I’m late for work, but I check in on her. I open the door and peek. She lies there. Naked. Pale. Surrounded by white. Perfect. She is curled in wanton modesty, an arm covering all of one breast but only the tip of the other. A slight tuft of pubic hair escapes the curve of her thigh.
It reminds me of the very first time I saw her. It was summer, hot. The world sat by its window, hoping for a breeze. She had closed her blinds but not completely. I suppose she wanted room for the air to move, an invitation to the breeze goddess.
Whatever the reason, she was visible from my high point of vantage. Her hair then, as now, was strewn about her head and shoulders. Unlike now, her body gleamed with sweat. When she moved, the sheets were patchy-dark with it. She moved very little, though. Only far enough to escape to pale, dry sections of sheet. When she moved, she moved slowly and stiffly, as though hating the effort involved. The slatted light played in op-art patterns on the succulent contours of her body. Her hair tangled on body and bed clothes. I was mesmerized. She is different now, cool and completely still. She is paler and unmarked by zebra stripes of light and shadow. I am still mesmerized. She looks delicious.
It took a week to figure out which apartment held that window, another week to learn the name of the tenant, and yet another for a second sighting, outside and fully clothed. The blinds were never open again, though I looked ceaselessly.
I struck up an acquaintance with the building’s super. Through him, I managed an introduction. We ran into each other in the market and had a short conversation. She agreed to a date. My mouth watered for her but I was most polite and circumspect. I had all the time in the world. She would be mine.
She did not hunger for me. I knew that. It was all right. That wasn’t necessary. When she seemed disinclined to go on a second date, I told her that she had no choice. She was to be mine forever. She was to become a part of me, bit by bit. She laughed and said she didn’t think so but agreed to another date.
I prepared more carefully for that date than for anything in my life. I spent money I still don’t have. I thought of every contingency and covered it. The date was glorious.
We wined French, dined French, and danced the night away. There were violins and violets. A horse drawn carriage. Paper boats in the fountain in the square. We laughed and sang and held hands. We watched the sun rise from the highest point in the city. We had eggs Benedict and Champagne on my terrace at seven AM. She went to bed at nine, alone in the spare room. I didn’t object. I suggested it. There is time. I know she’ll never leave me.
She hasn’t. I see the perfect repose in her face and know that I was right. It was worth it. We shall be one for all time. The time for me to go to work has come and gone, however. I must be away. I’ll be back soon. Quietly, I secure the freezer door and leave.
M. L. Owen lives and writes under the ancient redwoods of Northern California and has had fiction published in numerous literary journals, including, WENSUM Literary Magazine, Cowboy Jamboree, The Headlight Review, Sequoia Speaks, and many others. Prime Woman was published, in 1997, in a small, now defunct, journal named FAYRDAW.
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