Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 02

"Deke, do you realize you still aren't charging me rent?" She was right, I hadn't thought about that. "Not that I'm complaining. But out of that large amount of money I'm not paying you, I buy clothes for you, and food for us, and decorations, bedsheets, bathroom essentials, sexy lingerie..."

"What?"

"Just seeing if you were listening," she said, grinning as she turned back to face me. "Maybe." Then stepping towards me, she tugged at the waist of my new pants and eyed the outfit critically. She mumbled to herself, "Shoes and a belt would be nice, too... hmmm... And those glasses."

"Miranda..."

"Dear," she corrected me.

"Dear... that's enough. This is... You have to know that this is too much for me right now."

A look of genuine concern crossed her face. "You're right. I'm sorry, Puppy. You can get undressed now. I need to wash these anyway."

"Turn around again," I told her.

She gave an exaggerated sigh but turned around anyway. "You realize I could just ask to have sex right now and you'd end up naked anyway, right?"

"I wouldn't necessarily say yes," I informed her, trying to mentally run through a math equation from earlier that day in order to keep my mind and body from imagining what she had suggested.

She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Well, that would be rude."

I tried to understand if I had hurt her feelings, but while I was still thinking and getting dressed, she changed her tone and resumed an earlier topic. "Anyway, I'll pay rent anytime you ask, but if you don't ask, I'm just going to keep the money. Though I'll probably end up using a lot of it around the house. It would be nice if I could leave your place looking much better than it was when I got here."

Slipping my arms into my familiar shirt, I commented, "Last month, you were really concerned about money and wanted to talk about lowering your rent. It's really OK if you don't have the money to..."

"Deke, you misunderstood me," she said, entering my personal space and taking over the job of buttoning my shirt. "When we had that conversation, I was trying to set you up... to give you the opportunity to suggest alternative methods of payment."

"Like more research hours?"

"Like sex. I wanted to have sex with you, but in my silly brain it made sense to have some sort of premise for that... like I owed you something. Some way to justify it. And I kinda wanted it to be your idea, to feel like you desired me. It's silly, I know."

"But... but I wouldn't think of taking advantage of you like that. It seems... exploitative... wrong"

She smirked and straightened my collar. "Where are those amoral chemicals now?"

I sighed. "Old habits. Social customs."

"Anyway," she went on, fixing the sloppy job I had done of tucking in my shirt, "that effort went right over your head, which shouldn't have surprised me. I know better now. It's all black and white with you. No subtlety, no hints, no metaphors."

"I just like clarity. Neatness of thought," I said, still not knowing why that was so difficult for most people.

"I know, Puppy, I know. It's sweet," she said, stepping back to admire her work.

"It's rational."

"So was I your first?"

"What?"

"I'm trying to be direct. Were you a virgin before we had sex?"

I felt myself blush, despite my desire not to. "Yes. Yes I was."

Gathering my new wardrobe up in her arms, Miranda stepped close and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. "Well, I'm honored," she murmured softly by my ear. Then walking out of the room, she shouted back, "Try to get used to the new clothes while I'm gone! I'll see you by Saturday morning!"

*******

I spent Thursday and Friday in familiar solitude, but the familiar felt less comfortable than I had remembered. Nonetheless, I was able to glide through my routine and attain moderate advances in my research. My most significant project to date was reaching a point where I was nearly ready to submit a proposal for government funding. Without a major grant, I could not go further in developing what I was confident would be a revolutionary advance in my field. And thanks in part to Miranda's research, I had reached this point nearly a year earlier than I had projected. A success would not only guarantee my being granted tenure, but would also establish my research for years to come. And, most importantly, it would justify some of my theories that had been slow to gain traction.

On Friday evening, I returned home later than usual. After a quiet dinner and an hour backing up my research on my home computer, I retired for the night. As I prepared to sleep, I couldn't help but worry about our dinner plans for the next day. It seemed unlikely that even Miranda could make us look like a convincing enough couple. Changing the furniture... and my wardrobe... was one thing -- two things, rather -- but I was self-aware enough to know that she could not turn me into a convincing husband.

