Tempted (13 page)

I finish reading Alex’s exquisite poem just as the coffee maker goes silent.
 
I venture to the kitchen to pour a large mug full of Peet’s Arabian
Mocha
Java
,
which suits my mood perfectly.
 
It isn’t till I feel the sting of hot coffee trickling down my shin that I realize I have long since overfilled the mug and the precious java is spreading its way equally across the kitchen counter and floor.

Alex Armstrong
–
who is this man?

Persephone and Jasper come to my aid in cleaning up the spills, Jasper on the counter, Persephone on the floor.
 
The birds cheer us on from the sidelines and Daphne is nowhere to be found, waddling her way in and arriving long after I’ve moved on to other pursuits.

It’s a humid day, something I’m not accustomed to and frankly
,
don’t enjoy.
 
I feel a strange twinge of agitation and am not sure why, nor do I know what to do about it.

Back at the computer, I wonder
is Alex singl
e?
 
Going straight to his page
,
I immediately check his basic profile info.
 
No mention of a relationship there.
 
What am I thinking?
 
Of course he’s single or he wouldn’
t have gone out with Strawberry-
Rhubarb-Pie-G
irl Kelly.

On second thought, if he were a Bret
,
he definitely would have gone out with Kelly.
 
He just wouldn’t talk about it in a public forum!
 
I actually wonder how Bret is doing and sincerely hope things are well with him, and that his home is becoming a happy one.
 
On my show
,
I hear so much about cheating and broken vows, and have such a tough time coming to terms with it all.
 
I get the part about feeling trapped, wanting out, wanting more.
 
But what I don’t get is his dishonesty about it all.
 
How does lying do anyone involved any good?

And come to think of it, what is this whole ‘I want more’ business?
 
More than what?
 
Perhaps more than the isolation so many of us feel, whether we’re flying solo, in a dysfunctional romance or even
in a long-term, happy matrimony.
 
What do humans really want?
 
And why do they think they don’t already possess it?
 

And who the hell is Veronica Dodge?

Going back several months on Ale
x’s timeline, I see a barrage of Veronicaness
:  m
ushy ‘thinking of you’ posts from her, poems by him, and lots and lots of comments left by her, all sta
ting how brilliant and sexy
he is.
 
Turns out
,
Veronica is something of a catch herself.
 
Scouring her profile page
,
I find her to be bright, insightf
ul, sweet, beautiful.  A
nd wow!
 
What a figure.
 
I sit up a little straighter on the couch, not quite sure I am in favor of the divine Miss Veronica’s existence.

Back to Alex’s page.
 
A hint of a triumphant smile begins to tickle the corners of my mouth as I note that Veronica’s interactions came to an abrupt halt just over two months ago.
 
Good!
 
She lives too far away from him anyway.
 
They both have kids and it really could never have worked.
 
I am happy for both of them that they were able to move on.
 
‘Yeh, keep telling yourself that, Claire,’ my yellow chakra butts in, back from Ft. Lauderdale and rested, with a suntan and what appears to be a tattoo of a Phoenix.

Besides, what’s it to me?
 
I’m not looking for a relationship
–
certainly not with someone across the country.
 
And frankly, I am not only enjoying time with my mom, but also, lately with Nimo!
 
His younger brother was just recently diagnosed with cancer and Nimo has been spending a lot of time with him, successfully nursing him through surgery and chemo and radiation and doing all the amazing things big brothers should.
Nimo’s family lives just fifteen minutes from me
,
and Nimo is there every moment he’s not working
–
or every moment he’s not with me.

The situation with his brother has really shown me a different side of him.
 
He’s attentive, sweet, and looks for the good in people and circumstances a thousand times more than he used to.
 
He actually listens to what I have to say
,
and has q
uit talking about our wedding and
making sexual advances.
 
He did slip up the other day, tearfully telling me how glad he is that his brother will be around to see us get married.
 
I didn’t have the heart to remind him that I regard him as a friend, not a love interest.
 
It didn’t seem the moment for it.
 
But other than that, we’ve been getting on famously.

If I ever feel the need for some good old-fashioned swooning, I simply watch a movie starring one of my heart-throbs: either the man of the moment, or one who’s stood the test of time in my hubba hubba Rogue’s Gallery.
 
