The Last Place She'd Look (15 page)

“I'm sorry, I couldn't see,” I said wiping my eyes, still not seeing.

“Don't worry, take another towel,” she said, handing one to me.

I finished drying my face, opened my eyes, and saw her smiling at me.

“I'm Jessica,” she said, stretching out her hand for me to shake it.

She was about 45, with long, thick, wavy hair, strong shoulders, a small waist, and dressed for a party.

“I'm Sara, here for a wedding?” I was joking.

“I'm here for my parents' 50th anniversary. They're celebrating half a century. I can't make a relationship last more than a year.”

“Me either,” I responded.

“Do you ever feel like everyone is happy but you?” she offered.

“All the time.”

“Really? Maybe soon will be our time,” she added.

“I hope so.” I was trying not to stare at her beautiful face. I knew I should reapply my makeup and go back to class, but I was captivated.

“My girlfriend moved out last week,” Jessica said, sadly.

“Your roommate?” I inquired, eager to know.

“No. She and I were involved romantically and as soon as she moved in, everything good about us died,” she explained. A tear came to her eye.

I got a tissue and wiped her cheek. She smelled of roses and French soap. The nearness of her was a sensual delight.

“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes looked into mine and I felt seen and understood. A warm rapport was building. Just then, the bathroom door opened and another woman entered, bringing the outside world into our moment. “I guess I should go back to being a good daughter.” She turned away to leave, and then turned back again. “You know, I'd love to continue this conversation. May I call you sometime?”

Surprised, I enthusiastically chimed, “Please do.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a card, and gave it to her.

Jessica held the card in one hand and read it. With the other she moved to shake my hand, again. “Thank you, I'll be in touch.” She left.

I stayed another minute to comb my hair, reapply my lipstick, and cool down from my quasi-flirtatious encounter, not sure what to make of it. I went back to class feeling a lot more cheerful than when I'd left. The rest of the day in class they showed us templates for websites and blogging. I thought about Jessica, and how odd it was to meet someone like that, and how just like Will, and all the other people who said they'd call, she never would.

Class ended at four o'clock. I got into my car, back to Los Angeles. Traffic was bad; the sun was hot. I chewed gum, played the radio loudly, and wiped sweat from the back of my neck.

I arrived home and eagerly peeled everything off, leaving it in a pile on the bathroom floor. Naked, I scurried to the kitchen for an aspirin and a tall glass of water, to cool me down. As I was gulping and glugging water, I glanced at my phone. The message light wasn't on. Nobody ever called me. I made my way over to the bed, pulled at the blankets, crawled in, and grabbed for the remote control. Another Saturday night alone—just me and my cable channels.

The following day Jessica called. Conversation flowed, as we talked about everything: growing up, our parents, what we were like when we were teen-agers, and if we ever felt cool or geeky. At the end of our two-hour phone conversation, we agreed to meet the next night for coffee and dessert.

She arrived first, looking eager and gleeful. Without makeup she was incredibly beautiful. Jessica saw me and waved. We hugged and shared a self-conscious cheek kiss. After we ordered our tea and brownies, we settled into our cushioned chairs, exhaled, able to relax and take each other in. She wore a sea green halter top and looked girlishly braless. Her tan, muscular arms accented her overall healthiness. Jessica's smile lit up her face, revealing endless cheekbones and wise, understanding eyes.

“Have you recuperated from the anniversary party?” I began.

“Pretty much,” she said. “All that happiness and good cheer could put someone in a diabetic coma—unless I could get it to rub off on me, like a lipstick kiss.”

I lingered on those last two words, hearing them ever so slowly and wishfully. Our tea arrived. I took a sip immediately. Too hot. Calm down, I told myself and put the cup down.

Ignoring her tea, both eyes on me, she continued. “I'm all for happiness, and celebrating other people's joys. I just wish I had more of my own.”

I pinched at the corner of my brownie. “Me too,” I said, popping the bite into my mouth. The chocolate was moist and melted easily on my tongue, like a taste of happiness. I quickly had another bite; mouth happy, gazing at Jessica. “Mmm, this is good,” meaning more than just the brownie.