I faded into sleep, trying to find a way around the inevitable crisis ahead of me. Miranda would be here in the morning. Maybe she had thought of something I hadn't...

*******

I awoke in the middle of the night, as I usually did, needing to use the bathroom. But instead of rolling off the side of my bed to stand up, I was startled to bump into another body in the bed. I was at first panicky and confused. I clambered out over the footboard, hurried to the bathroom and turned on the light above the mirror. My slowly waking reason figured out just before my eyes could make out the form -- Miranda was in my bed, contentedly sleeping. Sighing with relief, I used the toilet and tried to go back to bed.

I paused to observe my bedmate. She seemed so serene, smiling as she slumbered. She lay on her side, facing where I stood, her folded hands between her cheek and her pillow. Her long dark hair spread over her bare shoulder. She had kicked the covers off most of her body (she often complained that I kept the house too warm), and I could see her thin shirt was riding up a little, exposing her midriff. I crept closer, curious to see the one part of her body she had denied me. As I knelt down next to the bed, I moved my hand slowly towards her shirt. I paused just a few centimeters away, feeling guilt. I would be violating her if I did this. Guilt is just a chemical reaction.

I looked at her face. She seemed so... innocent. She had been nothing but kind to me. For some reason I couldn't explain, my hand went instead to her face, brushing her hair back until her full visage was revealed. The slight fullness of her cheek. The fluttering of her eyelids. The curve of her lips. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

Suddenly, her breathing changed and her eyes opened just a bit. I froze next to her, worried that she would react poorly to my uninvited presence. Miranda took in the scene as best as she could in a few silent seconds. Then she did something unexpected: she smiled.

"Hey," she whispered, taking my hand from where it rested on her hair. "Couch was uncomfortable." Then pulling me towards her gently, she mumbled, "Get back in bed. Big day tomorrow. Need your sleep."

I climbed over her, careful not to bump her with my knees, and took my usual place next to the wall. Heart racing, I lay down and stared at the ceiling. I didn't expect to be able to fall asleep for some time. I tried to practice reciting the periodic table in my head -- something familiar and soothing. As I tossed and turned, victim of my own anxieties, I heard Miranda shift around. I felt her hand on my shoulder, then heard her whispering. The cadence was metered... rhythmic. I couldn't make out the words at first, but then she started using her voice -- very softly, just enough to be heard. Miranda was singing.

I didn't know the song, I couldn't even make out half the words, but it was soothing. I breathed deep and and lay still. I felt myself fading back to sleep, and I heard Miranda whisper, "G'night, Puppy."

*******

I slept later than usual, which struck me as odd. I never slept through my alarm. When I walked into the kitchen, Miranda was in a frenzy of cleaning.

"Hey, Babe. I turned off your alarm," she explained as I sat down.

"Why would you do that?" I asked, more curious than annoyed.

"So I could have time to make you these," she answered, setting a stack of pancakes in front of me. My eyes lit up as memories of Saturdays long ago brought a warmth of pleasant nostalgia to my heart.

"Why... why the... breakfast,... Dear?" I asked, drizzling syrup over the fluffy stack still dripping with butter.

"Why not?" she said pleasantly. "But seriously, I'm trying to feel more domestic today. Since I need to look and act like your devoted wife at dinner, and I need to start getting into character."

"Will I still be able to read today?" I asked between bites.

"Not as much as you're used to, but sure. I think I can do most of the cleaning and cooking and stuff. If I need your help, I'll let you know."

After a few minutes, I was finishing up my breakfast and asked, "Do you really think we can convince them?" I wanted to sound her out without expressing the depth of my worries.

"I'm pretty sure we can," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I even think it'll be fun. Just do your usual thing and let me handle the rest."

"What's my usual thing?" I asked, confused at what role I was expected to play.

Miranda pulled my chair back a bit, sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. "You know," she said. "Get uncomfortable and awkward whenever anyone asks a question. Just let me handle the rest."

"I think I can do that," I promised.

"That's my Puppy," she praised, tousling my hair. Then she stopped and ran her fingers through my straight hair a moment, looking carefully as the strands fell. "Yeah, we've got to take care of this... and we better do it before I wash the floor."

"What are you going to do?" I worried.

