by Mari Ness

She tipped the bottle back, far, far back, letting every last drop run past her lips, her tongue, her throat, her eyes shut as if this were all that she could handle, could touch, could experience. Get me drunk, she had said, but clearly, that was the one thing that she didn't need me to do for her, the one thing she could still do for herself.

She had not wanted, at first, to tell me. She kept her voice brittle, happy, kept on the least important of things: the problems with her food processor, which no longer liked carrots. It's fine with zucchini, she had told me sharply. It just doesn't like carrots. I, the pick-up-the-nearest-fast-food- and-pop-a-vitamin-later type, hadn't been able to empathize. Besides, I knew she was lying. I knew her too well.

It had come up over coffee, in the middle of a rant about hard carrots. I don't know how to tell him, she had suddenly cried softly. And I can't keep saying no, I can't, I can't, and if I say yes, I will die.

I put down my coffee cup.

It came out then, surprisingly seamless, as if she had rehearsed the easiest way to say this, which, knowing her, she had. Not a dark story, at first; it began in a brightly lit room, her, and a client, chatting briefly, merrily, and then the sudden pressure, the fighting, the --

I can't say it. I can't say -- that word.

She skipped over the next, knowing I would know it already, and moving to the most important part, to her.

I can't even touch Tony. I can barely even look at him now. I look at him, and --

I want to scream.

I nodded. So he just thinks I've turned against him. He's angry; I know it. I know him. This can't go on. But --

And the tears came again.

Oh god, I can't. I can't.

I offered the 90's placebo. Therapy?

She nodded. As useful as coffee.

It's a start.

Two weeks passed; we met over coffee again and again, talking of the unimportant things, the microwaves, the blenders, the coffee grinders, until it came again. I told him.

I waited.

He was so damn sweet. And angry. And sweet. And --

Her coffee cup trembled, spilled, sloshed. She bent to clean it. He wants me again.

I went to the coffee counter, ordered two more coffees, latte and mocha. We must be refined in this.

I almost screamed when he touched me.

The new mocha, too, spilled.

Why am I so afraid?

I dredged up an answer from years of Cosmopolitan and Newsweek. Delayed reaction. Fear of men. Fear of sex. Fear of pain. Fear that he won't love you as much now. Fear.

I busied myself with napkins.

Fear. Fear. Her voice cracked. What a fucking weak stupid word. I'm not fear. I'm fucking freaked. I'm--

I pushed over the latte.

I'm drinking coffee with a dyke, but her voice held no rancor, no irony.

Would you rather be with Tony?

I'd rather be in a cave away from you all, and she just as suddenly left.

I didn't call, not for days or weeks. She called me, to complain about her food processor again. Now it was handling carrots, but seemed to be cursed with zucchini.

I'm thinking about trying spinach, but I really don't know it it will work in a chicken casserole.

I looked thoughtfully at my wall of books across from my couch. Are you afraid of me?

Spinach, she continued, has such a strong taste. Do you think that Tony might taste it in the casserole?

What if I were the one to touch you?

For awhile I heard only quiet breathing, then a series of quiet clicks. Call waiting -- gotta go. Call me if you have any ideas about the spinach problem, ok?

I went to fix another strong cup of coffee.

She called three days later. Are you doing anything Wednesday?

No, I lied, and mentally planned to call Roger and Louis to cancel our get-together.

Good, because Tony's going to be out, and I really wanted to see that movie we were talking about, remember?

I could only remember the food processor. I think it's out on video now.

Another long pause. I waited for the clicks.

Well, our TV's on the fritz, and Tony hasn't had a chance to fix it...

I kept watching my wall of books.

I guess I'll bring the video over to your place, ok? Another long pause. And -- pull out the booze. I need to get drunk. I mean really drunk. Get me drunk.

Please get me drunk.

I have some amaretto and cranberry juice.

Sounds great. Be there by seven?

Sure.

In the end, I hadn't been able to find the amaretto or the cranberry juice; I silently handed her the remains of an old bottle of butterscotch schnapps, the cheapest kind, bought for three dollars at a discount Walgreens.

She didn't have a video with her, either.

