by Anne Lowry
(12/05/07)

I see him through the jungle of plastic tubes and hanging pouches, several patients down. He holds the hand of an elderly woman. She has her eyes closed, her face tilted away as the nurse inserts and then tapes the needle to the top of her hand. I know how she feels; I also have to look away. I can never watch as the nurse pricks my father's freckled hand, adjusts his bags of saline and chemo. The new stuff is bright red. The Red Devil, they call it.

Dad asks me a question in the soft English accent I ditched in my childhood spent overseas with Mom. Something about the magazines in the doctor's office, and I mumble a response as I stare at the man listening intently to the old woman.

He is blond, which is the first thing that strikes me because I usually don't go for blonds. But his hair is short, which I like; so short it is almost shaved. I can still make out his hairline though, and am somewhat pleased to see that it recedes a bit. There are deep lines etched in his forehead and distinctive crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He is at least my age. Perhaps a bit older. His mother looks much older than Dad. She has the same nose as her son.

I am drawn to the slump of the man's shoulders. He wears gray pants whose knees are slightly worn and a charcoal sweater with frayed cuffs. By the way his knees fold up toward his chest as he sits on the stool, I know he is very tall. He slowly strokes his mother's hand with his thumb. His compassion and his sorrow may as well be bagged liquid, seeping into my veins. I can't believe it when I feel the moisture between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together but it only makes it worse, makes me throb against the tightness. What about him, this stranger, does this to me? The size of him, stuffed into rumpled clothes? Or the way he talks to his mother, watching her face and smiling with his mouth but not his eyes as she jabbers on about mundane things that cancer patients do to make themselves feel normal.

He tosses his head from side to side, cracks his neck. And he must feel my stare because he looks right at me, through the loop of a young woman's tube dangling above one of the chairs between us. I don't look away because I want him to see me. I want him to know that I have been watching him. That I understand him. That he understands me. That he is not alone.

Dad tugs on the sleeve of my suit, asks me for some water. When I rise I smooth the jacket over my skirt. I don't look at the blond man as I head for the water cooler, but I can feel his eyes on me, on my calves and high heels. I don't know why I need this, but I do. Maybe because it's the first time I've felt something other than misery or stress in months. Not even Dad, smiling weakly at me from the chair, can shake the feel of the stranger's stare.

This is not a pub. There is no alcohol to dull or intensify the chasm of sadness that grows and grows inside me each day. I sense his stare with such clarity that it is difficult to walk a straight line. I realize that's what makes the blond man visiting the chemo ward different from the men in pubs. Those natty-looking men waving empty pint glasses don't know who I am, what I'm going through. They don't care either.

The blond man holding his mother's hand does. His eyes are like hands. They grasp my ankles, slide up my calves. They push up my skirt and open my legs. I can't take it. Not here, not now.

I am shaking as I hand the paper cup to Dad. He looks at me funny but says nothing. We're really good at that. I slide the stool to his other side, even though it's the side with the needle in his hand. My back is to the blond man now, and I sit straight and tall. I talk to Dad more than I have in weeks, so I don't think about walking over to that mother's son, throwing one leg over his lap and kissing someone who understands.

After a time, I hear a man speaking in low tones and I know it is him because I can hear the warmth in his voice. The patience. I pretend he is speaking to me. His mother answers with a wheeze. A wheelchair squeaks but I do not turn around for a long time. When I do, he is gone.

My body finally cools.

I choose to believe it is not chance that brings him and me to the same coffee shop much later that night. The teacup is at my lips when I see him slouched at the corner table, long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. One arm is propped on the table, his fingers grinding into his temple.

I think about Dad, about the Red Devil slashing his veins. I think about how I need to not cry for one night.

The teacup is hot in my hands as I weave through the cafe. The blond doesn't see me until I'm standing right in front of him. No steam rises from the surface of his full cup of black coffee.

I say hello.

He looks up. The shock of recognition is so brief I barely see it.

Then he sighs. Smiles. Says hello back. But there is weariness behind his eyes. Weariness and something else.

That's all we say, because we've both been asked the obvious question too many times by too many people. How do you feel? How do you feel? How do you feel?

We read the question on each other's face. The pat answers, as well as the biting retorts, are on the tip of his tongue, just as they are on mine. I wonder how his taste.

I put my untouched tea next to his untouched coffee. I hold out my hand. He doesn't hesitate in sliding his fingers into mine. They are dry, as if they've been washed too much. At that moment, I know him better than anyone in the world.

He asks where we're going and I tell him to my place. I live in a flat behind the coffee shop. It's in a building that used to be some sort of government house and a grand stone arch on the street marks the entrance into the main courtyard. We exit the coffee shop and I pull him under the arch. It's barely wide enough for two people, let alone a car, but the Europeans always manage to fit the strangest of vehicles into the strangest of places.

My heels wobble on the cobblestones. He stops underneath the arch.

