My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (14 page)

“Yes, master,” she smirked, “but I prefer long ones.”

I stood there, a neti pot in my hand, trying unsuccessfully to think of a witty comeback, but failed. She grabbed the lantern and went into the bathroom. I heard her clothes rustle and the water come on, and just stood there, my imagination once again distracting me.

Double damn this libido.

When she came out of the bathroom, she’d already changed into jeans and a University of Michigan football shirt. Once again the clean smell of a hot shower wafted through the room.

She looked and smelled delightful. Sometimes there’s nothing better than a beautiful woman, freshly showered, her skin rosy from the hot water and her hair still wet.

For the hundredth time, I had to force my eyes to look in her eyes instead of at her breasts.

“I was thinking—“ I said.

“I thought I smelled something burning,” she quipped.

“—that we should take one of the baby monitors upstairs and keep it on. So we can tell if anyone—or any
thing
—gets into the house.”

Michelle agreed it was a good plan, so we headed upstairs. It was pretty chilly in the house, and I was once again thankful I’d gotten the gas heater. We quietly prowled around the house, peering out the windows. The zombies were still out there, at least as many as had been there the day before. They appeared to still be agitated, congregating more around my house than any other. Their rasping sounds were disheartening.

I don’t know whether it’s some kind of residual memory from yesterday or if they somehow actually know we’re in here. Even from behind the window, looking at them in the state of decay—one had an eye hanging out of the socket, many of them had obvious broken bones—I could almost smell them. Michelle took one look and did an about-face—I don’t think she’ll be ready to see a zombie for a while.

Michele looked around the house. I think she was snooping as much as anything. Looking in all the rooms, checking out my place. “I’m sorry to ask this, but how long ago did you say your wife died?” she asked quietly. We spoke in near whispers the entire time we were upstairs.

“It was ten years ago this July,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, no offense, but you haven’t updated the house since then, have you?”

“No, I didn’t see any reason to. This furniture is in good shape, and besides, she did the decorating. It made me feel like she was still here in some way. I didn’t have the heart to change things. We had a great marriage. She wasn’t just my wife—she was my best friend with benefits, my partner in crime, my sister, my mother, my daughter, and my drinking buddy.”

“Partner in crime?” she whispered. We were standing close together in the upstairs hallway.

“When she was getting chemotherapy, we treated the nausea with homegrown medical marijuana. That’s how I got interested in hydroponics.”

“Was it legal back then?” she asked me.

“No. But I didn’t care. We were very discreet and were only using it for medicinal reasons. Or at least she was. I found it very relaxing and it helped to ease the emotional pain I was going through when I realized she might not make it.”

“Do you think it should be legal?” she asked. I just stared at her, waiting for her to think through what she just asked. “Oh. Right. I guess it doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t legal before—there are no laws now. But when your wife smoked it, did it help?”

“It helped us both. I mean, we think it slowed the rate of cancer, and it helped her tolerate the pain and nausea. It increased her quality of life. I was truly grateful. None of the prescription drugs were nearly as good, and they all had much worse side effects. After she died, I put the rest of the pot in a closet and haven’t touched it since.”

“What makes you think it slowed the rate of cancer?”

“She lived longer than most of the other patients at the cancer center. I doubt many of them were smoking. I know it’s only anecdotal, but still . . . Have you ever smoked pot?”

“I used to smoke when I was in college if someone brought some out at a party. I never bought any myself. Back then it was an urban legend that getting a woman high made her horny, so guys always had some at parties,” she said with a faraway look on her face. “Since then, I’ve heard about all the ways patients use it. I’ve read some fascinating studies about using it medicinally. Seems like it might be good to grow some.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, but I doubt the seeds I have are still viable. Maybe once the dust settles, we’ll think about it. Does it really make women horny?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Maybe one day you’ll find out,” she said conspiratorially, “maybe we’ll mix it with Xanax and alcohol.

“Okay, fine,” I whispered, watching her grin. “I made it up. We didn’t really have wild sex all night.”

“As if I didn’t know.”

“We only had wild sex for a couple of hours. Then you fell asleep, exhausted but happy, after telling me how incredible I was.”

“Mmm-hmmm. I’m sure I said that. Just like I’m sure you have a ten inch penis.”

“Ah-
hah!
So you
do
remember!” I crowed.

She rolled her eyes and said, “I surrender.”

“I love it when a woman says that,” I said dreamily.

Looking around the kitchen, at my outdated appliances and countertops, she whispered back, “Haven’t heard it much in the past decade, have you?” Ouch. That one hit a bit too close to home, and I had no comeback. I placed the radio on the kitchen counter and turned it on. We headed downstairs, secured the trap door, and Michelle offered to fix us some dinner. While she was doing this, I played some CDs I’d grabbed while I was upstairs. That was probably a bad idea—the music reminded me of Tammy.

