Tempted (14 page)

After a festive meal of
slow-cooked pork and
arroz congri
, we decide to do our painfully full stomachs a favor by taking a brief walk.
 
Nimo reaches to hold my hand and, being too stuffed to get into a scuffle, I let him.
 
It’s actually rather nice.
 
I am very fond of him and he really is a basically good man.
 
We can’t all have 007 types like Armstrong,
Alexander Armstrong,
whisk us off our feet.
 
I wonder what he saw in Kelly, other than her obvious attributes of both T and A.

Back at home
,
Nimo opens my car door for me.
 
Yes, I can more quickly do it myself, but I graciously let him do me the courtesy.
 
It feels good to be a little spoiled, even if it’s just with the opening of a door.
 
When we go to hug goodnight
,
it is a longer embrace than usual, primarily because I haven’t put a stop to it as quickly as I
typic
ally do.
 
Tonight
,
he is the one to interrupt the hug, and he does so in order to kiss me.
 
It is a long, passionate and altogether lovely kiss, much to my happy surprise.
 

When I thank him for the wonderful evening
,
and bid him goodnight
,
he asks, as always, if he can come in.
 
And as always, I say, “Not tonight, Nimo.”
 
But this time I think twice before answering.
 
I really am a very lucky girl.
 
A good, decent man wants to marry me.
 
What more could a girl really ask?
 

I awake the next morning after a delightful dream of hot-air ballooning in Napa Valley.
 
I rarely recall my dreams, but when I do, they are nearly always about David and me
–
David and me hiking in the Muir Woods, David and me cuddling in a Venetian gondola, David and me skinny-dipping under a waterfall.
 
David David David.
 
This morning’s nocturnal escape has me smiling as I stretch and depart Elysium’s honey ether.
 
The dream was over in a flash and was lovely, not so much because of what happened in it, but because of how it made me feel
–
content and free.
 
At first it was just me in the hot air balloon, soaring silently as the sun rose over the lush vineyards and quaint towns.
 
A moment later it was sunset
–
still in the balloon
–
this time with a group of about half a dozen people who were extremely attractive in that liquor commercial kind of way:
all physically perfect, seductive, laughing and well-heeled, including David.

As I shuffle into the warm s
ummer kitchen, sans Bugs slippers, I trip on one of Persephone’s thousand toys, and end up sharply stubbing my toe.
 
Now I am wide awake. I consider the day’s agenda as I make co
ffee:
 
pick up Mom, take her to
 
church, thereby racking up good daughter points, go to Boudin’s, come back home, do some gardening together.
 
Easy enough.

I grind some Peet’s Kona coffee beans, drop half a bagel in the toaster
,
and hunt for some shmear in the fridge.
 
While the coffeemaker groans into life
,
I check
Facebook
.
 
What’s been going on while I was ballooning around greater Napa?
 
Alex’s
timeline
loads automatically without my even seeking it out.
 
Seems it’s become my default viewing page.
 
Wow!
 
I didn’t realize I visited it that often.
Though his time zone is three hours ahead of mine, his bohemian lifestyle as a writer involves his going to bed much later than I do.
 
I try to hit the hay between 11pm and 1am.
 
He tends to call it a night around 7am.
 
I always wonder what he does all night, and who he does it with.
 
I picture the night as belonging to him, as being his mistress, his plaything, or maybe his muse.
 

My blood begins to pulse at the thought.
 
It takes so little for me to feel sparked and enlivened when it comes to him.
 
And more than once
,
his written words, his expressions of all that is beautiful, and his commanding online presence have had their way with me, giving me waves of touchless pleasure far more powerful than the lovely ones I’ve been enjoying these past few months.
 
No wonder I hang on his every post.
 
He’s an aphrodisiac to which I am becoming addicted.

As the page refreshes
,
I grab my iPhone and see I’d missed a text from the night before.
 
It’s from Nimo.
 

Aww, that is so sweet.
 
I text back telling him how much I ap
preciate his thoughtfulness.  G
iven that it takes him forever to put a text together,
I take a screencap of it to commemorate his triumph. 
I smile to think of all the time he spent working on it
...
and that he’d make a perfect match
...
for Kelly!

