Nobody liked Billy Simone.

When he spoke, he had a funny way of talking toward his shoes. And his pants were never quite right – sometimes too long, but mostly too short. And worst of all, Billy Simone smelled.

Of course, in sixth grade, nearly all the boys smelled. But Billy didn’t have that familiar sweaty odor. No, Billy smelled like flowers. And he always had, even in Kindergarten.

When Emily transferred in from a neighboring district, nobody thought to warn her about Billy Simone. They were too captivated by her fancy clothes and long blonde hair.

-----

Why would I be thinking of him, after all of these years?

Staring into the mirror as she brushed her teeth, Emily scrunched up her face as she pondered her past. With a shrug, she spit out the paste and finished getting ready for bed.

After the miscarriage, Emily had taken to sleeping in long t-shirts and sweatpants. Not only did these pajamas hide her sensuous curves, but they also served as one final barrier between her and her husband.

Emily stepped out of the bathroom and headed down the hall to the bedroom. As she passed the den she half-heartedly called out, “Good night, Dave. Don’t stay up too late.”

-----

Emily had been sitting on the curb, sobbing. She missed her old school and couldn’t understand why her dad didn’t want to live with the family any more.

Although she hadn’t heard anyone approach, Emily could tell someone was standing uncomfortably close. The first thing she saw when she looked up was a salmon-colored carnation. Billy was holding it out to her, but was barely looking her way.

“Thanks,” she said with a sad and confused smile.

“Any time,” Billy mumbled. “There’s tons more where that came from.”

-----

Emily stared at the ceiling, trying to force sleep to come before Dave tired of TV and tumbled into bed. The rain on the roof was soothing, but she couldn’t rest because the light from the hallway flooding in under the door reminded her of salmon-colored carnations.

-----

The next day, Emily was ready for Billy. She sat on the curb, trying to cry.

When he arrived with a flower she asked, “Where do you get those from anyway?”

“Wanna see?” Billy asked.

“Now? We’ll be late for school.”

“I don’t care,” Billy huffed. “You care?”

“Nah,” Emily agreed. “Let’s skip it.”

And for the first time, Billy looked right into Emily’s eyes and said, “Follow me.”

-----

Please let him be wearing his shirt…

Emily heard Dave go into the bathroom. Although she knew his routine by heart, she could never predict exactly how it would end. If he came to bed wearing his tank top, then she knew she was safe. But if his shirt was off, it meant he was eager for sex.

Emily didn’t dislike Dave, but the disappointment of having lost what would have been their first child weighed heavily on her weary mind. Although it had been over six months ago, Emily still felt uncomfortable making love. It just reminded her of their loss.

-----

Emily could never have guessed the secret hiding behind Billy’s house.

Although she might have figured there would be a greenhouse, she would never have believed the magic it contained. Stepping inside was like entering a secret kingdom full of vividly colored blooms. But the surprise wasn’t really the flowers. The surprise was the transformation Billy made once he was safely inside.

No longer shy and inarticulate, Billy spoke enthusiastically about his family’s small flower farm. He eagerly grabbed Emily by the hand and led her from one variety to the next. He talked lovingly about each one and the special care that they required.

Having never really considered flowers so deeply, Emily was suddenly intrigued. She listened to Billy and let his passion wash over her. And suddenly, when Billy stopped for a breath, Emily snuggled in close and gave him a kiss. She immediately knew he was inexperienced and could feel his body tremble.

She would have just stood there, kissing him all afternoon if his mother hadn’t entered the greenhouse. Yelling in a language Emily couldn’t understand, Billy’s mother made it clear she expected them out and on their way to school.

Billy walked the entire way in silence, studying his shoes.

-----

When Dave finally finished his evening routine, he entered the bedroom with his shirt on. For a moment, Emily half-wished it was off. But instead of reaching out to him, she just huddled into a ball and tried to remember the smell of carnations.

“…mousse or soufflé?” Tom asked.

I reached for my glass of wine and tried not to gulp it down. Dessert. The last course. The end of dinner. The only thing left after dessert was paying the check.

Then it was time to go home.

I smiled at Tom then took another sip of wine.

“Oh, the soufflé sounds heavenly,” I said. “Will it take long to prepare?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice.

“Don’t worry, there’s no rush. We have all night,” he said. The warm promise in his eyes made me reach for my glass again.

