Mel wound up back on the couch, smaller, somehow, in her nakedness. “You feel disappointed with me, don’t you?” Her eyes a mask.

The only thing I felt was stuck to the blue plastic. I half slid, half pulled myself upright and began to gather my clothes. By the time I finished putting on my underwear and pants, Melanie was in her skirt and blouse, sitting on the couch, staring at her curled toes. She had left her emerald outfit on the floor. I felt our leftover heat on the recliner when I sat back down. But our interlocking, my sense of bonding, was splintering. Something inside tried to hang on; it wasn’t often I felt whole, felt met.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Melanie demanded tightly.

I felt the space between us widen. “I’m not sure I have anything to say.” I couldn’t understand how she could be angry with me now. It left me uncertain of what was to follow.

“You heard me call for Peter, didn’t you?” This time she spoke in a harsh whisper. “Yes, but…”

“You’re disgusted with me.” Louder now, louder and flat; it wasn’t a question.

“Of course not.” A last hope of clinging to our mosaic urged me to continue. “We touch each other in ways that unlocks our past. When you called for Peter, I cried for Chana.” I choked back the naked ache that suddenly reappeared in my throat.

Melanie pressed herself deeper into the couch. “You were married to Chana.”

I searched her eyes for a place to meet while she sat very still, the only movement the curling and uncurling of her toes. With a heavy heart I finally realized I was back inside myself. “I don’t see the difference.”

“For you it was pain that was unlocked, for me it wasn’t so pure.”

I successfully fought the desire to block my face with my hands, but had no control over the tension in my chest and belly. Mel hesitated, and I grabbed for the cigarettes on the table. Let there be one familiar reminder of after-sex.

She motioned and I tossed her the pack. She lit a cigarette and said softly, “I need to talk.” I rued her need, but nodded.

A couple of long inhales later she said, “I once saw this film where a bunch of scientists fooled a baby goose into thinking a garbage can was its mother. The goose grew up with that can as its love object. When I grew up, my love object was Peter. Most of my life I’ve had fantasies about him.”

Melanie’s jaw moved, as if to better loosen her words. “No one had to fool or manipulate me. I had no choice. My mother was too busy with her damn men.”

She spat the last words, but her eyes had dulled; her voice immediately softened. “I can’t remember before Peter. He was all that was mine. He cared about me, took care of me my whole childhood. He was the only hope that life didn’t have to be as ugly as everyone made it.” She frowned, expecting an argument.

There was no fight in me. Just the desire to flee.

Melanie turned her head sideways. “I’ve always associated my sexuality with Peter. It never occurred to me that it was wrong. I loved him.”

“Melanie,” I protested, “you don’t have to tell me any of this.” She turned back to me, and stared.

“This is a hell of a first date,” I said weakly.

A smile eased her mouth and we both laughed away some of the rawness. She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray then lit another. “I’m used to Gaulois,” she said, almost matter-of-factly. “I started with these when I moved out.”

She made it sound like yesterday. Despite the cardboard cartons I’d imagined her having left Jonathan some time ago.

Mel continued to explain with words less terse, eyes less guarded. “Jonathan taught me to reach, but it was Peter who taught me to survive. When I was little I could hardly speak. Peter was very popular, and I got attention because of him. Eventually, I improved. When you knew me I was still very shy, but not completely withdrawn.”

Melanie paused. “We had our talk, didn’t we?” The tension was back in her tone.

I thought she meant we’d finished, but she was referring to something in the past. Her eyes were cold, but a small smile brushed her lips. “I didn’t think you remembered. I had an intense crush on you. I knew nothing would come of it, but I forced myself to talk with you about it.” She grinned without humor. “It was extremely difficult for me.”

“Melanie, I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure whether I was apologizing for her crush, my not remembering, or even tonight, but I desperately meant it.

She looked over my shoulder but spoke evenly. “There’s no apology due. You were very kind. You took me seriously, talked about your relationship with Megan, your difficulty mixing work with personal relationships.” She smiled tightly. “When we finished the conversation, you kissed me. It was comforting to feel your concern and passion.”

I remembered the couple of times attractions had developed between me and community people in The End. But the conversation and kiss with Melanie were a blank. “Melanie…”

“There’s no need to explain, Matt,” she said sharply. “It’s reasuring to know that tonight wasn’t just the conclusion of some unfinished business.”

She couldn’t know I was sick of that phrase. It reminded me of Boots at Charley’s, it reminded me of Megan now. But the thought of Megan helped me recognize my need to withdraw. I felt around on the floor for the bourbon, held the bottle to my lips and drank.

Melanie reached, took the bottle, and followed suit. We exchanged small smiles and I said, “Tonight has nothing to do with history. It has its own set of complications.”

She eyed me carefully. “You said that earlier.” “You have a good memory.”

“I remember everything.” Her voice was quiet fire.

I felt a chill meld with a rush of desire, and, instead, reached for the Camels. “Are you in a relationship?” she asked bluntly.

A momentary picture of Boots and Hal lounging on some sun drenched island filled my head. “There’s someone I spend time with, but neither of us wants to be locked in.” The phrase “locked in” recalled my earlier emotions about Chana. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by all my relationships, overwhelmed and unprotected. I needed distance.

“Tell me the truth, Matt.” Her eyes searched my face. “If you are disgusted by me, say it.” “No, Melanie, not at all.”

The next was a choice between truth or distance—the outcome unfortunate but guaranteed.

I thought for a moment, then chose my lie. “The complications are similar to the old days. This case has loose ends. So right now it feels like the work and personal thing mixing again,” I added glumly, embarrassed by the untruth.

“I thought you had no case. That you had quit.” Her voice steady, though strained.

“I just want to satisfy my curiosity,” I waffled. “Sometimes it’s why I do this work.”

“The Work,” she intoned sarcastically. “‘The more things change the more they stay the same.’” She finished being nasty with a small, mean smile.

Having quoted the same phrase to Blackhead, I tried to tease us onto more comfortable ground. “How can you say that after what happened tonight? We did more than kiss.”

I reached down for my shirt, slipped it on, and spent time on the buttons. I didn’t want to meet her eyes. She walked over, leaned down, and kissed me. The blue of her irises looked like freshly polished glass. I rose to my feet.

“Will I have to wait another twenty years?” Her tacit understanding of my desire for distance reawakened my attraction. I held her face between my hands and met her lips.

Echoes of Chana, Megan, and Boots began to surface. I pulled away.

Melanie stared directly into my eyes. “You weren’t simple back then, and you aren’t now.”

A part of me felt “pardoned.” Another part of me felt a pang of regret as she moved toward the door. I quietly finished dressing, looked around for forgettables, and reluctantly trailed after her. At the door I straightened my clothes and waited.

Mel stood on her toes and we kissed again. “I won’t spend much time on those loose ends,” I said, unhappy with my lie. “We’ll see,” she answered, then kissed me goodbye.

 

Alone in bed, neither Valium nor a joint the size of a torpedo kept my anxiety, shame, and raggedness at bay. Melanie had triggered memories from every period of my life. There wasn’t an emotional nerve ending that didn’t feel undressed. After a while my safety valve blew and I simply went numb.

I ate another pill, slow-motioned into the living room, and sucked on bourbon. By the time I made it to the couch, I was dizzy, but didn’t know whether to blame it on the pills, the liquor, or an anxiety attack.

I stayed on the couch and forced myself to watch television. Bouts of panic occasionally cracked my drunken, stoned stupor, but I trampled them until the numbness returned. A movie and a half later I prayed that sleep would win the race with sobriety. When the movie ended with my eyes still open, I fixed the result.