photo of her, and it was a terrific shot; but it was artsy, black and white, with Thea stretched out on one of her sand sculptures and almost disappearing into it in places.
They’d made love the afternoon he took the photo, right out on the beach, on a blanket big enough to keep the sand out of everywhere, the air soft and humid and no one anywhere around. . . . Sometimes remembering that day could get him off all by itself, even without Thea murmuring in his ear. But other times, memories and photos weren’t enough.
And today, his memories of Thea kept getting interrupted. Memories of how his neighbor’s behind had looked in those tight jeans, ahead of him on the stairs, would break in. And that would heat him up, all right, but it felt too much like cheating.
And all this trying and thinking distracted him so he couldn’t do much good for Thea either.
Max fell back against the pillows and shook his head at his screen. “I’m sorry, babe.”
Thea’s breathing slowed (maybe she’d been closer than he thought; maybe he shouldn’t have quit), but she didn’t look frustrated, or sympathetic, or whatever he had been expecting. Instead she had her Plan B look. “Just a minute, sweetie. I want to try something.”
Then the image of Thea’s face disappeared, and Max was looking at Thea sprawled on a bed. A water bed, moving her just a little up and down as she moved. And she was indeed moving, a slow sort of squirm, sprawled across the bed, her legs open, her breasts round and spilling a little to each side.
And her right hand, her first and middle fingers, poised, and then, touching . . . touching . . . .
“Ohhhh.” He hadn’t seen her move in so long. He had never seen her touching herself like that, bringing herself . . . bringing him . . . .
He had grabbed his cock without even knowing it, and now he was stroking it, stroking, faster, groaning . . . (Call her name!) “Thea! Omigod, omigod, baby, baby. . . .”
He came like a rocket taking off, shouting.
He’d been looking at her, and then he’d been so lost in the blast that he hadn’t even noticed whether she came too. He looked now. She was lying on the bed, no longer wriggling, her hands loose at her sides. He couldn’t see her face.
Should he ask?
Slowly, Thea pushed herself up onto her elbows, the motion making the bed toss her up and down. She looked sleepy, the way she sometimes did after they made love. But whether she’d climaxed or whether she was just glad that he had, he couldn’t tell.
And neither of them seemed to know what to say.
* * * * *
Thea gave up on trying to sleep and hauled herself out of bed. The bed reminded her too much of the strange, sad session she and Max had shared earlier. Yes, they had both come, but the afterglow had faded more quickly than any she could remember.
If he had been asleep beside her, she could have soothed herself by watching him sleep. He was so cute, sleeping—boyish, almost childlike, despite whatever beard or stubble he might sport. And he snored so softly there should be a gentler name for the sound.
She’d snapped a photo of him sleeping once. If only she had that photo now, at least.
She could ask Max to send it—if he could find it. Had she shared it with him, or backed it up somewhere? Had her wristband been recovered, or had some lifeguard or bystander trodden it into the sand, to be forgotten and ruined?
There were other photos she could ask for, ones Max should still possess. He had been taking pictures on that last day, pictures of her final sculpture, her final victory, and probably of her as well. A bittersweet reminder those pictures would be. . . and what she wanted were pictures of Max, not of herself, or not only of herself. There was that lovely one her cousin took of the two of them at a campfire, Max on his guitar, Thea on flute, both golden in the firelight. And the posed portrait by one of their oldest mutual friends, a girl whose pictures rose to the level of art, with Max positioned like an ancient Greek statute and trying not to smile. And the shot Thea took of him in high school, bent over with his hands on his knees, laughing at his own exhaustion after a run.
Max would have that, and every other photo she had ever sent him.
And hadn’t one of the witnesses taken a picture of their wedding? She’d been glad to have that picture, it turned out, as little as she’d thought she would care about the ceremony. She would be glad to have it now.
* * * * *
Max sat in their—his—saggiest armchair, legs folded up and arms around his knees, sleepy and afraid to sleep. He did not trust his dreams, not tonight.
If only he knew that he would dream of Thea the way she used to be, or of the two of them together! But as he’d been drifting off, tonight, what had suddenly come to mind was Thea washing up broken on the beach.
Max groaned and pried himself out of the chair to fetch his tablet. If he could not trust his mind to show him the pictures he needed, he would look at them another way. He took the tablet to the couch and stretched out with his head on one end, resting the tablet upright on his chest.
He had so many photos, from all their years —
But Thea had none. How could she? Unless her preparations had included providing copies. But she had probably not bothered, not yet.
Would she want them? Would she, like Max, cherish visible reminders of their lost past?
He would send her some pictures; and if she already had them, no harm done. And if not, she could make her own decision about whether to look at them, or store them, or ignore them, or delete them.
He should not send too many. He would scroll through them all and pick just a few of her favorites.
Start with high school. Thea had always enjoyed that photo of him trying to catch his breath after a run. Let her laugh at him one more time! It was laughter with love, and he had always loved to hear it. . . . That photo at the bonfire was just plain pretty, and if it called forth vivid memories of singing together, at least that was something they could still do. . . . The Greek-sculpture pose did, he had to admit, make his bod look good, and Thea might find a use for that. . . . Not much point to a photo of him sleeping . . . .
What about their wedding? They only had the one photo, and Thea had been looking over her shoulder at something, so her face didn’t show. He wouldn’t bother with that one.
Those should be enough to start with. He’d send more if she wanted them.
He scrolled to the end, to the very last photo of Thea on the beach, Thea triumphant with her trophy, and then grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch. He would lie there and cry a little, and then he could probably go to sleep.