When I turn toward him I think I see tears in his eyes, but it could just be the reflection of the lights on the street. Gently, slowly, he pushes me toward the wall. I have to step up on the narrow curb. We stand facing each other, eyes level. The strong faces we kept for our parents earlier in the doctor's office evaporate. He looks tired and I smudge a thumb over the lines emanating from the edges of his eyes. I think he will kiss me -- and God, I want him too -- but instead I feel his hand on the outside of my thigh. It rests there for a moment, still and flat and warm, then he grips my skirt, balling it up in his fist so it rides high up my leg. I am still wearing the suit from when he saw me earlier that day, after having wandered the city since leaving the doctor's office. He pauses, inquiring with his eyes.

It is dark under the arch, almost midnight on a Monday, but I wouldn't have stopped him if it were midday on Friday. And I couldn't give a shit if Chanel gets wrinkled.

I tell him to touch me.

Our eyes lock as his fingers graze my inner thighs. He touches the satin of my thong, stretches it forward so it pulls against my clit. I have to grab his belt to steady myself when he nudges aside the fabric and feels me already wet. Finally, he kisses me, devours my mouth, and he tastes better than I imagined. Everything -- the past few months, alone and with Dad -- dissipates under the urgency of his lips, the smooth stroke of his fingers. Past boyfriends used to get frustrated at how long it took me to come, but there, in public with a stranger, my legs are already watery. One thumb still on my clit, his other hand releases the button of my jacket and slides inside. The satin of my bra warms under his touch. Days and months of grief and anger press against the cork that is my skin. I am ready to be shaken like champagne. I am ready to come.

His lips travel to my neck and his breath is like a hurricane in my ear. The cool night air traces the wet trail he makes on my skin. He is breathing hard, talking to me. I smash my face into the front of his nubby sweater to muffle myself as I come. He grips me tightly as my legs give way, shaking. His hand moves so easily where I am slippery. Drips travel down my thighs. I ride his hand for as long as I can. When I subside he nudges my head up with his nose and kisses me again, this time so slow and soft that I want to cry.

He pulls away, rests his forehead against mine, and asks me if that's what I needed. If I liked it. He asks me how I feel.

Despite his closeness, despite the fact that waves still shimmer through me, I hear only the question. How do you feel?

Everything he made me forget comes back. I remember where I am, what I just did. I back away, smoothing down my skirt, until I hit stone.

We stare at each other. There is realization and regret and an apology in his eyes, but he says nothing more.

And all I can think about is Dad.

I turn and hurry across the courtyard, my suit jacket flapping open.

I don't see him at the doctor's office the following week. In fact, I don't see him at the doctor's office ever again.

A month later I come up from the Tube and see him standing across the street from the arch. The street is shoulder to shoulder with people, but I find him instantly. He wears a dark green sweater this time and a black messenger bag slung across his chest. Leaning against the barbershop windows, legs crossed and hands shoved in his pockets, he watches me emerge from the Underground and follows me with his eyes as I approach him. I don't question how he knew when exactly I come home from work. I don't care.

He looks haggard, but still handsome. And taller than I remembered.

I tell him hello.

He tells me his mother died.

He is solid in my arms as I squeeze his shoulders, and it feels like I am embracing an old friend. His face buried in my hair, he inhales. I grip tighter.

He needs what I needed that night under the arch. When I take his hand and lead him across the street, he examines the arch as if it were a specimen of global architectural importance. He sighs when we enter the courtyard, his shoulders relaxing. When he squeezes my hand, I am suddenly reminded of the feel of those fingers on my body.

On the stairs leading up to my flat he stops, turns me around. I am a step above him and it is like that night under the arch, eye to eye. He stares at my mouth as his drops open. I can see the sorrow behind the desire. He needs to forget, if only for a little while.

This time I kiss him. I press myself to him and the fact that he is already hard excites me. He makes low, desperate sounds deep in his throat. Someone opens the door at the bottom of the steps and I wrench myself away from him, wipe my swollen mouth with the back of my hand. I take him up to my flat. The messenger bag drops to the hardwood floor with a thud. My back to him, I throw my keys and purse onto the dining room table just inside the door. He shoves me against the table and a narrow strip of pain creases across my upper thighs. He lifts my hair and drags his mouth up and down my neck. From behind, he goes to work on my suit jacket.

He finds and releases with ease the tricky inner button that pulls the jacket tight across my chest. It falls to the floor. The bra proves bothersome -- or negligible. He bypasses the clasp and just shoves it up higher onto my chest. The feel of his dry hands on my hard nipples instantly makes me wet.

I tell him to fuck me.