I really liked Tom, and it wasn’t our first date. In fact, this was the fourth time we’d gone out together, and we’d been friends for over a year. Up until now, I’d managed to avoid having him take me home. But I’d finally run out of excuses.

“Don’t be silly, Mom,” my daughter had said. “It’s been two years. Dad would want you to be happy.”

It was hard to believe that Carl had been gone so long. It seemed like only yesterday when I woke up next to him, ready to start a normal day. Six hours later, I had become a widow. Twenty-three years of marriage, wiped out in a second.

“Hey, are you OK?” Tom’s question pulled me away from my memories.

“Sure, I’m fine. So, are you having the mousse or the soufflé?”

“Hmmm…that’s a tough one. I think I’ll have to go with the chocolate mousse – there’s nothing like the taste of chocolate on the tongue,” he said with a suspicious innocence.

“Well, I’m definitely going to have the soufflé,” I said to the waiter. I stifled a smile as I saw Tom snicker. He knew exactly what I was doing – and that, sooner or later, I had to go home with him. He could afford to be patient.

Tom kept the conversation light until we left the restaurant. As we started the drive home, the darkness of night settled around us and we lapsed into a comfortable silence. Unbidden, the thought of Tom’s chocolate mousse came to mind, and I found myself wondering how it would taste on his lips, on his tongue…

Beer and pizza. That’s what I remembered of my first kiss with Carl. I’d gone bowling with a bunch of friends, and Carl had offered to drive me home. When we’d gotten there, he’d insisted on walking me to the door. I’d reached up to give him a quick thank-you-for-taking-me-home peck on the cheek, but he’d been too fast for me. Instead of brushing his cheek, my lips had met his. The peck-that-never-was turned into the kiss-that-wouldn’t stop. I smiled to myself at the memory.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Tom asked softly.

“I was just thinking about the last time a man brought me home,” I said. “My parents came out to investigate why it was taking me so long to get from the car into the house.”

“I bet you were mortified,” he said with a soft laugh. His laughter ended abruptly.

“They’re not home tonight, are they?” he asked in a strained voice.

Now it was my turn to laugh. “No, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Good,” came the emphatic reply.

Silence descended as we pulled into the drive. Without a word, Tom got out of the car and walked me to the door. He waited as I found my keys.

“Well, thank you for a very enjoyable evening,” I began. I stretched up to give him a quick goodnight kiss.

But Tom was too tall, and I ended up on my toes, reaching into the night air. As I started to lose my balance, I felt his arm steal around my back, steadying me. Then, in slow motion, I watched as he bent down, bringing his lips to mine.

Our lips lightly brushed, seeking each other in the darkness. This wasn’t the crushing, impatient kiss of youth, but a gentle exploring, teasing kiss, full of mystery and promise. His arm tightened, pressing our bodies together as our kiss deepened. My arms wrapped around his neck, urging him even closer. I had started to run my fingers through his hair when a sharp jangle broke the intimacy of our embrace. We pulled apart, startled.

I looked around and saw my keys, dropped in our moment of passion. Tom bent to grab them, then slowly handed them to me, a questioning look in his eyes.

My lips felt swollen and I ran my tongue over them. Chocolate. They tasted like chocolate. I smiled.

“You’re right,” I said. “There’s nothing like the taste of chocolate on the tongue.”

I reached out for my keys.

“Would you like to come in?”

‘Ralph loves Alice! Ralph loves Alice!’ Three quarters of a century later, the memory of those jeers still brought a catch to Ralph’s throat. If he allowed it to linger, he knew a warm pink flush would again return to his cheeks.

Greenfields Juniors. The old playground ritual was unfolding, as it had done many times before, and would do so again.

Each recess seething boyhood ebbed and flowed, in seemingly random acts of kicking balls, cuffing mates, comparing the latest crazes, until, with no apparent signal, they would suddenly swarm together like a colony with a single conscious mind.

They had spotted a girl, on her own. Someone who, these 8 and 9 year olds were increasingly realizing, was an exotic alien, dangerously disguised in the downright ordinariness of a class-mate.

A solitary girl was a challenge no boy, no group of boys, with any sense of self respect could pass by.

Was she enemy, prey, or prize? Or a terrifying yet irresistible combination of them all? Whatever it was, she would find herself at the center of an encircling throng, from which the ritual chorus would rise.