I return to my computer and notice on Alex’s wall that he too has written a ‘good night’ message.

The toaster pops and I amble into the kitchen, Alex’s words following me.

Sleep, I'
m yours. Have your way with me.

I do my best to cobble my little breakfast together, but find myself in something of a wrestling match with the bagel and toaster.
 

Or put your throat in my hand, and I'll wrestle you into rough submi
ssion.

I toss a lump of sugar into my mug then douse it with milk.

But come.

Deep, raw, gripping orgasms take hold of me
,
and I convulse involuntarily until I notice that scalding coffee is pouring from the pot and onto my leg again.
 
It is then that I recognize the effortless power this man wields over me
–
and all without his even knowing it.

FUCK!

* * *

There is some sort of special ‘thing’ going on at Mom’s church this morning and she wants me to take her to it, stay for it, and be sure to clip some roses and jasmine to bring, while I’m at it.
 
The sermon is on finding a mate
,
and the pastor’s message is sincere and uplifting.
 
He talks of the importance of giving oneself to another.

I'm yours.

How good relationships are unselfish.
 

Have your way
with me.

And the kind of lasting, positive effect a loving mate can have on one.

Come.

I convulse anew, this time in a church pew, and for what seems like minutes.
 
My mother scowls at me and I do my best not to smile or
,
worse yet, moan my ecstasy.

After the final hymn and benediction, the pastor thanks me by name for donating flowers and fresh veggies for the snack table the last few months.
 
Evidently, my mother has conveniently forgotten the Thou Shalt Not Steal commandment.
 
It’s my turn to scowl at her.
 
Mom just shrugs.

In t
he car, headed for home, we chit
chat.
 
It comes up in conversation that I went out with Nimo the night before.

“You’ve been seeing quite a bit of that boy
,
haven’t you, CeCe?”

“He’s hardly a boy, Mom.
 
He’s a grown man.”

“Yes
...
I know,” she says, sounding a little like William Shatner when he has something of import to convey.

“What does that mean, ‘Yessss, I knoowwwwwwww’?”

“It means that, like you, he isn’t getting any younger and that it is about time he settled down.
 
Look, you’re obviously very fond of him and I know he is of you.
 
What would it hurt to
...
”

Just then a booming clap of thunder rattles the sky.
 
An unseasonal storm has gathered out of nowhere and we find ourselves in a downpour.
 
Mom hates to drive in conditions like this, especially in the city.
 
So, we head for my house to while away the afternoon.
 
Fortunately, we’d already eaten at the church reception, and ate very healthily
–
there were tons of veggies.
 
Ahem.

Back at home
,
the menagerie is in disarray.
 
Big storms sc
are the dickens out of the
little parakeets.
 
And neither Persephone nor Jasper handles them very well
,
either.
 
Only my happy, little turtle Daphne remains undaunted by meteorologic
al
events.

As usual, Mom asks for coffee and tea upon arrival.
 
I make a concerted effort to pay close attention during the coffee-making procedure, my poor burned shins cowering under my skirt.

I sate my mom with coffee, tea, and two glasses of water, the first of which I have to re-garnish
,
since I had the audacity to serve
it
with a lemon slice instead of a wedge.
 
Cursing her under my breath, I make some wisecrack about her having a hollow leg.
 
Fortunately, she pays no attention to me, and merely responds by
inquir
ing how she is to be expected to drink so many beverages without something to eat along with them.
 
And where oh where did I get my manners?
 
Surely not from her.
 
Same old Mom.

The storm’s downpour makes me drowsy.
 
I love the rain
,
and drift in and out of sleep while struggling to read my Eleanor Roosevelt biography.
 
Meanwhile, Mom is working on a jigsaw puzzl
e depicting the flower fields of
Carlsbad.
 
I reserve a table at home for Mom’s jigsaws.
 
Now that we’ve become ‘girlfriends’ and she visits more often, I needed to find some sort of activity that would keep her from snooping into my drawers and possessions.
 
Turns out
,
the jigsaw ploy was a coup and she’s not only hooked, but feels she’s nearly ready to try a three-dimensional
one
!
 
I already have a 3D Eiffel Tower puzzle hidden in the closet, waiting for her, come Christmas.