"Just a little trim... and a little styling gel. No biggie."

"You know how to cut hair?" I asked, not comfortable with anyone other than my usual barber.

"Mom was a hair stylist. She kinda expected me to do the same. I know what I'm doing," she promised. "Now stay right here." She hopped off my lap and ran out of the room. I heard her rustling around in the hall bathroom, then heard her light footfalls running back to the kitchen. Without warning, a towel flew over my head and landed across my chest. Miranda pulled it around my neck and secured it somehow. Then she began spraying water on my head. I cringed. She pulled a comb through my hair and began snipping. I watched clumps of wet hair fall to the floor. The rapid movement of her scissors had me worried, but Miranda seemed very sure of herself. She moved her instrument nimbly around my ears and along my neck. I shivered when she brought her lips close to the nape of my neck and gently blew the stray hairs away.

After a few minutes behind me, Miranda moved around in front of me. "Now usually a stylist has to lean over awkwardly to get the front," she said. "But in your case, I can make it much easier on myself." So saying, she pushed on my shoulders to straighten my back, then straddled my lap. I looked up at her face and saw a smug expression. "It's just easier this way," she insisted as she began trimming the front and top of my hair.

Unless I forced myself to look far to one side or the other (which usually earned me a rebuke from Miranda for turning my head), I had no choice but to fix my gaze on her chest as it swelled and contracted with her even breaths. Her loose t-shirt hung low, so I could study the fine details of the skin going from her neck down to her cleavage. The tiny bumps and imperfections on her skin, familiar to me as common parts of the human anatomy, appeared as something different when they were part of her body, rather than existing in the abstract. I felt the urge to shift in my seat, my erection beginning to assert itself. But Miranda sat atop me and made me nervous to even flinch.

"By the way..." she said softly as she snipped around the top. "One more thing you should know."

I sighed through my nose, trying to hold still. Another "one more thing."

"I called in some reinforcements for tonight."

"Hmm?" I questioned, trying to look up a little.

"Hold still, Babe," she rebuked me. "I was talking with some friends yesterday, and I realized it might really help to have another couple here... someone to take the heat off us a little bit."

I reached up and pushed her hand away so I could look at her face. "Another couple? You mean two more people we need to fool?"

Not losing her cool, and casually readjusting my head so she could return to her task, Miranda said, "No, you don't have to worry about them. They don't know everything, but they know enough. And I'd trust them with my life -- seriously. You just have to let me handle this, Deke. It's really going to be fine. I promise."

I exhaled loudly through my nose. "I don't trust well without facts," I said sadly.

"I know, Puppy. But just try to find something to take your mind off things. Can you do that?"

I don't know if it was intentional or just coincidence, but as she said that, Miranda wiggled her shoulders a bit, as if to shake some hair off her face. The motion drew my attention back to those tempting mounds just in front of me. I pondered their contents -- the tissue and blood and nerves that combined in such ordinary ways and yet which created something -- some things -- so gracefully delicate. So perfect. A whole that was so much greater than its parts. And to think how they responded to my touch. How my body was designed to respond to them.

"Getting any ideas?" she said softly as she brushed clippings off my forehead.

"No... I mean... naturally, yes. But nothing specific."

"Save it, Tiger," she said, standing up. "We've got a lot to do today. Or at least I do."

"I wasn't suggesting that we..." I paused, uncomfortable.

Miranda evaluated my hair, twisted her lips into half a frown and said, "Yeah... I know you weren't. But a girl can hope, right?" Then she pulled the towel off me and said, "Now shoo! Go take a shower so you don't track hair in the house after I clean the floors."

The tent in my sweatpants was going down as I stood up and rushed to the shower. When I returned, Miranda looked at me and smiled. Brushing at a few spots with her fingers, she spoke to herself, "Not bad at all. Just a little gel in the front and you'll be all set."

I pushed her hand away after a moment, growing unsure of how to receive her almost maternal treatment of me at times. "I'm going to read now," I announced.

"I'm going to read now, Dear," she echoed.

"Let me know if you need me to help with anything," I replied.

"Let me know if you need me to help with anything, Dear," she said.

I looked at her sharply. She smiled in return and said, "Puppy, you're incorrigible."