We made small talk while we ate, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Tammy. I was reminiscing, and sadness seeped into me. Michelle apparently sensed this or might have been feeling the same thing, because she kept to herself as well. After dinner, I let her pick out a DVD for us to watch. She picked out a movie she’d brought over,
Love Actually
, which was very good, but in some ways made me feel worse.

All in all, especially when compared to the night before, it was a very subdued evening. When the movie was over, I told her I was tired and was going to bed.

As she said goodnight, I headed for the bedroom. Just before I got there she said, “Oh, and Kevin, just so you know: I was only joking this morning when I said I liked to sunbathe topless. I was getting even with for you claiming we had wild sex all night.” Her voice dropped down to a near whisper. “What I really do is sunbathe completely nude!” She then smiled at me and winked.

I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. I stared at her for a second then closed the bedroom door.

I don’t know how late she stayed up—the grow room lights are on a timer, so she didn’t have to turn any lights off. Before I dozed off I heard the sound of the air mattress inflating. I fell asleep, wishing she was Tammy. Wishing I could smell Tammy’s scent just one more time. Wishing I could tell her one more time how much I love her, and how much I miss her.

I shed a few tears, lying there alone in the dark. It’s been awhile since I’ve cried about Tammy—or anything else.

Brittle
brit·tle:
adjective. Easily
damaged
or
destroyed;
fragile;
frail:

My heart is brittle.

One errant thought of you

and I will be undone

I have to believe

that part of you still exists

can you hear my voice?

can you feel my thoughts?

has everything that was you

disappeared?

“In Flander’s Field the poppies grow”

those blooms and those words

are all that is remembered

of the men who fell that day.

But there are no poppies for you.

No words or poems              

to remember you by

no one to recall unwritten words.

my recollection of you

is all that prevents you

from being unwritten.

My heart is brittle.

you are nearly unwritten

and again

I am undone

And again.

November 26
th

I woke up this morning still feeling blue. I couldn’t recall my dreams, but I felt a strong sense of loss. When I smelled the coffee brewing, I knew Michelle was awake, and somehow my heart was eased. I dressed and went out to see what she was up to.

Michelle was already out of her pajamas (by that I mean she was wearing jeans and a sweater), sitting on the sofa drinking a cup of coffee. The mattress was deflated and pushed under the sofa.

“Good morning,” I said. “Sleep well?”

“Did I ever!” she said, putting the coffee cup down. As I poured myself a cup she yawned and stretched her body in such a way that her breasts were pushed out, stretching the sweater in a wonderful way. Her arms were bent and were up around her head. I had ample time to once again ogle her body. I felt a kind of hunger grow inside me, and it wasn’t for corn flakes.

“Sleeping on the air mattress, in a secure, warm basement, with a full stomach, a freshly showered body, a big strong man sleeping in the next room, and knowing in the morning I’d have hot coffee . . .” She paused as if trying to find the right words. “I haven’t been this comfortable since before the end. I haven’t been this
happy
in an even longer time. I know it doesn’t make sense. Those
things
are just outside your house. But this morning I’m sitting in a room lit with electric lights, drinking a hot cup of coffee, and talking with an attractive older man I’m growing quite fond of.”

“Older man? Like, what, I’m your dad’s age?” I protested, unsure of how to take it.

Michelle looked at me. “Kevin, how old are you?”

“I turned fifty-one on August third.”

“Kevin, I’m not quite forty. You’re eleven years older than me. You’re an older man. I like older men. It’s a compliment. So,” she said, changing the subject, “what’s on the list today?”

I told her that I’d show her how to check for pests. She gave me an appraising look which changed to an
I know a pest when I see one
look. I chose to ignore her.

There’s always a risk some bug will find its way inside. Aphids and spider mites in particular. But since we rarely go outside and there are no plants in the house, odds are slim that we would introduce a pest who hitchhiked in on our clothes. Otherwise the system is pretty easy to maintain. So checking and rechecking is part of our daily chores. If we’re diligent and careful, we should have fresh herbs and a few vegetables until spring.

She was leaning back on the sofa, her right arm bent at the elbow, holding the blue cup of coffee near her chin. The light from the plant room illuminated her face. One side was lit with soft lavender light, the other side was dimly lit with the light reflected off the walls and ceiling. Her eyes were mostly in shadow. There were highlights in her hair from the LEDs, giving her auburn hair a purplish tinge. The light brought out the textures of her skin, I noticed, as I let my eyes wander down her face to her neck, and then below. She was wearing a blue sweater; it was fuzzy and looked like cashmere, softly conforming to the shape of her breasts. The light accentuated their fullness, and as I gazed at them, I realized she was watching me. I felt bold, and decided to keep gazing at her body. As I looked, my eyes moving over and around her breasts, around her full tummy, down toward her hips and crotch, I noticed her nipples hardening. I felt like that was a good sign.