‘Rick loves Mandy!’ ‘David loves Jean!’

There was never any doubt who it would be. The common consciousness spoke. A name rose spontaneously and the chanting of the litany commenced.

Feigning a bravado he did not possess, the chosen boy, both hero and victim of the hour, would swagger forward. His intention, to plant his lips on skin: anywhere from the neck up. Hair did not count. Nor did hands. But neck, forehead, even ear. Then he could retire a champion.

But would he manage it? That was the million-dollar question. The climax of the ritual was this unpredictable encounter. The girl would of course resist, but how hard, how long, how effectively? The usual outcome was that, after a few moments of awkward wrestling, some sort of smacker might be landed in the approximate area, and both parties would fall apart, each scarlet with embarrassment. The girl would immediately find herself ignored and forgotten, as the young Romeo disappeared within the milling throng of cheering, back-slapping peers.

It didn’t always happen like that. Sometimes the bell intervened. Sometimes a teacher came by at just the right (or was that wrong?) moment. (Some of the boys half suspected that some girls actively allowed themselves to be caught, but this was almost too frightening to contemplate, with its implication that they themselves were the hunted, not the hunters.) Once, Mary Martinson had picked Fred Hanson right off his feet and cast him bodily to the ground. After this, Fred had joined the despised geeks and bookworms who sat on the benches outside the sports hall.

Today the swarming mass had found a new object of attention. Alice. Newly moved to the village, small for her barely seven years. Innocent and unaware in her shortsightedness, perhaps she had not realized the risks of solitary day-dreaming.

The noisy taunting found its voice, and a shove in the small of the back propelled Ralph, shy, awkward, self-conscious Ralph, forward.

‘Ralph loves Alice! Ralph loves Alice!’

Ralph was transfixed. Time stood still, eternity compressed into a single moment. The whole universe pounded in his ears, drowning the rising volume of his fellows’ cries.

It was true, he realized, he did love Alice. This was the only explanation for the magnetism that drew his eyes to the fine wispy hair at the nape of her neck, between her twin blonde braids. This was why the dining hall seemed filled with light if he could see her from his seat, and unutterably gloomy if he could not.

He was frozen to the spot. What could he do?

And then, something that had never, ever, happened in all the histories that any boy had ever recounted, true or not, actually took place.

With quiet composure the little girl walked towards the motionless boy. She looked up with a steady cornflower gaze that made him feel he would never breathe again. She put her child’s small hands on his shoulders, stretched on her toes, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

She turned, and the now stunned and silent crowd parted before her, like the Red Sea before Moses. Ralph walked after her. Somehow, in daring nothing, he had achieved everything. The rest were awe-struck. Where or how had he acquired this unique, inexplicable power? The encounter gave him almost mythical status.

It also gave him Alice.

He smiled, and glanced across at where she sat reading the newspaper. He still loved the wispy hair at her neck, now fine and white with age.

That occasion, which still wracked him with embarrassment, had brought Alice’s first kiss. But not her last. It had been worth every petrifying moment.

The stones were cold and damp. The chill penetrating through the thin straw and his equally thin flesh, a small frozen-lipped animal, gnawing at his bones. It was February and a fierce winter wrapped the world in white; but he could not see its beauty, only feel its malice.

There was one respite from the cold and the darkness of his cell. It was heralded by the rasping screech of rusting hinges and the intolerable brightness of an open flame.

It was then that he saw her; a pale face lit by fire. Long eyelashes spread out slender branches over dark pools, his gaunt face peering intently back at himself from their depths.

"I brought you something," she whispered, removing a small package from beneath her tunic and placing it on his plate.

He reached out slowly and picked it up. It was a chunk of bread and one side of it was warm. The warmth of her body, he thought.

"Won't you get into trouble?" he asked. He placed the bread in his mouth, tasting her skin on its crust, and found that his teeth refused to bite.

"No," she laughed, the sound echoing off the grim cell walls and dieing suddenly, like a flower blooming in a winter frost.

"Father will know it was me, thieving for the prisoners again. "

"I thank you Leontia," he said, watching his smile widen in her eyes.

"I have never liked that name. If you wish, you may call me by my cognomen... Caecus." He heard the nervousness in her voice, and understood why.

"Blind?" he asked. "But I thought... the candle...?"

"The candle is for you," she replied quietly.

