Enough Time (cont'd)

Enough Time (cont'd)

       by Dr. D.R.

                I was always told, "If you're not sure, don't."

       "But, would you like to?" She was not easily dissuaded from a line of thought. The workers behind the counter, secure from their customers, kept taking orders and calling out things to those completely out of sight in the kitchen. A funny group of old, young, dirty, clean, retired and working had gathered here today, I noticed. Yet, I could not get them clearly in my head, so the fact held little significance for me. A wicked-looking old man in a  pinched pair of overalls and with a hooked nose to make Captain Hook relieved, kept looking at Celine. She noticed but paid him no mind. She moved her legs over so he could not look up her skirt, but continued talking unconcerned.

       "Theoretically, yes, I would," I said. "I would like to give a young woman a massage, and that's final." I smiled and wished I were young, too. I thought of my clothes, my hair, my arms and my face but I did not think of her body. It would be like all the pretty young female bodies there were, simply fantastic. Mine would be like all the you-know-what old bodies in the world.

       "Let's go!" She leaned toward me, whispering, her blouse opened a little at the neck. Her blouse was light purple, like sun through a lily. Perfume surrounded her. She wore a wedding ring and it glistened on her tanned finger. Her body lithe, of course, and utterly beautiful, hidden by a skirt of cotton flowers and a sheer top through which her slip glimmered made me say yes.

       "Yes, let's get out of this place and massage!" I said, and guided her around tables by her elbow. Almost six feet tall, she stood an inch or two above me in height. She bumped her head in her haste on my door and I leaned over to kiss it better. Her hair smelled very nice. She sat close to me, her hand on mine as I shifted gears.

       We walked into her apartment, she pointed to a couch and I waited for her to stretch out there, but she pointed again and then I understood that she wanted me to lay down first. I did that. She removed my shirt and stroked my arms. She began to rub my shoulders and my lower back. She said how lovely my skin was and how muscular I was. I smiled and thanked her, not believing at all. Then she had me lower my trousers, which I did, and I lay there in my skivvies. She rubbed my legs and for a long time she lay against them, warming them and kissing them with her lips and hair. Then she returned to massaging them until I fell asleep.

       When I awoke the room was not empty. She was there still, waiting for me to get up.

       "Is it your turn now?" I asked, feeling a bit of guilt. The walls seemed too empty, no pictures hanging on them. Dishes cluttered the galley kitchen.

       "No, there isn't enough time," she said. "I have to go to classes and then to work. She was already sort of moving toward the door.

       "Thanks!" I said, and she nodded.

       "I enjoyed it," she said. She took her keys from her purse and we went outside. She locked up. I drove her to St. John's, neither of us saying much, and we parted. I have never met her again. I sometimes think that it isn't fair that she didn't get a massage, too.