We had sipped coffee, and munched Chinese food, and talked about her food processor, which from rejecting carrots and zucchini had now turned to a strong dislike of tomatoes, but remarkably, still managed to slice through lemons.

Not that I can make anything with them, and then she had laughed, a harsh sound filling the room.

She hadn't said anything for another moment, until she looked up at me. Drink? she asked, and I had dug away to find the butterscotch schnapps, and watched her drink it, sip after slurping sip, and watched the alcohol coat her mouth, and thought achingly of kissing it, of exploring every inch, to taste and release the sweet taste of butterscotch in my own mouth.

Lie down, I said, not ungently. Turn over.

I began with her feet first, touching every toe gently, then with more firmly, touching and massaging each toe, while she remained lying face down. I could feel the tension within her, could feel it leap back in as my fingers left one spot and moved to another. My hands could not do it alone. Slowly, I brought one foot to my mouth, bringing one toe into my mouth carefully, licking it lightly. She jumped.

Try to relax. Or at least lie still.

Relax and enjoy it?

I stroked her foot. Enjoyment is for coffee. Just breathe.

I rubbed my bruised mouth gingerly, and began sucking her toe again, all while massaging the other foot, and if the tension didn't leave, she did not kick.

I began to move my hands down her legs, touching her through light slacks, never taking her foot from my mouth. By now the alcohol was taking over, and she was more relaxed, no longer resisting my massage, allowing her muscles to unstiffen and relax.

I let my mouth linger on her foot for awhile, bringing the toe in and out quickly, before releasing it, moving my hands further up her legs, and moving my body over hers, sit to above her, resting on my knees, to hover above her.

I waited to see if she would struggle, would ask for more alcohol, more wine, more time.

She lay there, gently.

I placed my hands on her back. She shuddered, and I held my hands there, softly, raising the palms, so that she would feel only the lightest touch of my fingers.

Do you want me to stop?

I heard nothing from her, but felt her shudder beneath me again.

I'll stop if you want.

I allowed my fingers to trail over her back, over her blue silk shirt, lingering under her shoulders, making slow circles through the silk and over her skin.

Should I stop?

I felt the breath leave her, beneath my fingers, then fill her again. I continued my thumbs' slow circles, shutting my own eyes.

Will I be able to watch you, later?

I bent down to breathe in her ear. As soon as I've finished massaging your back, and began to dig my thumbs in a little harder, pushing against the tension, fighting the anger and pain. Try to breathe.

I haven't been able to breathe since...

I bent down again, never stopping the motion of my hands, to whisper in her ear. Here, that doesn't exist. My tongue flickered, dancing around the lobe, before I moved closer, to take the lobe into my teeth, to bite down gently. She shuddered again. Here there is only you and me and a bottle of massage oil and my hands and your body. There is nothing else.

The position hurt my back; I straightened, to continue my exploration of her back, to focus completely on my hands, my thumbs, the soft feel of the silk beneath my fingers. I could feel her shudders, her gasps, and finally her tears, as her back began heaving under her sobs. I held her as she sobbed, my hands never stopping, still caressing, massaging, moving, feeling the muscle beneath me, the hard muscles built from years of swimming and sex. I bent down again, to trail my lips over her neck, as she kept crying and sobbing. I allowed my lips to linger there, before sitting up again, to focus on the silk beneath my fingers, until the sobs softened, and the room enclosed again, to become she and I and a bottle of massage oil.

I bent down again. I'm getting a fresh pillow, I whispered, and could not stop kissing her ear again, exploring it with my tongue. And -- fair warning; silk and massage oil really don't go together.

She did not stop me as I removed her shirt, bending down to leave a trail of kisses on her still, unshuddering back, before rising to get a fresh pillow from a nearby closet. I brought it back, and removed the tear soaked one, handing her a few tissues as well. She sat up and blew her nose, crouched over, hiding her face. I took the tissues, threw them away, and came back to sit by her, touching her shoulders gently.

We don't have to go on.

She swallowed. Yes, you do.

We.

She raised her tear streaked face. We.

I bent forward, to kiss her cheek, tasting the salt. We. I took her shoulders, moved her gently down, to rest upon the pillow. We.