He felt his chest constrict. Is that why people link the heart with love, he thought, because tenderness and passion feed it until it grows too large to be constrained by mere flesh and bones?

"I want to see you," she said in a subdued tone.

"I would like that," he replied, understanding what she meant. This would change things between them; he would no longer be just another prisoner benefiting from her mercy.

She reached out and held his face between her palms. Slowly and gently her fingers explored his features, finally coming to rest on his lips.

"You are very skinny," she smiled. "I will need to bring more food or there will be nothing left of you when you get out."

He tried to return her smile, but she felt the awkwardness beneath her fingers.

"All you did was to marry a few couples. Surely that is no great crime?"

A small sigh escaped his lips. Where did he start, he wondered. The Goths were massing across the Danube but recruitment into the legions was at a standstill. Emperor Claudius blamed it on the Romans' reluctance to leave their wives and lovers, and in response, cancelled all engagements and banned all marriages.

"I did more than marry a few men and women. I defied an Emperor. He might not consider it so trivial."

She moved closer, her deep, dark eyes staring into his soul.

"Can't you just promise not to do it again?" she asked, knowing only the authority of her father, who would forgive her anything. As the head jailor he was the Emperor in the only world she knew.

"I believe in the one God. I believe in love. I cannot simply take my beliefs and pack them away like clothes that have become too burdensome to wear."

He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. It was the first of his life, and the yielding softness of her mouth gave him a pleasure so great that it verged on pain.

The candle spluttered once, then died. He was in her world now, but he felt alone and suddenly afraid.

"I can see your face clearly now, whether it is dark or light," she whispered. "It sits inside my mind and can never be taken away from me."

She took his head in her hands and pulled him to her chest. Lost in the warmth of her body, he still felt the dampness of her tears on the back of his neck, even as she felt her tunic moisten beneath his cheek.

~*~

On the 14th of February 269 AD, four Roman soldiers dragged the prisoner from his cell into the harsh daylight of a cold winter morning. In the courtyard of the jail they clubbed him to death with wooden pikes. One soldier drew his sword and beheaded the Christian priest who had dared defy a god on earth.

Found in his cell, and addressed to Leontia, was a small note scratched in blood. She would never read it; but others would. It read:

In the darkness I found love, from your Valentine

There’s something about an online relationship that alters the natural flow of a relationship drastically. First dates follow “I love you” and first kisses often come after lengthy discussions late at night about things much more intimate than simple kisses. The first time you meet in person, you already know each other’s hopes, dreams, aspirations, and pet peeves, but you don’t know if the person you’re with looks like the grainy picture in the email attachment or if he slurps his soup or picks his teeth at the dinner table. You don’t know if he’s really as tall as he claims, because after all, you added two inches to your own height in your self-depiction. Will he mind that in the photo you sent him, your hair was blonde, but now it’s been dyed red? Will he notice the extra five pounds around your waist? (And who are you kidding, it’s really fifteen pounds.)

So you call your best friend over, and she spends an hour selecting the right outfit for you to make your strawberry blonde hair less strawberry and more blonde. Your makeup takes another half hour. Shoe selection takes fifteen minutes, and she spends another ten convincing you that you look alright. Finally, you’re ready for the most important date of your life. You make one final check of the contents in your purse to make sure you’ve got the right lipstick with you, enough mints to make it through dinner, and your Visa card. You’re so nervous that you have to check your keys four times before you lock your apartment door. He said meet him at the restaurant at seven. It is six fifteen.

The thirty minute wait before he shows up feels like forever. You’re clutching a print-out of his picture, and the sweat of your hands has made the ink blur in some places. And then, finally, the door opens, and in he walks.

He really is as tall as he claimed, but his hair is a little thinner on top than in the picture he sent. It also turns out that you’re not the only one who fudged a bit on the weight issue. But you barely notice that. The way his eyes light up when he sees you dispels any fears you may have about how he thinks you look.

You stand to greet him, and he takes your hand in yours. “Please, please tell me you’re Beth, because if you’re not, I’m in trouble,” he teases.

You smile shyly, and nod. The waiter comes, and seats you. Dinner passes in a flash. You can’t remember how long it’s been since you’ve had this much fun on a date. There’s none of that “getting to know you” awkwardness that generally accompanies first dates.

The meal ends, and you reluctantly admit that it is time to part. And then it happens. On the way to your car, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, and uses his other hand to tip your face towards his. Part of you thinks hazily, “I thought this only happened in books and sappy movies.” His lips meet yours with a confidence you do not feel.

