LOVE/Less

There she was, sitting behind her desk, going through a sales data report for the cosmetics agency, her eyes momentarily lost on the stats and numbers staring back at her on her computer screen when her cell phone began ringing from inside her handbag, momentarily startled her. It was Quincy, asking, or rather pleading, if she would accept his offer of meeting her for her usual lunch break at Igor's Place, located off Plaza Avenue, close to the riverside harbor. So sudden and so unexpected, her mind speedily jumbled at the thought of whatever implications were bound to result from her attempting to indulge in such a break from her normal life pattern. She'd so much wanted to turn him down with a flat no: it really was nice meeting you the other day, but as you already know, I married – being married for eight years now – and I'm very sorry for ever wasting your precious time, but I hope you won't take it too hard if I ask that you never call me anymore, and I'd like to implore you that after hanging you to please delete my number from your mind and pretend I never gave it to you. Thank you very much and goodbye. This is exactly what she ought to have said after listening to his proposal, but instead what came out of her mouth was a smile and then an acceptance to meet him for lunch in half an hour's time.

So here they now are, having first eaten a hearty meal then decided to have some ice cream from a vendor seller and take a short stroll round this side of the area. She runs a hand on her hair to stifle it from being disturbed by the presence of the strong gust of wind while Quincy leans forward on the metal rail, waiting for her to continue.

"My dream was to become a ballet dancer. I must have seen Dirty Dancing a dozen times and so much wanted to dance the way that girl did with Patrick Swayze. I had a deep crush on him when I was little."

"No harm in that."

She looked at him. "Are you mocking me, Quincy?"

"Goodness gracious, no. Tell me more, please."

"Well ... I always saw myself as a chorus girl on Broadway ... dancing in a production of Cats."

"A lovely dream. So, what happened?"

A shrug and then: "My father is what happened. He caught a stroke a month before I was to audition for dance school. Just my luck that I was the only one around to take care of him so I never made it. He never recovered anyway. A year later he passed away and that was the end of my dancing notion."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What happened after?"

"The world around me changed, and I guess in a way I changed along with it. Went in for a degree in Marketing and here I am, working in a cosmetics agency."

"Sounds more like an interesting work, if you ask me," Quincy says and takes a sip off the cone of his strawberry ice cream. "Back when I was a kid, I always wanted to be a sailor. I spent so much time in the library soaking up as much geography text books I could get my hands on, dreaming of heading out to places far from here. Hopefully discover my own El-Dorado if possible."

"What stopped you?" she asked.

He shrugged indifferently. "Just like you, the world changed and I too had to change with it. Discovered I had a knack for anything electrical and before you knew it, I was fixing everything in the house my folks saved up enough money from not calling the local repairman. Somewhere along the line, I discovered computers and since then life's been different for me."

"Just how different has it been?"

He makes a face and waves a hand indifferently before her. "Not always as I expected it would be – a lot of downs and less ups, but I have no complains. No use having one in this life. How about you?"

She's unprepared for such a question and for a moment is torn between whether or not to answer. She turns her face away from him and stares back at the distant ships in the bay waters. Raising her cone of ice cream cone to her face, she takes a couple of licks from it instead. Quincy, it seems, is a bit nervous whether or not he had said the wrong line and does right not to repeat the question. Scratching an itch under his face cap, he follows her mode and continues to lean on the rail. A moment goes by, as numerous folks hover and walk past them before she returns back to him.

"I'm surprised to see you're still with this funny hat of yours," she smiles at him. "You look so much like a Canadian fisherman."

He fingers the cap and returns her smile with one of his, feeling enormously glad that he hadn't upset her after all. "A birthday gift from a former friend of mine."

"How long have you had it?"

"Over a year plus, I think. Can't actually remember. Still surprised I haven't lost it all this while."

"Male or female, this friend of yours?"

"Female."

A hammer suddenly strikes upon her heart. "And where's this former lady friend of yours?"

"Wouldn't know. We broke up and went our separate ways about a year ago."