I reached for the massage oils beside my bed, taking the first in hand, the simple Swedish massage oil. I opened it slowly, and dribbled oil on my fingertips.

Her eyes remained shut. I moved my hands to her shoulders, to her neck, trailing down her chest. She flinched again. I shut my eyes, and rolled her over, to begin working on her back again, to rub in the fragrant oil. And this time, felt the tension, the pain, leave her shoulders and back, and felt a sullen warmness grow beneath my fingers.

I bent to kiss her neck again, and took her shoulders, and turned her over again.

My mouth followed where my fingers wandered, tasting oil on skin, tracing her breasts, and lingered over the right while my fingers caressed the left, sucked the left while my fingers lingered over the right. Her breathing deepened, grew louder, and I felt her pelvis heave. I smiled as my mouth continued to trail down her belly, towards her crotch, while my hands played with her breasts, then stopped. She gasped. We must relax both sides, I murmured, and reached for the oil again, dabbing in on my fingers, rubbing it into her skin, watching her face, still swollen and red from her tears.

I bent to kiss her cheeks lightly, a feathertouch, feeling the still swollen cheeks. Ready for the next step?

It was a jolt, a sudden spasm that threw me off. Her eyes shot open.

Don't -- don't say anything else. Don't -- don't ask me. Ok?

I almost said, all right, but stopped myself, and bent to kiss a breast instead, keeping my mouth there as I slowly slid off her slacks. They slid off easily; she had chosen the loosest of pants. Beneath them, she had the simplest of underwear, plain white cotton, with no name on the waistband. Slowly, I removed that too, and watched as she shivered again. I waited for a few seconds, until her shivers ended, then took another driblet of oil from the bottle, and placed my fingers over her sex.

She didn't move.

We can change that, I thought.

I spread her legs apart, bending them slightly, then reached out with my hand towards her head, to lift it, so that she could watch. Her eyes remained shut, and I did not try to open them, but knelt before her, on the edge of the bed, and moved my hands towards her sex again.

I dribbled oil on the top of her mound again, beginning to massage it gently, before allowing my fingers to move towards the lips, rubbing oil there. Her pelvis suddenly jumped; I paused for an instant, and dribbled more oil, massaging slowly, gently, enjoying the soft, slippery feel, and smiled when I heard the faintest of sighs, and then a slightly louder moan.

My oiled hands slipped down further, entering her with first one finger, then two, as my other hand continued to massage her gently. I moved my fingers in and out slowly, listening to her breathing quicken, sharpen, matching my movements to her breathing.

Time did not exist, he did not exist, Tony did not exist. It might have been hours that I touched her; it might have been minutes. I still do not know. All I knew was her breathing, my fingers, and the oil, the oil sliding over my fingers, now mingling with her own oils, and the longing in my left hand to touch more, to have more. I let my left hand wander, as my right continued its ongoing dance, allowing it to trail over her belly, her ribcage, her breasts -- and then her fingers touched mine.

I grasped her fingers firmly, and brought her hand to my mouth, just as my middle finger crooked slightly inside her, and her pelvis rocked, and suddenly, even breathing and fingers were gone, and the universe was reduced to her and me, to the fire and warmth I felt explode through her, to the tingling that flowed through my body, and finally back to our two clenched hands, intertwined, which held the universe, our universe, a place where rape and time did not exist, where nothing existed except for this trembling ecstasy.

I stood, to climb onto the bed, to sit beside her, never releasing her hand. Her fingers worked inside mine, slowly; I felt the tingle linger.

I can give you a broken food processor, she whispered.

I can't cook, I reminded her.

She suddenly laughed, a light smooth sound. Her fingers continued to caress mine. Something else, then?

Let me taste the butterscotch, I whispered.

Her arms moved around me, watching my eyes until her lips were over mine, a butterfly's touch, until she closed her eyes by instinct, and opened her lips. My tongue moved in, trembling on her lips, then caressing them, taking every drop of butterscotch liqueor, until finally I could taste no more, and slowly, eyes closed, withdrew, to fix two cups of coffee in the kitchen.