And then you don’t feel anything. You are weightless. The parking lot disappears. The street lights around you are stars. The ground is the sky and the sky is all around you and all you feel is one big dizzy rush. There’s a heaviness in your chest and you realize you’ve forgotten to breathe. You don’t care. Part of you never wants this to end and the other part wants it to end now so you can start all over again. When he finally pulls away his confidence is gone. He is anxious, waiting for your acceptance or rejection and confirmation of the next step.

You take a deep breath, smile, and say, “I’m assuming that means we’ll be having a second date.”

Relieved, he walks you to your car, saying, “And a third, and a fourth, and a fifth.... if you’re willing.”

You climb into your car, and just before shutting the door, reply, “I’m more than willing. I’ll call you,” before driving to a home you don’t anticipate living in alone for very much longer.

It was a Tuesday morning much like any other one before. My “in” box was full, and my “out” box was empty. Though there was much work to be done, my mind wouldn’t focus. Something I couldn’t put my finger on was teasing my brain, and the distraction was keeping all constructive thoughts at bay.

I reached for the architect’s scale model of Sloan Tower and placed it in my lap, hoping for inspiration. None came. Would today be a total waste?

“So… is that a skyscraper in your lap? Or are you just happy to see me?”

A grin slowly spread across my lips. Though I hadn’t heard her voice in what seemed like forever, the timber was unmistakable. My back still to her, I took a deep breath and exhaled fully, probably for the first time since we’d last spoken. Then I swiveled my chair towards the office door and lost my breath again.

Yes, it was her, but a better her than my best memories recollected, a more beautiful her than my fantasies had ever conjured. She had always seemed fantastic to me, but now… Was she that different? Or was it just a case of absence making the heart grow fonder? Or was it something else altogether?

“What’s wrong, babe? Don’t tell me you’re at a loss for words.”

“Rachel…”

She entered my office and sat down in the chair across from mine, uninvited, yet with full knowledge that she was more welcome than anyone who’d ever sat there before.

“I don’t know what your agenda looks like today, but I was wondering if perhaps you could take the afternoon off. I’d like to hear about what’s happening in your life, and tell you about mine, too.”

While I’d always been very adept at hiding my feelings from those around me, I’d never been any good at keeping things from Rachel. And today was no different. As she gazed into my face, I could tell she was reading my thoughts: an afternoon of talking would likely lead to a night of passion.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea, do you? You’re thinking about all of the reasons we parted in the first place,” she said, her eyes growing softer with every word.

I knew her question deserved an answer, but the response in my head seemed much too cruel to utter. Yes, all of the original reasons for separating remained. Nothing had really changed. Unfortunately, my love for her had not changed, either.

Looking over at the stack of papers that awaited me, I considered, for a moment, using work as an excuse to avoid confronting the longing inside of me. But that would’ve been unfair to her. If nothing else, she deserved honesty.

“You know me well, don’t you?” I started, wondering which choice of words would sound less cutting. “Rachel, I’ll always have time for you, no matter how busy I am. And I’m so very glad to see you, much more so than I can express. But it wouldn’t be wise to-”

“Please. No explanations. It’s okay, really. I understand.”

A single tear ran down her cheek as she stood and moved towards me. Even through tears, her eyes somehow smiled at me, telling me that she had no regrets about coming all this way, even if only to be turned away. And then she hugged me, tightly. As I returned her embrace, my gut clenched with fear, the fear of loss, of losing her yet again.

Rachel released me and walked towards the office door. Turning back for a moment, she gave me the sweetest, most genuine smile. “The best feeling I’ve ever known in my life is loving you. I hope you find that with someone. I hope you find everything that you’re looking for.”

Then she was gone.

For a moment, I couldn’t move, think, or breathe. Did something like this happen to a person more than once in a lifetime? Was it possible that, together, we could overcome the obstacles that kept us apart?

Suddenly, my feet began to move as if they were unwilling to wait for the rest of me to come to my senses. Within seconds I was in the elevator lobby, but there was no sign of her. Flinging the stairwell door open, I rushed in and took the steps two at a time until I reached the ground floor. But she wasn’t there. I was too late.