"How did you take it?"

"I can't really say; somethings aren't just meant to be, I guess. I was a bit naïveté at the time. I wanted to settle down and start up a family, but she wanted to head on back to college. There was nothing I could do to win her back. We shook hands, wished each other good luck and that was it."

"You say it like it was that simple, saying goodbye to someone you've known."

"There's nothing simple about it," he says. "She wanted her own life and we couldn't agree on things. It hurt when I used to think about on it, but like they say 'Time heals all wounds.'"

"Probably felt you were putting a rush on her."

"I felt the same way, too. I figured the best thing was that I leave her alone."

"I'm sorry things went different for you." She feels herself staring down at her feet while she says this. Then Quincy's hand falls beneath her chin and lightly raises it up till their eyes are burning into each others' – blue into brown – and then he says with a measure of irony: "You didn't know me back then, so you've got nothing to be sorry about."

"I know. Just that it feels as if I've known you a long time already, even though we just met less than thirty-six hours ago. Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?"

"Strange, maybe. But only when I make time out to think about it."

"And since then have you?" her voice sounded deep and yearning.

"I've thought of nothing else since yesterday aside from you."

They stand there while around them the city and the world moves on by; her hand gently steals its way upon his and holds it in a lingering grasp.

____________

It's her first scheduled visit being with Doctor MacDonald, and for some reason she steps into his office unscripted, unfocused and in a fleeting manner, totally unprepared. It's almost as if she'd woken up and planned everything this way. Today is a Saturday – Jeffery's a seven-day-a-week workaholic so he wouldn't be missing her when he's probably right now attending to some wealthy client, the type that's constantly searching for some loophole in some contract as an excuse to conceal some chunk of change from someone else's eyes – usually the government – and requires the services of someone more proficient in such cases to help him out. If ever he needs to hear the sound of her voice while taking a breather from behind his study room's locked doors – which is something he seldom indulged in – he's got her number, so why would be bother about checking up on her? And if for some reason he gets curious about where she is or what she's doing, there's a handful of excuses she can always choose from: down at the hair salon, fixing her hair, getting her nails done, sitting at home reading a book or watching a movie ... anything besides saying she's here, lying on a couch in a therapists' office, purging herself of whatever pain or burdening feeling that's gnawing at her while he sits across from her jutting down whatever as her lips endlessly divulge her thoughts into words.

"The truth is doc, I'm not happy." She begins forlornly as if letting him in on a personal secret. For a moment it feels more like they're friends from high school having a coincidental meeting to catch up on yester-years. "I haven't been happy with myself for a long time now. It's more like I've run out of love."

"Out of love for whom?"

"Myself, my life ... and my marriage ... and just about everything."

"Sounds like you've been suppressing this."

"Indeed I have. I just feel ... I feel if there's any place I can get it out of my system it must be here."

"A wise decision. Tell me how long have you been having this feeling?"

She sighs. "Being over a year now. Just last week, I was driving home from work and suddenly I got this shocking vibe running in me. I got off the Deville Expressway and drove into a cul-de-sac street. I didn't even know where I was and at that moment it never really occurred to me to wonder about that. I held the steering wheel and then suddenly I started crying. It was so scary 'cause I've never known myself to be much of an emotional woman, but there I was right there, parked in some corner of the city, crying my eyes off like a little girl and yet I knew not what I was crying for or about."

"How did you feel about you were done with your crying?"

She searches for an answer, and says: "Relieved, I guess. I don't know really ... just that I kind of felt a bit different. Not like when I'd woke up that morning."

"What did you do afterwards? Did you drive to someplace else, somewhere to unwind?"

She shakes her head. "I went home; straight home."

MacDonald scribbles something on his pad. "Have you been passing through some form of stress lately, either at work or home?"

"It has nothing to do with work, but a lot to do with silence. Lots and lots of silence I get whenever I'm at home, most especially whenever Jeffery's with me. There's just so much space between us, it's more like the Grand Canyon now, and every passing day it keeps growing wider and I feel so choked up by it."