Plus, there is always Facebook, specifically, Alex’s page, which has become a new favorite haunt.
 
It’s sort of a one-stop shopping kind of place for me, where I can be tickled with humor, inspired to loving action, or downright turned on.
 
His most recent post is about going for a walk by the river.
 
He does that fairly frequently
–
usually in the dead of night.
 
It intrigues me.
 
And so does he.

* * *

This morning’s broadcast has been an easy one.
 
In great part
,
because of a lovely group of participants whom one would think were shills, given their enthusiasm and show savvy.
 
I wind down to the final segment, the “You Could Be the One” part.
 
Today’s chosen caller is a gal named Trish who is so excited to be on the show that in her frenzied fan gushing, she somehow manages to disconnect herself, never to return.
 
I then open up the lines to who
ever calls first
,
and I am floored to find it is Kelly
–
Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie Kelly herself.
 

“I don’t know what to do about that guy who made me dinner,” she laments.
 

I am tempted to reply,
 
Oh you mean Alex Armstrong?
 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Kelly.
 
What seems to be the trouble?”

“I feel like we have n
othing to talk about.
 
Like he’
s so worldly and educated and smart.
 
He knows about so many things and I
...
well I’m not anything,” she complains.

“You mustn’t be so down on yourself, dear.
 
I’m sure you have plenty to offer.”

“Yeh, that’s what he says.
 
I mean, I know he thinks I’m hot and that I have a good body and am really sexy.
 
I can tell by the way he looks.”

“Well, it’s lovely to have a man look at you that way.”
 
I am beginning to steam.

“Yeh, that too.
 
But I meant I can tell by the way he looks
...
ya know
...
in his pants?
 
The bulge I mean
...
”

“OK! Good to know!” I bark, shuddering at being given TMI for my liking
–
Too Much Information in cool online denizen speak.
 
“So if he’s clearly attracted to you, then what seems to be the problem?” I ask,
str
aining to maintain some sembla
nc
e of professional decorum and helpfulness.

“I don’t know.
 
If I knew I wouldn’t be calling in to a talk show,” she says.

I bristle, though I am not exactly sure why.

"I guess I just don’t know if it could really work out.
 
I mean
,
he is the man of my dreams.
 
He’s wicked smart, sweet, sensitive, funny, patient, wicked hot
...
”

“Yes he is!” I blurt unconsciously.

“What?”

“Ehrm, nothing.
 
Please continue, Kelly.”

“He’s everything I could ever want.
 
I just don’t know if I’m what
he
really wants.
 
I don’t know what kind of woman he wants exactly, but I know she would be like Wonder Woman or something.”

“A man like Al
...
like you’ve described needs a woman who is intelligent, independent, confident, mature, sexually adventurous, spiritual, funny, loving
...
did I mention intelligent?
 
That is the kind of wo
man he would most want, t
he kind that would make him happy.
 
Do you feel
you’re
that woman, Kelly?”

* * *

There are two times in recent memory that I have been
underhanded or played dirty –
the first, literally
–
with Mom in
the muddy hand on her white pants episode.
 
The second was my handling of Kelly when she last called in.
 
By the time I’d done with her
,
she went from tears over not feeling she was good enough for Alex, to beaming with joy that she could someday find a man on her level.
 
She actually thanked me for helping her feel better about herself than she ever had, and for giving her hope of attracting the perfect man for her.
 
The Kelly problem:
 
quashed!
 
My powers as a master manipulator:
 
off the charts!

I’m not so proud of myself.

A spot of tea, some almond biscotti and a nap while reading a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt set me to rights.
 
By nightfall
,
I have forgiven myself for my lapse of character, and dress to go out to dinner with Nimo.
 
We’re trying a new Cuban place in Mill Valley
,
and I’m quite pleased with him for consenting to go.
 
In the past
,
he would only eat at places he knew and had been to many times.
 
He never wanted to try anything new and would always upbraid me when I would dare to order something
daring
on the menu.
 
It always turned into a nasty tiff.
 
Now, he is more open, adventurous and increasin
gly enjoyable to be around.