“What are you looking at, Kevin?” Michelle asked quietly, repeating the question she’d asked the other night when she was tipsy.

“I’m admiring the way the light is falling on you. You look lovely. And the way your breasts look in particular, with the soft light on your sweater . . . they look absolutely wonderful. I’m tempted to get my camera. In fact—do you mind?”

“What, if you take photos of my breasts? I don’t think I’m comfortable with that.”

“Not of your breasts, dingbat! Of you!”

“Hmm . . . well, I guess in that case I don’t mind. But no nudes. You’d probably post them on Flickr.”

I haven’t taken any portrait photos in a very long time. I haven’t been inspired. I’ve taken plenty of landscape photos over the years— Michigan is nothing if not picturesque—but no people photos. It felt good to want to take her picture.

I grabbed my camera bag and went back into the living room. She hadn’t moved. I attached the camera to the tripod and moved to where I felt the view was most flattering. I didn’t want to use a flash; it would destroy the effect of the lighting I was so entranced with.

“This is going to be a long exposure, about half a second, so when I tell you, try to be still.”

Michelle didn’t respond. I looked through the viewfinder, made sure everything looked right—the composition, the lighting, how zoomed in I was. I set the timer for two seconds delay, hit the button, and audibly counted down: “Two . . . One . . .” The shutter clicked open and shut. I then looked through the viewfinder and zoomed in closer, highlighting her breasts. God, how beautiful they would look in this light without the sweater! Even so, they looked luscious.

I hit the button again and counted down like I did before. Then I moved the camera a few feet to the left to get more of a three-quarter profile of her face and breasts. I took a few close-ups, noticing her watching me intently. Her eyes were dark and dilated in the dim light. I tilted the camera to get a couple shots of her eyes. I knew from checking the images in the viewfinder that with a little editing to tweak the levels and saturation, the photos would look great. I nodded with satisfaction and turned the camera off.

“Don’t I get to look at them?”

“Sure, but not right now. I promise I’ll show them to you after I transfer them to the laptop. I have a rule; I delete any photo I take of someone if they don’t like it. It helps people to relax, knowing I’ll delete every photo of them if they want. Next time, I want to get a reflector and put it over there,” I pointed to the far side of the sofa, “to add a little fill light. It’ll make the photo really pop.”

Of course, part of the reason I didn’t want to show her the photos was because I didn’t want her to think I’m obsessed with her breasts. Even if I am. I figured I’d show her when she’s gotten to know me better and wouldn’t think I was a pervert. Unless I learned she liked perverts.

“I didn’t know you were into photography,” Michelle said, “You’re full of surprises.” Taking her photos—
enjoying
taking her photos—made me feel more like the old me. I feel most myself when I’m being creative and responding to the muse. It came to mind that Tammy was the same way. While the sadness I’d felt upon awakening had lessened, it now came washing back over me. “I just gave you a compliment,” Michelle said, “And it made you look sad! What’s up with you?”

“I hope this doesn’t insult you,” I said, hesitatingly, “but having you here somehow makes me think of my Tammy.”

“Tammy . . .” she said, weighing the name on her tongue. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment. I know you loved her. I’m sorry if I put you in a tailspin.”

“Five years ago, I might have gone into a tailspin. You know what they say about time heals all wounds? It’s true. But the past day or so, I’ve really been missing Tammy. Watching my best friend slowly die was a tough time, but I had to be strong for her, I couldn’t let her see how devastated I was.” I turned my head so she couldn’t see my eyes misting. “But don’t get me wrong, these thoughts or feelings or whatever, they hurt, but it’s a sweet pain. Does that make sense?”

Michelle nodded, but I don’t know if she really understood. I don’t know what she’s been through. I told her about Tammy practically the first time we talked; she hasn’t said anything about her love life, and surely an attractive, intelligent, big-breasted woman like her has had plenty of attention from men. But that doesn’t mean she’s been in love.

“Tammy and I had a wonderful marriage. You know how a lot of times the husband and wife end up barely tolerating each other? It wasn’t that way with us. We never fought. We disagreed sometimes, but even that was rare. We got along so well, it was simply astounding. The longer we were together, the better friends we were. I was constantly surprised—how can something this good just get better and better, I used to ask myself, but then a year later I’d realize things were even better yet than they had been.”