"Forgive me for asking this but, how's the sex like between you two?"

She blurts a sudden laugh. "The last time Jeffery and I had what you'd call smashing sex was way before before 9/11 occurred, so you can how far back it's been. Since then it's mostly just work and more work for him, even during the weekends. He often locks himself up in his study and doesn't come out till I'm long asleep, and even the few times he allows himself to do it, it barely lasts a minute before he drops off to sleep and I end up cursing him in my dreams."

"You think he's got someone on the side?"

"I wouldn't really know. He keeps a lot of himself to himself; but somehow I doubt it."

"You ever approached him about it? I mean about the feelings you've been getting?"

"I tried several times, believe me I have. All the time he shrugs me off and tells me I'm going through a blue period that'll soon pass, that's all."

"How about the two of you coming to some sort of compromise and making time out for yourselves."

"The only spare time my husband can ever make is when he comes home late from work and goes straight to bed. There's barely any pause for me."

"You said earlier that you doubt he's seeing someone else, what makes you think such?"

"i can't really say for sure, except Jeffery's such an open box to read. If he's got someone else on the side, I'd have long known about it."

"Ever thought about leaving him – getting yourself a divorce?"

A long sigh escapes her lips while she continues staring up at the ceiling. "I've thought about it too, but every time I keep pushing it away. I don't know if it's the right choice or not, I just know that for a long time now, I've been so lonely with myself and I hate it. I hate it so much."

4.

Celine Dion has long been replaced with someone else. Having finished fixing dinner a long time ago and having nothing else to occupy her time with, she goes over and lies on the long sofa, reading up the last few pages of her Elmore Leonard novel while slowly tapping her feet to the voice of George Michael crooning sonorously about a slut called Roxanne. The sky outside the curtained windows has long turned into a shade of midnight. The clock hanging high on the wall announces it as a quarter after ten as she continues with her usual vigil, waiting for her man to return home.

It does take long for her to arrive at the last page of the book and thus closing it.

"Another one gone," she mutters to herself with a sigh and then drops the book on the center table. She stretches her limbs and legs on the couch and opens her mouth for a yawn. Feeling the need for a little sleep, she closes her eyes and her thoughts wander back to relieve the events of the afternoon. Her thoughts wander back to her time spent at Quincy's apartment. Back to being in his bedroom, feeling herself lost but at the same time much needed between his black pair of arms. Her lips curl imperceptibly into a smile as in her mind's eye she rewinds the tape of their meeting to start from the beginning and plays through to the scene where she'd surrendered herself to him. She watches herself being explored by his lips as his hands explored and groped her body ... seeing her clothes come off her skin while she stands there before him, letting him run his fingers through every hilltop, valley and hidden crevice that was her yearning anatomy ... soaking up the exciting pleasure of his body heat as their skin touch. Even now as she lies stretched on the sofa, even after having a final bath for the day, she can still feel every leftover of him when he had entered her, filling her up ...

Her eyes come open and the movie playing in her mind suddenly dies away as her ears pick up the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. She comes to her feet in time as the door comes open to reveal her husband Jeffery, carrying his jacket in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He sees her, gives her a smile which is followed by his mundane "Darling, I'm back home," announcement. His tie hangs askance on his white shirt, looking every bit as haggard as one who'd just returned from a distant travel yet who'd spent the last few hours in a titty bar. Although she never really knows if her husband lives a secret life as most married husbands undoubtedly do, she figures it will be nice if he does indulge himself in such. And to think that she'd been so lost in her daydreaming she hadn't even heard his sound entering the driveway.

His smile grows till it becomes a grin. The grin remains on his features even as she comes over and hugs him and for a moment she's reminded of the once high school football jock whom she'd fallen head over heels for during her stint as a varsity college cheerleader. His presence with her right here and now puts all thoughts of Quincy to a distant cubicle of her mind, at least for the time being. She would keep everything about him tucked away in there until midnight when the coast becomes clear and then she'll bring everything about him out to the forefront of her mind.