Then the elevator doors opened. There, in the back corner, was my Rachel, looking lost and alone. Stepping in, I took her damp face in my hands and kissed her tears away. Then I took her lips with my own. She tasted sweet. She tasted soft and vulnerable. She tasted like… forever.

Brenda Brown was a broken woman. Her nails were chipped and her hair was in slight disarray; the gray strands limp and refusing to stay put. She went to work each morning and preformed her duties without comment, doing what she must to earn a living. The once raging fire to succeed was gone, replaced by a horrible longing that had filled her the day her daughter had died.

Since that day, two years ago, Brenda had been in a kind of daze. She had looked around at her nice home and her shiny car and wondered how the heck any of it mattered with Lisa gone. All the time that she had invested each day in making Lisa comfortable or arranging the myriad of medical appointments was empty now and she had nothing to fill it with.

She drank more than was good and she didn’t care. Her co-workers whispered behind her back about letting go and moving on with her life. Brenda cursed them and wondered how they would fare if it was their daughter who had died. Even her family had stopped trying to coax her to a better life. They spoke in their gutter-wisdom about leading a horse to water and Brenda cursed them too as she swallowed her first drink of wine for the day. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, with the prospect of many hours of loneliness yet to come.

When the doorbell rang she answered it. It was her friend Jeff. Jeff was the only one who hadn’t given up on Brenda. She alternately loved and hated him for that, depending on her mood. He greeted her as he walked in and sat on the couch. She placed the glass on the end table and sat next to him.

“You do know that you are alive, right Brenda?” Jeff asked.

Of all the things that he could have said, that one took Brenda totally off guard. She felt her resentment rising. She felt the bitter fruit of angry words blossom in her throat but was too surprised to speak.

“I was just wondering because you seem to think you were the one that died, not Lisa,” Jeff continued.

In the absence of suitable words, Brenda smacked him; the retort echoing in the dim room.

“Go ahead and smack me Brenda but it doesn’t change the fact that you are killing yourself. Yes, I know your daughter died. I wish to God that I could change that Brenda, I wish to God you had her back but I can’t and you don’t and hurting yourself is not going to change that.”

Brenda’s fury erupted, “Oh, so that’s it then. Sorry your daughter died Brenda, now cheer up and go on with life. You weren’t there you heartless ass.”

Brenda’s words were sharp with grief and coated with poison for the sole purpose of lashing out and hurting Jeff.

“In that last year, I saw her smile once Jeff, once. My Lord she was only a kid. Kids are supposed to laugh and smile you know. You dare sit here with your sanctimonious bull-crap. You dare come here to play the Holy Confessor concerned about relieving me of my burden just so you can feel all snug and secure that you tried to help poor lost Brenda one last time. You self-righteous, pompous man, get out!” Brenda screamed picking up the glass of wine again.

“And let me tell you something Jeff, don’t you ever speak to me again until you have some idea about what it is like to watch someone you love die. Not until you watch them dying and know nothing you can do will help!” Brenda screamed.

Jeff stood up directly in front of her, but instead of seeing the anger that she had hoped to provoke, she saw only a deep sadness.

Jeff looked at her, “I already know Brenda.”

His hands shot forward to cradle her face and draw her gently in. The glass of wine dropped forgotten onto the floor, where it puddled its false promises in crimson stains. His lips ignited a fire of emotion, his kiss unexpected, had shattered the unfeeling façade she had so diligently kept.

Her hands rose and tangled in his short brown hair. Her lips pressed back remembering again the comfort of another human. She could feel the heat from his body; feel his breath rise sharp and longing to match her own breathless yearning that she had denied for so long.

She kissed him and struggled to find a path back to life.

"Todd?"

I looked up from the Business section of the New York Post. Nancy was watching me from her chair three feet away.

"Todd, I'm tired of this."

With that, Nancy began scooting her chair closer to me. I screamed, toppled over my comforter's armrest, and calmly cowered behind the torn and crumpled Business section.

"Tired of what, Nancy?" I asked. But it was too little too late, as was evident by her slamming the door behind her. I sighed as I grabbed a broomstick to carefully prod her chair back into position. I knew what she meant. She was in love with me, which was her own fault. This isn't to say I didn't love her back. I did, but we could never be and she knew this.