I am wearing pants today, and they are quickly puddled at my ankles. They trap me and I can't spread my legs very far, but it doesn't deter him. Or me. I bend over the table, arms outstretched, offering myself. He caresses my ass as I hear the jingle of his belt, then the tear of the condom wrapper in his teeth. He has come prepared. He pushes inside me. I am already so slick there is no adjustment, no frustration, just pure feeling. With my legs as they are I am tight around him and he just holds inside me for a breath. I know he is savoring it, releasing his grief. He pulls out almost entirely. My hands stretch on the tabletop and I shove backward the same instant he drives into me again, and I can't contain the burst that escapes my lips. It seems to loosen something in him. He fucks me hard now, and fast. I am vibrating. The table shudders on the tile.

He grabs my hips around the front, locking me to him. His rhythm changes, turns uneven, loose, and I feel him come inside me. Except for his labored breathing, he is silent. When he pulls out it is with a whimper. I push myself up and turn around. A little line of sweat travels from his ear into his collar.

He moves to touch me, as he did under the arch, but I take his hand and kiss his fingers. I tell him it's okay and I give him a small smile so he knows I speak the truth. This time when he leaves, his palm covers my cheek. Some measure of relief softens his face. And it makes me happy, satisfied in my own way.

I see him next at Dad's funeral, five months later. I only wonder for a second how he found out: my last name is on the buzzer of my flat building. If I had known his name, I would have stalked the obits too.

He doesn't come up to me at the funeral, but stands at the back of the church, makes sure to catch my eye. He gives me a deep, slow nod, and leaves. It's enough.

He waits a week before appearing under the arch again. By then, a week is almost too much. I am craving him in ways I never would have comprehended a year ago. After the burial I have no place to go every day, no one to mother and worry over, no meds to dispense. I am utterly devoid of purpose. My need for him, this stranger, is stronger than my grief. In that empty week, it gives me something to focus on. So when I see his tall shape, slouched under the gray stone on a rainy evening, I run into his arms and he actually lifts me off the ground, crushing me to him as I did to him when part of him died earlier this year.

I can't help it; I start to cry. I haven't all week, not since the nurse came into the quiet room to tell me Dad was gone. Not even at the funeral.

We walk wordlessly to my flat. This time I quietly place my keys and purse on the table and he sets his bag gently on the floor near the door. I head for the bedroom. The city lights filter in through the half-drawn curtains. I don't turn on the light. He is a giant shadow in the doorway. He watches me shimmy out of my skirt and toss my sweater somewhere under the desk. Funny, standing there in my bra and thong I feel more exposed now than I ever did in our past two encounters.

He removes his sweater as he ambles toward me. The white t-shirt catches on his nose and he pulls it off with a shy smile. It's the first time I see his body. There are a few silver hairs on his chest, and he is thin but strong. I think he is beautiful and it makes my heart ache. I slide my fingers up his torso as his hands dip down my back to cup my ass. The way we kiss is urgent and wet. When I fumble with his belt I realize I am nervous. To cover it, I fall to my knees, taking his jeans and his underwear with me.

I take his cock in my mouth. I didn't think anything could taste better than his tongue. I was wrong. I suck him in near desperation and my scalp tingles where his fingers massage it. My thong is soaking. His breathing turns shallow and deep, then his hands grab my head and pull me away. There is a depth to his eyes that might have frightened me on the face of any other man, but with him I gladly slide back onto my low platform bed and stretch out.

He crawls between my legs, his tongue making a trail up my thigh, my belly. His body is hard and soft at the same time -- smooth, pliable skin stretched over tense muscle. This time he unlatches my bra and pulls it off my arms with a gentle scrape of his fingernails. He starts soft on my nipples, only lips and tongue at first. When he adds his teeth I arch high off the bed. When he pinches them with his fingers I am already on the verge of coming.

The thong is next and he yanks it from my legs with a snap. My thighs are damp from being covered by his mouth and I am shaking. He kisses everywhere but where I truly want it.

I tell him please. Please.

He licks my clit once, twice, coaxing the orgasm out. He shoves two fingers inside me, crooks them to the front to find my spot and I am screaming. I hardly know my own voice. He doesn't stop until I grab his head and tell him I need him to fuck me. He whispers that he needs it too.

Hooking his elbows under my knees, shoving my legs toward my chest, he enters me. Like on the table, he starts slowly, but it doesn't last. I watch his mouth fall open and I realize it is the first time I have actually seen him, actually watched his face while he enjoys me. I notice he is doing the same to me. But then he starts to move in and out of me so fast I am forced to close my eyes and just feel him. My body is limp, at his disposal. I am squeezing the comforter in my fists, arms thrown out wide on either side, when I catch the familiar change in his rhythm. He groans this time, louder and louder, as I feel the ripple of his orgasm inside me.

I am overwhelmed as he releases my legs and falls on top of me. I don't open my eyes as he kisses me. In fact, I don't open my eyes until late, late at night, when there is hardly any traffic outside and the streetlights and neon fight with daylight to illuminate my bedroom.

I roll my head on the pillow to look at him. His hair has grown out some in the past five months. It sticks out at jaunty angles now, golden against the dark sheets. He is already awake, watching me. He smiles.

I ask him if he wants some coffee.

He tells me his name is Ethan.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories