He was at home watching television, dressed in sweatpants and a New York Mets T-shirt. When the doorbell sounded just after 8:00 PM, Blair strolled out of the den. He pressed the intercom and asked who it was.
“It’s Lisa Brandt.”
Surprised, he buzzed her in.
She came out of the elevator wearing a tight-fitting, cream-colored sweater and low-rise jeans. Blair smiled as she approached. He held the door open for her. She handed him a bottle of wine.
“What are you doing here?” he asked inanely.
“I felt bad about leaving the other morning without saying goodbye.”
“You felt bad?”
“Uh-huh.”
He invited her into the den. Black couch, an étagère, soft lighting.
“I’m starved,” Lisa said. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Nope. Should I order something?”
“Pizza it is. Want something to drink first?”
“Yes, please.”
“Fuzzy Navel?”
“You remembered.”
In the kitchen, he ordered their pizza. Then he made her drink by following directions in a book he kept near the wine cooler. He filled his own glass with Scotch.
He carried their drinks into the den and put them down on the coffee table. It was an unusual pseudo-African design made of wood. The carving depicted a herd of elephants. When he turned to Lisa, he found he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.
“What?” she said.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He placed her drink in front of her. “I’m just glad that you’re here,” he said.
She gazed at him, then touched his glass with her own. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Blair stood, shut off the television and turned on his iPod. Beyonce’s voice soon filled the room from his compact Bose speaker.
When the pizza arrived, he opened the bottle of Chianti Lisa had brought, and poured. As they ate, she pushed for more information about his failed marriage. “I mean, whose fault was it?” she asked.
“I can’t discuss it,” he said.
“Why not?” she challenged.
“Because. I don’t know you well enough.”
After their meal, they both helped clear the dishes. She rinsed. He placed them in the dishwasher. When they were done, she leaned in and kissed him. Soft lips—teasing.
“Tell me more about yourself,” she demanded.
“I already told you everything you need to know,” he said. “For now.”
They kissed again. “Do you happen to have an extra toothbrush?” Lisa asked.
“In the bathroom,” he said, pretending her question was one he expected.
By the time he came to bed, Lisa was already under the covers.
“I know just what you need,” she announced playfully.
He cringed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He removed his pajama top to show her.
“Jesus,” she swore. She touched each black and blue mark. “Did I do this?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Here.” She patted the sheet. “Turn on your stomach.”
Soon, light fingers were manipulating his shoulders and the back of his neck.
“Blair,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
But he never heard the question. The sheer pleasure of her massage was overwhelming his senses. A drowsiness took over and his eyes began to close.
Blair’s alarm went off at six. He quickly sat up and turned it off. He peeked at Lisa. She still seemed to be asleep. He got out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Within a moment or two, the curtain parted and a naked Lisa came up beside him.
“Could you wash my back?” she asked coyly, handing him the soap.
He hesitated.
“Blair?”
“Mmm…”
“Please?”
“Lisa,” he said, “couldn’t we…”
“Couldn’t we what?”
He wanted to say, “Couldn’t we go back to bed.” But he didn’t want to insult her. Women commanded and he obeyed.
So he soaped her back, and her front. She had a slim waist, and toned arms and legs. And scars—one left of her navel, running up and down for about eight inches, another beneath her left armpit, a third on her right thigh. He wondered how she got them.
“Don’t you like this?” Lisa was saying. She had taken the soap from him and was spending extra time on his engorged penis.
Blair found it ludicrous. His experience with his ex-wife, having sex in uncommon places, had been enough to last a lifetime. Yet, here he was, subservient again and unable to change a thing.
But he very much wanted to please her. He put his arms around Lisa, barely touched her lips with his own. She waited for him to do it again, then she kissed him; gently at first, then harder.
In one fluid motion, as if she were a contortionist, she wrapped a leg around his waist and guided him inside.
They soon hit upon a rhythm. But with each thrust, Lisa’s head bounced off the wall. Blair feared for her well-being. He tried easing up.
“No! You mustn’t!” she demanded.
It was thrust-ka-boom, thrust-ka-boom.
He was growing apprehensive.
“Yes!” she was soon calling out.
He imagined a compound fracture, possibly something worse.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
The police would be called, then an ambulance.
Despite his concern, he was losing control. Soon after Lisa climaxed, he came as well.
They held on to each other until they caught their breath.
“Not bad for a toy man,” Lisa teased.
He studied the back of her head, was unable to find any sign of trauma.
They began to soap off.
She put a hand to his cheek. “I might be falling for you, Blair Mulligan,” she said.
He pretended he hadn’t heard, while inside he was tingling.