"Hey there, my sweet pretty lady," he gives her a kiss on the cheek. She perceives the familiar smell of whiskey and cigarettes on him. Except she knows very well that he never smokes. She asks him where he's been.

"Sorry about the lateness, hon." He still carries the grin on his face, and it tells her the day has been a good one for him. She helps him with his jacket and together they make their way up the stairs to the bedroom. "I scored a victory with some out of state clients today and this was just their way of showing their appreciation. Hope you hadn't been waiting up too long?"

Always he says this to her. It was more like his own way of apologizing for returning home late as usual without any thought of calling her earlier to inform her of his typical late coming. He slumps on the bed as she kneels before him, taking off his shoes and helping him out of his pants. She manages to hide the pain from her face. But that's not to say if her husband hadn't been in too much of a state to being sober he wouldn't have noticed it.

Downstairs his meal has long grown cold lying in wait on the dinner table, just as George Michael having tired of Roxanne was now doing a melancholy number on Miss Sarajevo.

* * * *

His hand turns the key in the lock and there's the sound of the latch giving way. He pushes the door open and like a dutiful ushering English butler, he takes off his French cap, makes a courtesy bow like a troubadour and waves his hand for her to step into his abode.

They have arrived together in Quincy's beat-up Ford at this four-story tenement building located on a cul-de-sac across from DeSoto Park. She'd left hers back at the office parking lot for fear of running into someone who might surprisingly recognize her car and wonder what on earth a person like herself would be doing here in a place such as this, in the downtown section of the city. During her break, she'd rendezvoused with Quincy at the cafe, but instead of them wasting time there, she'd decided to take him up on his offer of seeing his home and followed him here. If she's aware of whatever compulsion, be it conscious or otherwise, that's compelling her to be here with him, it's of little consideration. For her, it's simply the fact of satisfying whatever curious hungry demon lurking deep down inside her, everything else as of right now is of secondary importance.

His living room looks and feels more like a growing storage room and the remains of a Chinaman's junk shop. Here and there, stacks of open TV and radio sets, computer hardware and rolls of colorful cable wires lying scattered and haphazard around the sparse furniture. The windows are open but the light filtering in isn't enough to spread its warmth and brightness upon every nook and cranny of the room. Much of everything is covered with large films of dust, giving off a musty fragrance of long time neglect. A chandelier hangs lopsided with its holding wire jutting off the center of the wall where it's connected. He evidently reads the thought that was running through her mind and gives her a shrug.

"I know it ain't much, but it's what I call home for now," he says.

She nods her head. "It's alright. Though it could do with a lady's touch."

That breaks them off into joint laughter. Quincy, taking hold of her hand, leads her through the maze of cobbled stuff and leftover furniture to a passageway at the end of the room and from there it's a short walk till he opens the last door at the end and propels her into his inner sanctum.

The bedroom is quite the opposite of the living room, everywhere neat and bright and welcoming. She is taken aback by the contrasting sight and he seems to notice it in her eyes.

"Sorry about the mess out there," he said sheepishly. "Truth is, not all of those stuffs you saw are mine. The former tenants here never picked up all their stuff, and the landlord has never been a good sport to get rid of them. I've never been much of a good homeowner either to clean it up. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you," she says. "I'm good."

She stands there like a meek Cinderella in the center of his room, trying not to stare as he turns takes off first his jacket and undoes the buttons of his shirt. He throws them over the back of a chair and then takes off his shoes and the rest of his clothes till he's got on only his pair of briefs. Her eyes can't seem to take themselves off from sizing up the curves of his arm muscles, the bulge of his waistline outlining his ribs and torso ... and the noticable bulge that is his cock pushing against the fabric of his briefs. She feels herself quaking inside, like a mountain top waiting for just the right touch to unleash its load of eruption. She's very afraid of what's about to happen, but at the same time, she's anxious for it to happen.