“How long were you married?”

“We had seventeen years of marriage. Most couples are lucky to have one good year. We had seventeen. And I don’t want to be crass, but you know, even the sex kept getting better. Sure, maybe the frequency went down, but the quality just kept going up. There were times we’d make love, and it’d be a spiritual experience, like our souls were melding . . . so when I think of her, my thoughts are incredibly happy thoughts and memories. I’ll miss her for the rest of my life. But I don’t regret these thoughts. Sometimes good memories make me feel sad, but I’d rather have the memories and be sad than to not have the memories at all.”

I looked at Michele, my eyes still a bit moist. She was looking at me with a look I couldn’t decipher. Her eyes were beautiful, and I noticed how lovely her lips are. “So what is it about me being here that makes you think of her?” she asked.

“Michelle, I’m afraid to say it. I don’t want to jinx it. But how I feel when I’m with you reminds me of how she and I got along when we first met. I don’t know how much of it’s situational. We were thrown together; if this hadn’t happened, would we have developed a strong friendship? You said you wondered when things will get back to normal. Truth be told, I think this is the
new
normal. But I’m talking about the way we fit together. Being with you makes me feel good. Look, I’m not coming on to you, this isn’t some bullshit line I’m using to get in your pants,” I said.

“Damn.” she said.

“I just feel something for you I haven’t felt in a long time. I like being around you. You make me feel better about the future somehow. Despite having creatures twenty feet away who want to eat us.”

“Maybe without each other, those things outside would drive us to madness,” she suggested.

“I don’t know, maybe so. But I’m glad you’re here, especially this morning. I’m glad you moved next door, and I’m glad you moved in.”

“That’s just because I have big boobs,” she said, half mockingly.

“That’s just frosting on the cake,” I suggested.

“Frosting . . . there are so many interesting possibilities . . .” she said wistfully. Suddenly she got up off the sofa and said, “Let’s take care of our chores and then figure out something to do.”

I had an instant idea of what I’d like to do with her—or even to her. I was taken aback to discover I had an erection. “Something to do?!” I asked.

“We can play backgammon. Or we can talk. I like talking to you. You’re smart, you’re educated, you’ve lived a full life. I could learn a lot from a guy like you.”

“That depends on what you’re wanting me to teach.”

“Like, about making things grow, getting them big . . . liquid fertilizer . . . keeping the roots nice and wet . . .”

I decided to ignore any possible implications of her words. “Let’s check the pH of the water,” I said. “You never know, those plants could save us.”

“I’ve never understood the whole pH thing,” she said. “When it’s written, why is the ‘p’ little and the ‘H’ big?”

“pH is an abbreviation for "power of hydrogen" where "p" is short for the German word for power, and H is the symbol for hydrogen. Low pH is called acid, high pH is called alkaline. The H is capitalized because it’s standard practice to capitalize element symbols. Like with H
2
O, the H and the O are always capitalized.”

“You are such a geek,” she said, “how do you know that?”

“I took the pains to memorize it a while back. To impress all those girls who are attracted to geeks.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I should unpack my stuff while you do whatever you need to. I would like to see how you check the ‘power of hydrogen’ so we can keep having your delicious salads. I think we should go upstairs to check the herd and maybe see survivors, I think we should turn on the radio and see if we can find any broadcasts, I think we should make dinner and have a few drinks and then I think we should either play games or make out.” 

My mind had been drifting. She was still standing before me, and I was still obsessing about her gorgeous rack. But my mind suddenly focused on her last words. Make out? I was taken aback. “What did you say? Did you say
‘make out’?
Are you serious?”

Her face lit up as she broke into a smile. “Ha-ha, now it’s my turn to get you! I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Too bad I didn’t have the camera. The look on your face was priceless.” She paused. “I like you, Kevin, you’re smart and funny and you make me feel good about myself. The combination of those things makes you . . . interesting. And just so you know, I think you’re handsome and sexy as hell, but in a really comfortable geeky way. Like that April Barrows song says:

I want a guy who's like an old stuffed sofa, someone who'd be nice to come home to. And when the world outside was frightnin', he'd be soft and so invitin'.

Just when I was starting to think she was flirting with me, leaving the door open for me to make a move, she says I’m like an old stuffed sofa. Great. Not only that, but now I had reason to believe she was playing me. Or delusional. Me, sexy?
I’m an older man
as she kindly put it. Much of my hair is gone. I have a paunch. The notion that someone could find me sexy is ludicrous bordering on crazy. But I wasn’t really in the mood to point those things out to her. “Is that why you pressured me into letting you move in? Because you wanted an old stuffed sofa?”