The truth is, I've never been close to a woman. I mean physically. Emotionally, I connect with women wonderfully. Indeed, Nancy had been my closest friend these last ten years. In the literal sense, however, I've never been closer to a woman than three feet, with two notable exceptions: the first being when I was on an airplane, and the second when I woke up in a car that wasn't exactly mine (long story.) It goes without saying I've never kissed, touched, or even accidentally brushed up against a member of the fairer sex. This is a conscious decision of mine all stemming back from a childish phobia:

I'm 38 years old, and I'm afraid of cooties.

Yes, cooties. The magical wonder bugs of my youth. No one's ever seen a cootie, or even knows what they do. For me, this makes them all the scarier. I keep picturing miniature societies of lobster-like creatures who crouch on the female skin, poised and ready for an unsuspecting male host. To invade him and perform whatever evil it is they do.

I've never understood why cooties didn't just stay on women in the first place. If I were a microscopic parasitic creature with evil intents, I would much prefer to infest women. They seem so much softer. Then again, what do I know?

It's silly, I know. Logic dictates cooties don't exist. If they did, scientists would have long ago found a cure, or at the very least people would stop having sex so damn often. Perhaps I fear cooties because I have very little else to be afraid of. I live in a very small community and support myself with the large inheritance my father left for me. I don't have to worry about crime, money, career, et al. I don't even have to be afraid of death because I figured out that whole afterlife thing (another long story.)

Then there's the peer pressure angle. All the cool kids were afraid. But much like my parachute pants, the fad died long before I was ready.

Tangents aside, I realized something as I was pushing Nancy's chair back into position from a broomstick's length away: I was just as tired of all this as she was. I wanted to to touch her. Not just with my fingertips, but with my entire palm! I wanted to hold her, to-- dare I say?-- kiss her, and not be afraid of silly parasitic infestations. There was no time to waste. The moment I was done disinfecting the entire room, I sought the help of the only psychiatrist in town.

I went to Dr. Farmer's office knowing it was going to be tough, which is why I put it off for as long as I did. At the moment, it didn't matter. Nancy was worth the years of therapy I would undoubtedly have to undertake.

He cured me after only one session. And this is what he said:

"Todd, your condition is not unique. Thousands of people suffer from your phobia. True, you are the first adult case I've ever met, or even heard of, but I'll tell you what I've been telling my younger patients. Whenever you're afraid, simply remember this mantra:--"

"No mantra is going to cure me!" I curtly interrupted

But it did. By God, it did! The session lasted all of five minutes, but he still charged me for the entire hour.

I marched to Nancy's house with Dr. Farmer's mantra still ringing in my head. I heard it as I knocked on her door, I heard it when she answered, and I sure as heck heard it when, before she could say a word, I took her in my arms and kissed her.

I was right. Women are softer.

We were married later that year. And we owe it all to Dr. Farmer's mantra, the same mantra I repeat inwardly every time I feel those old fears beginning to stir again:

Circle, circle. Dot, dot.
Now I've got my cootie shot.

It was two days of the hardest work I’d ever done sitting down. Two days culminating in my first surgery. I have been separated from my husband, taken into a cold sterile room, hunched over my enormous stomach, and told to relax. How can I relax? Every horror story I’ve ever heard about coma inducing anesthesia and botched surgeries runs through my head. Yet I have no one there to comfort me. Tim and I started this together, planned it out every step of the way. Why am I scared, helpless, strapped down and alone at the end?

The doctors grudgingly allow Tim into the operating room. He is dressed in scrubs looking young and scared. Why is he frightened? He can still feel his legs. He is not fighting nausea. His entire role is to hold my hand and stroke my hair. On the other side of the curtain it’s my stomach that’s being cut open, my womb being violated.

Cold…I’m so cold. Is it the actual temperature of the room, Tim’s frozen hand in mine, or the fear I feel?
I am aware of the doctor now. Even though they said I would be numb, I can still feel my abdomen being ripped open, pushed and pulled aside to make room for new life. It matters not that there is no actual sensation of pain. Finally, the doctor exclaims “It’s a boy!”

Yippee. I am sliced wide open, cold, nauseous, scared, and now, a mom. I get a brief glimpse of a very large red object before it is whisked off to be weighed, measured, and cleaned up. With those three simple words, I become a parent, but have yet to meet my child. The nurse brings our son over for me to view, but gives him instead to his new daddy. Tim is trembling as he holds out our firstborn for me to see. I can only look at the tiny face peeking out from the swaddling blanket, eyes shut tight. My arms are still strapped to the operating table.