*******

Though we had scheduled for our visitors to arrive at 6 p.m., the first couple, the DiNardos, did not arrive until after 6:10. Miranda assured me this was not unusual. We greeted them with familiar pleasantries, and led them to the table Miranda had insisted we move out of the kitchen and into a special "dining area." When I asked why that was necessary, she said, "For reasons. Reasons you'll understand later. Besides, it looks classier."

Before anyone could be seated, another ring of the doorbell signaled the arrival of Miranda's friends. Miranda moved me towards the door, which I opened. My first observation was the need to look up. A tall, brown-skinned man not too much older than myself was escorting a silver-haired woman holding a bottle of wine.

"Dottie! Dr. Malpan!" Miranda gushed, pulling our guests inside and hugging the spry older woman like one greets an old friend. The tall man leaned over to give Miranda a hug and said in a voice as deep as I expected, "Miranda, honey, unless you're in my clinic, you call me Thomas, remember?" Turning to me, he extended a large hand and said, "Thomas Malpan. You must be Deacon."

"Yes," I answered as I shook his hand, my eyes darting from one person to the next.

"And this," Thomas said, stepping to the side, "is my wife, Dottie."

The older woman looked at me with eyes full of life and laughter. She took my extended hand, then pulled me close. Putting her hand on the back of my head, she whispered in my ear, "Don't you worry about a thing, young man. We've got this under control." And I believed her.

"Well, I'll be damned!" boomed Ray DiNardo's voice as he entered the room. "There's only one man I know who strikes that figure!" Thomas and Ray laughed as they moved towards one another in greeting. "Doctor Malpan is it now?" Ray inquired as the two shook hands. "I guess those hours spent in my biology labs weren't wasted on you, huh?"

As introductions went around, and as eyebrows rose over the odd pairing of the younger doctor and the older former professor, I stood awestruck. Miranda noticed my expression and winked. She was right. This was going to work just fine. Miranda offered a very quick tour of our "love nest," but attention was so easily shifted back to the connections the two couples shared.

As the meal began, I realized the extent of Miranda's cleverness. Dottie had once taught at the university, even coinciding with Dr. DiNardo's first years there. She had worked on a "gender equality" committee with Jeanine many years back. Thomas was a former student of Ray's (and Dottie's). Both were social enough that the conversation was lively and easy to manage. Dottie's and Thomas's May-December pairing easily distracted from Miranda and my "marriage." I was surprised to find myself not only relaxing, but even enjoying sitting and listening to the conversation as it flowed.

Miranda startled me out of my comfortable silence by instructing me to help her return the salad bowls to the kitchen. We could hear the laughter continue in our absence, and I was just about to compliment Miranda on her amazing foresight when she abruptly pulled me close. With a serious expression, she tousled my hair, messing up the professional work she had done earlier. I was too startled to ask for an explanation, and she compounded the mystery by partially untucking my carefully arranged new shirt. Then, turning me towards the door, she placed a large bowl in my hands and instructed me to take it out there. She followed with another dish, and as we returned to our seats, Dottie said, "I was wondering what was taking so long."

So began the comments about newlyweds and their difficulty keeping their hands off each other. So when Miranda asked me a little later to help her "get the wine glasses," Jeanine mumbled, to much laughter, "I hope no one is actually thirsty!" During our wine glass errand, Miranda pulled my face towards hers and kissed my lips fiercely and sloppily. Not giving me a chance to compose myself, she pushed me back towards the table. Thomas not very discreetly indicated I might want to wipe the lipstick from my cheek.

For most of the night, the burden of carrying the conversation was always deflected away from me. There were questions, sure, but Miranda was the one who recounted the narrative of our romance upon request. Miranda entertained with stories of how we were adjusting to married life. And Miranda played the part of the adoring wife well, praising me as a hard-working, considerate husband.

Then the unexpected came. As we were wrapping up the main course, Jeanine said, "Deacon, you've been awfully quiet." ("No surprise, there," interrupted Ray) "Tell us what it is about Miranda that made her stand out. All those young ladies passing through your classes over the years and you never took a second look until Miranda showed up. What made her special to you?"