She tried a taste now. “This IS good,” she answered. “But I try to stay away from sweets. I'm all about balance in my life, moderation, you know.”

Jessica acknowledged that she wanted stability and steadiness in her life—instead of insanity. Her outlook was refreshing and sorely needed for me.

I said, “I talk about balance. My goal is to live in moderation. Doesn't always work that way. I want to taste everything. But no heaping portions. Get lots of sleep…”

“Wake up early,” she added.

“Are you a morning person? Me too.” I took a sip of tea. It was now the right temperature. As I swallowed, it soothed my throat.

“I love the promise of a new day. Anything is possible. See the sunrise, exercise, all good things.” Jessica punctuated her statements with graceful hand gestures, as if conducting an orchestra. She sipped her tea genteelly. I noticed her eyes grazing my shoulders and arms. Then the corners of her mouth turned up, as if pleased by the sight. “Do you think you're a passionate person?”

“I have my interests; I guess they're my passions.”

“I have my passions,” she explained. “I know I need to be touched and receive a lot of affection. Otherwise, I need to get a lot of massages.”

I was surprised by her statement. “I get a lot of massages,” I lied.

Reaching for my hand, her fingers intertwined with mine, as if eager to begin a dance of intimacy, digits and hands instead of legs and bodies. Her eyes studied me.

“You are a woman who is brimming with passion,” she began. “Whoever gets to be with you is quite lucky—especially when you let them unleash your inner zeal.”

I breathed deeply, afraid that if I touched her and held her close, I'd never want to let go. She kept stroking my arm, sensuously and intently, as if she wanted me badly and knew exactly what I needed.

“Do you call this balance?” I asked eager to know her intentions.

“I call it a bright beginning.”

We spent the evening talking and laughing. I became aware of myself relaxing, and exhaling. I felt safe and accepted. Conversation flowed, like the endless cups of tea we were drinking. We stayed at the restaurant until the waiters put the last chairs up on the tables and mopped the floors. The night ended with a lingering hug goodbye.

The following morning I woke up, got online, and checked my email. There was one from Jessica:

Dear Sara:

I had a very interesting encounter because I was not able to peg you in the first five minutes. You continue to elude me. Most people think I have tremendous gifts and talent and are amazed in my presence. I feel like I am not that special. Now I encounter YOU. You are in a different league —the league I wish I had been playing in all this time, instead of just being the big fish.

I want to LEARN and not get old and stale.

You are the second person in my life to touch me and create this feeling inside that makes me want to devote the next 12,000 hours to just touching you in every way possible that I might give you pleasure. Not as a sexual thing as much as "What can I do to bring you to physical nirvana?" For most encounters in my life, the physical thing becomes just that, there was no spiritual connection. The only other person was a woman in college who, when we met years later, still had that aura about her. It was as if we had never been apart and any physical interaction was cosmic, not animal.

After reading Jessica's email, I exhaled with delight. Is this what I'd been hoping for—someone to bare their soul to me? She's asked me to go deeper—deeper than recent relationships, taking me back to the exhilaration of first dates as a teen—the baggage-free trust of opening yourself to another person. I saw myself diving into a pool of emotional intimacy, rather than just dunking my feet and skipping away like my usual self. She'd unburdened her soul to me, not mere small talk. If I didn't want to fuck this up, I needed to be emotionally present. Wait a minute. How do I know this isn't someone too good to be true who would drown me in their insanity and neediness?

This feels too fast, too good, too soon. It smells wrong. I should be cautious. Jessica is a silky-haired mirage. I labored over what to write back, nothing seemed right.

Luckily, pursuing me, she called the next day. “Sara, I have something to tell you. I hope you don't think I'm crazy.”

“Why would I think you are crazy?” I asked, incredulous that we'd be having a conversation that began like this.

“Because I can't see you for a month or two. My aunt Doreen in Michigan just broke her hip. I'm flying today to take care of her. I'd rather go to a museum with you.”

“We can do that another time,” I said, holding back my disappointment.