The nurse commandeers our son again; he’s needed in the nursery. Tim follows behind to inform the waiting family of the delivery. I am abandoned in the operating room; empty, forgotten. I feel like Bourbon Street after the Mardi Gras floats have come and gone. I don’t remember being taken to my room. My entire attention is focused on the mysterious happenings behind the closed door of the nursery.

The new grandparents have left, Tim has returned home, and I am alone with my new son. I can finally hold him in my arms with no one there fussing at me. I unwrap him and examine each and every finger and toe, marvel at his round tummy and fat legs. His blue eyes open fully for the first time. I smile and talk to him, a vain attempt to feel like a parent. After months of waiting and planning it is hard to reconcile the large baby in my arms with the person that lived in my imagination. I press a kiss on his forehead, the first kiss of many. His eyes drift shut and he dozes in my arms.

It has been five years and kisses without number, but I can still remember that first kiss. In a dark hospital, while the world outside slumbered, I kissed my son for the first time and became a parent.

Vincent read the raised numbers mounted on the hotel room door: 309. Jewel’s room. Balanced on his left hand was a pepperoni, sausage and mushroom pizza from Park Place Pizza. In his right, a six pack of Tab, Jewel’s favorite soda. Placing the cans on top of the pizza box, Vincent rapped four times on the door.

Vincent and Jewel’s relationship began four months earlier. Vincent made the first move, replying to a personal ad in a national magazine. The ad was placed by a woman simply looking for a pen pal. Intrigued, Vincent responded.

He found out her name was Jewel and she worked in the accounting department for a children’s hospital. She didn’t live across the country, but her home was still over 700 miles away. While she owned a computer, she didn’t subscribe to an internet service, hence the desire to correspond via traditional mail. Besides, she explained, e-mails seemed to her less personal than a handwritten letter. If she was going to have a real friendship, it was going to be with someone who was willing to take the time to put their words on paper.

Further letters revealed common interests in music, movies and books. They shared a similar sense of humor. Also, they understood each other’s thoughts and feelings on various topics. They got each other, Jewel would say. Vincent soon saw the possibility of this relationship turning serious.

Letters evolved into phone calls and the two grew even closer. Then, last week, Jewel mentioned to Vincent that she was planning a trip to visit her cousin. Her cousin lived roughly 100 miles beyond Vincent and Jewel was willing to stop for the night in his town, seeing as how she was going to pass by anyway. Did he want to meet her? Vincent responded in the affirmative and the two made plans.

Now he stood outside her door, lunch in hand, anxious to see the woman who was easily becoming his best friend.

“Who’s there,” a woman's voice called playfully, not expecting anyone else.

“It’s Vincent.”

The door opened and Jewel stood in the doorway. Vincent had seen pictures of his pen pal, so he had an idea of what to expect. But pictures don’t fully capture the real person. She was a heavy-set woman, standing slightly shorter than he at around five-foot-three. Her jet black hair hung with a mild wave, framing a face touched-up with only the barest of make-up. She wore navy blue sweats and an oversized blue t-shirt. Jewel looked at him with brown eyes, smiling. Vincent found her beautiful.

Vincent stepped inside as Jewel took the pizza and the soda and placed them on the small table. Then she turned toward him and held her arms out, inviting him to join her in a hug. Vincent obliged.

She was warm and soft in his embrace. He buried his face in her hair and held her close. The two gently swayed back and forth silently, enjoying the moment. Vincent pulled back a little so he could see her face. Her eyes were closed and her lips were turned up in a contented smile. Jewel never let Vincent pull too far away. She kept her face close to his, foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. Too close to see, Vincent could sense her lips mere inches away from his, her breath gently warming his face.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Vincent was the first to speak.

“I drove 700 miles to see you, Vince. You can travel the remaining six inches.”

And he did.

His lips touched hers and she took him in eagerly. He expected a traditional kiss. She surprised him with a probing tongue. They lingered, neither wanting to break the connection.

Vincent released the kiss before the duration crossed over into absurdity. He pulled away just far enough to gaze into Jewel’s face. Her eyes remained closed, her smile blissful. Once more, Vincent placed his head against Jewel’s, her soft hair brushing against his cheek. He held her a little tighter.

For the moment lunch was forgotten as the couple continued their embrace, knowing they would no longer just simply be friends.