“Moorely, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Whatcha got, Crawford?” He sits back in his office chair, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. I deposit the remains of Abigail’s laptop on his desk with little fanfare. He squints and picks up the pieces. “What the hell happened here?”
“Are you able to extract the files from the hard drive? I would be grateful.” I wait while he examines the pieces for a few moments. He sits up and raps his fingers on his desk, gazing at me with an unreadable expression.
“This is no problem,” he says and I relax a bit. Abigail will be extremely happy if I can give her back access to her novel. Making her happy feels like an enticing objective.
“Well, thank you.” I start to walk out of his office, assuming he will contact me once he has achieved his goal.
“Well, now, hang on a minute, mate. It’ll cost you.”
“I thought you just said it would be no problem?”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to do it for nothing! I need you to come with me to play cards this Friday.”
I spin around in the doorway to study his face and determine whether he’s joking. I see no signs of a smile, no indications around his eyes that he might be teasing. “You play cards?”
“Crawford,” he sighs. “I play cards about as well as you tell jokes.”
“Surely you are able to just assess the numerical probability of each outcome and bet accordingly?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m just not good at it. I’ll trade you this hard drive excavation for a night of poker and booze.”
“Is the alcohol mandatory? I’m balancing my caloric intake now that I’ve re-established a routine here—”
“Jesus, man. You don’t have to take a drink.” He sends me a calendar invite to his card game and tells me to bring my brothers if they’re in town. As we walk to lunch he elaborates, explaining that he’s lost quite a bit at this particular card game over the past few months. When I look at the invite, I note that the list includes a group of retired academics and local business owners.
“Moorely,” I begin. “Have you been playing cards with the Acorns?”
A flush creeps up his pale cheeks and he hangs his head. “Crawford, mate, I don’t know what the hell happened.”
“But Moorely…” I shake my head and take a bite of bell pepper with hummus. “They’re senior citizens. They spend their days making brooms from found twigs.”
“Aw, sod off, Crawford. They’re all still quite sharp. Hell, half of them used to have our jobs teaching here at the college. You know what they’re making me do? Foot rubs. Bunion massage. Don’t send me in there alone!”
I groan at the thought of spending time with diabetic senior feet. But a bargain is a bargain. If I want my funding proposal to move forward at a realistic pace, I need Abigail to have the proper equipment to help me without her interfering with the settings on my wireless mouse. “Fine. How long to retrieve the file?”
He seems to melt with relief. “Oh, hell. I can get you the information on a flash drive in a few hours. I just need to teach my intro course first.”
I return to my office and find myself with free time, as no students have chosen to take advantage of open hours. My thoughts wander back to that article Abigail and her co-workers were reading, and then to her crying softly in my arms last night. If people have always been a mystery to me in general, women have been a whole different level of confusing. The widely-accepted view that they are driven by emotion makes them feel unreachable to me.
Clearly, Heather was not reachable, not for the long term. I had barely considered her while I was in the space station. She was right to leave, I think. Although perhaps she could have chosen a different method of departure.
It seems like common courtesy to give someone advance warning if one plans to dissolve a marriage contract. My mother has said that women don’t respond well to being ignored. I find this confusing as well. I go months without speaking to my sister, for instance, and she’s still very happy to share her beer in exchange for my input on flavor and consistency. But do we share intimacy, my family and I? Or just history?
After Heather left, I realized I am not capable of partnership because I am not capable of emotional intimacy. I thought maybe I was making headway with Abigail. She seemed grateful for my hug…but not my kiss.
The file of information about Asa Wexler sits on the corner of my desk, reminding me of the growing close connection I have with my tenant. I felt compelled to hug her last night, which is unusual for me. After she told me about her struggles with her former lover, I felt so angry. I enjoy Abigail—she understands me and has such strong communication skills. She is helping me realize my career goals and all she asked in return was help lifting weights. Which I enjoy anyway!
But this article about oral pleasure—it suggests a way to give a woman an orgasm without first connecting to her emotionally. The more I think about it, the more I want to try this with Abigail. I want to make her climax, to see what that looks like.
My pulse has increased rapidly by the time my phone rings. I am grateful for the distraction from my thought spiral. Sara calls to let me know she’s made headway negotiating with Heather’s attorneys. “Headway is not victory, though, Hunter.”
“As I said, I am more than happy to pay her a sum of money. I am not willing to continue a contractual relationship with her that includes future earnings.”
“I know, dude. Give me time and patience, ok?”
“I feel no sense of urgency here.” Wait. Perhaps that is false. I am still legally married until this is resolved, and suddenly that seems wrong. “Actually, Sara?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t want to be married to Heather any longer. I am feeling anxious to end that.”
“I know, Hunter. She did you dirty, buddy. I’m working on it. Hey, how are things as a landlord? Everything working out ok with Abigail as a tenant?”
“Abigail painted her bedroom. I hadn’t considered that the tenant might change the wall colors.”
Sara pauses on the other end of the line. “Well, do you want me to add that into the lease for next year? Did she ruin the carpets or something?”
“No.” I am not sure why I mentioned the wall color. “She is a very excellent tenant. I think the color she chose in the bedroom is more appropriate for the space.”
“Ok, then. Glad that’s working out.”
“I am fond of Abigail.” I am uncertain why I am sharing this information with Sara. I think, actually, that she and her wife Indigo are friendly with Abigail. They helped her move in and lent her the furniture from my father, after all.
“Hunter…I’m glad you like Abigail. She’s been through some rough times. I feel like I need to say that Indigo and I are ready to fuck up the next man who hurts her.”
“I, too, would want to get violent if someone harms Abigail.”
Sara actually laughs, which I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her do before. “I don’t just mean physical harm, Hunter. Anyway, I have a client coming in. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hangs up before she can elaborate and I’m left to my racing thoughts of Abigail, her emotions, and my strong desire to attempt the Kivin technique to bring her pleasure.