“And I can never get decent cell reception at her house. Calls drop off. Let's email in the meantime. Friend me on
Facebook
. I'll need something to keep me going.”

Immediately after hanging up, I signed on to
Facebook
, searched for, and friended Jessica. I now had 51 friends. Then I noticed correspondence from Derrick:

I'm planning a trip to the Bay Area next week. I was wondering if you were going to be near San Francisco in the next 10 days, so we might hook up. My schedule is somewhat flexible. I eagerly await your response.

Derrick was going to be on the West Coast…eager to see me? A married man with a secure job, wife, and kids…worlds away from my life. He was interested in a fling with a fantasy from his youth? Flattered by the flirtation, this seemed like a bad idea.

I wrote back: Thanks for thinking of me. I live in Los Angeles, a plane ride away from the Bay Area with no plans to be near there. Enjoy your trip.

An hour later Derrick wrote back:
What if I made a stop in L.A.? Would you meet me for dinner?

One meal with a college flirtation, decades later? That would be harmless, right? I'd write about it. My
Facebook
flirtation. Maybe
Cosmo
would be interested. They pay well. I wrote back: Don't make a special trip just for me. But if you are in L.A., dinner would be nice. I didn't want to say great—that would sound eager and interested.

That next Saturday I drove to the airport to pick up Derrick. He was a virtual stranger to me. I hardly knew him now and barely knew him 30 years ago. We were in a pottery class together at college, spending Tuesday and Thursday nights together in independent study, sharing studio time—just us, the clay, and the potter's wheel. This was years before the movie
Ghost
where feeling the clay through your fingers and throwing a pot became immortalized as an erotic experience. Then, clay was just messy. Our clothes and hands were always dirty. That's why I primped with extra care today, making sure my hands and nails were perfect. In college his hair was shoulder length, same as mine. Now, in his profile picture there's only a wreath of peach fuzz like a newborn chick that nestles from ear to ear.

I wore my skinniest size-eight jeans to help erase the memory of my big girl size 18 college self. In school, Derrick was so skinny he wore thickly knitted fisherman's sweaters to look like there was some meat on his bones. His slim frame seemed breakable anywhere near my insecure big girl girth. So I never thought of him amorously, and always kept our relationship at arm's length. That's not going to change. Tonight is just dinner, I told myself, then looked in the rear-view mirror to check my hair and lips.

Would we recognize each other? I searched my bag for a piece of paper to fashion a sign. I found a printout of an email from Jessica:

Every afternoon having tea with my aunt, I wish I was with you. Hoping to see you soon
.

I reread the note, smiled, then wrote Derrick Sanderson on the back in large letters, parked the car, and strode to the gate while straightening my clothes.

The plane from Chicago was on time. People from that flight were walking off the escalator towards baggage. No one looked familiar. I held my sign up and stood so all passengers could see me.

A bald man (with even less hair than the profile photo) in a loosely fitting Italian sweater was at the top of the stairs. His smile increased as he rushed down the escalator. Was this Derrick? He leapt off the escalator and strode towards me with outstretched arms that he then wrapped around me.

“Sara! You are more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined,” he whispered, lips to my ear, in that soothing voice, the one thing that remained unchanged. Surprisingly, this was quite an intoxicating moment. I leaned in and hugged him back. Not sure how long we'd lingered, both breaking from the embrace and back to reality, we took a few steps towards the exit, both eager to be out of there, and in somewhere else.

“Baggage claim?” I said, now walking in that direction.

“No. All I need is my knapsack, right here, same as always. Let's go.”

We drove straight to a little Italian restaurant on Lincoln Boulevard, not far from the airport. As soon as we were seated, Derrick studied the wine list.

“Bottle of red to celebrate?”

“Sure,” I said, nervous, anxious, and reminding myself that I wasn't on a date. There was a tingling amorous connection here. But I was mindfully aware it was just a nostalgic college dinner with another woman's husband.

“Osso buco for two,” he suggested. “Expense account.”

“I thought you were a vegetarian?” I offered, remembering.

“That was in the '70s. Now I'm a special occasion carnivore. And this is a very special occasion.”