Taxi to Paris (13 page)

When I opened the last project folder, her face suddenly forced itself between the pages. Her face, as it looked when she lay there in complete relaxation. Her face, as she leaned down and kissed me. Her beautiful face, looking right at me. Longing overtook me like a torture device. I looked at the clock. I'd be home in an hour, just like I'd said, but I didn't know when she'd call. And I couldn't call her. Who knew what she was doing right now? I preferred not to imagine that. But of course I couldn't prevent it. The images cascaded before me of their own volition. I saw her in bed with another woman. I saw her caressing and kissing the other woman. No, you're much too romantic!  Remember what she told you! No! For God's sake, no!

I leapt up and threw the prospectus on the desk. Work was out of the question for the rest of the day. And I couldn't think about her without... I would soon forget how to think altogether, given those choices.

At home, I waited restlessly for the phone to ring. I tried to distract myself. I put on a CD; after a short time, I didn't care for it anymore; I chose another; after five minutes, the same thing again. The third time, I came across the Vivaldi. I looked at the cover for several minutes. I didn't play it.

I started to pace back and forth through the apartment, just like after our first night together. Suddenly, I jerked to a halt. She'd never actually said she was going to call me! And this morning, she'd been noticeably reserved. What if she wasn't going to call? What if she was never going to call? What if that was it? I didn't know her well enough to guess at the probability that she had really just taken a "vacation" with me - a vacation fling at home. And after that the usual: phone numbers that you never used, and then threw away after awhile.

I'd had the feeling this morning that she was making the farewell a little too dramatic for just one day.

The phone rang. I froze for a moment because it startled me so badly, then I dove for it.

I answered. The line was quiet, but I could tell that someone was there. Another prankster who harassed women, I bet! I took a breath to let loose my usual tirade against such callers.

"Hello," I heard her say.

My heart skipped a beat. I let the air rush back out of my lungs. "Hello," I said. It sounded scratchy. I cleared my throat. "It's nice of you to call."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" she asked. Oh, no, the day had really worn her out! She sounded exhausted, she sounded uninterested, and she sounded professional.

"Yes," I confirmed, as if I hadn't noticed her tone of voice. "But it's nice of you anyhow." I didn't much want to continue this conversation over the telephone. I wanted to see her. "How are you?"

"Fine," she said. "A little tired." If that was a little tired, then I was the Queen of Sheba!

My longing for her grew. I didn't have the impression that she was particularly interested in having any more company that evening, myself included. The most direct route seemed like the best one in this case. "You don't sound tired, you sound completely exhausted," I said. "I'd like to do something for you."

At first, the line was quiet again. She would have to think about what I could possibly mean by that offer. "For me?" she said in the same, astounded tone with which one questions a winning lottery ticket. Complete disbelief.

"Yes," I said winningly. "And only for you. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, that this is not a come-on in disguise."

She had to think about that a little while longer. Then her curiosity started to take over. "What did you have in mind?" she asked, if rather skeptically.

I didn't want to discuss it with her over the phone. Either she trusted me or she didn't! "You can try it out if you want, but I can't do it over the phone!" Had that maybe sounded a bit too insinuating?

She thought about it again for a few seconds. Then she gave up. "Well, fine. Come over." A little sigh in her voice indicated that she felt this was the lesser evil. The lesser evil, compared to having to discuss it with me. After ten women, what difference could an eleventh make? That's exactly how it sounded.

But I was happy that I'd convinced her. After I hung up, I hummed a few bars of a little waltz and danced over to my closet. I could've danced all the way to her place.

She opened the door and looked just as exhausted as she'd sounded over the phone. Although everything in me wanted to take her in my arms and hold her tight, I just kissed her on the cheek in greeting. That seemed to take her somewhat by surprise, but she said nothing.

She was wearing her silk robe again, though this time she had a pair of silk pajamas on underneath. It must feel wonderful to take those off of her! My fingertips might've been buried in an anthill, as much as they were tingling. No, tonight it was her turn - and only hers!

"Do you have a hot water bottle?" I asked as I followed her across the room. She stopped abruptly. I almost ran into her.

"A hot water bottle?" she repeated skeptically, turning to face me.

"Yes. Or a heating pad. Although - a hot water bottle would be better."

"A hot water bottle is better?" Now she was fully convinced that I had some unspeakably perverted activity in mind.

I brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. I didn't much want to stop that, either, but I controlled myself. I laughed. "To keep you warm, darling." That term of endearment still sounded very strange, but I could at least use it with her at carefully chosen times. Then perhaps she'd start to get used to it.

"But I'm not cold," she said with irritation. So I could imagine. She certainly had a hot day behind her.

"You might get cold while I'm massaging you." That was another tricky point that might cause her to bail out. "That's what I have in mind."

I watched the wariness in her face increase. I had to do something. "I told you over the phone and I'll tell you again: you can rest assured that I'm only going to give you a massage." I raised my right hand. "Indian brave's honor. How!"

She was beyond irritated. She'd probably never played Cowboys and Indians as a kid. I had.

"Do you know the scene in Victor/Victoria where Toddy says to Victoria that she can come to bed with him because it'll be much more comfortable than the sofa..." I imitated Toddy's voice, "‘and infinitely safer'? He's a fairy," I explained.

She obviously didn't know the scene. "But you're not a -" she said, now apparently rather confused.

"No, that I'm not." I laughed at the idea. "But that's exactly what I mean." I couldn't help imitating Toddy's voice one more time - I loved the film! "Infinitely safer."

She didn't really seem convinced - at least not about my present mental state - but she said, "I have a heating pad." If it was made of silk too, it would be clear why she didn't own a hot water bottle: they didn't come in silk.

"Good." Cheerfully, I sailed past her confusion. "Can you get it?"  Somewhat disoriented, she glanced around the apartment as if she'd never been there before, then she went into her bedroom. I would've followed her anywhere else, but this time I'd have to wait until I was invited in.

She did, in fact, return with a heating pad. It did not have a silk cover.

I looked around. "Well," I said uncertainly. "Where should I massage you?" There weren't all that many possibilities.

She seemed extremely conflicted. I was sure she had, up until this point, expected something entirely different. But now her doubts were returning. Apparently, she decided to jump in with both feet anyway. She turned toward her bedroom. "Here."

I followed her in. I was really curious. Her bedroom was rather luxurious, as I'd guessed, but neither overdone nor - as I should've known - sleazy. I smiled to myself when I noticed the silk sheets. "You love silk, don't you?"

"Yes. It's so comfortable against my skin."

For someone who'd gone without tenderness as long as she had, I supposed that was the next best thing. And completely risk-free. I thought of her skin, smooth as that silk, and felt the urge to touch her. But today, it was entirely up to her to set the pace.

Now came another difficult bit. For a good massage, she'd have to lie down on her stomach. I'd had good luck with a direct approach once already, so I tried it again. "I can, of course, massage several spots with you on your back, but for the truly relaxing ones, you'll have to lie on your stomach," I said. "Would that make you really uncomfortable? If it would, we can leave it."

She stood across from me, about three steps away. I could tell that this was a situation she'd never encountered before - and one she'd never imagined she'd have to deal with. She didn't know how to behave, and she didn't know what to expect. On the one hand, I was sure she still believed this was some sort of seduction tactic. On the other hand, all these odd things kept coming up that just didn't fit with that scenario. The hot water bottle, for instance.

I could certainly imagine what she was going through. This morning, we had been a pair of lovers - or at least something very like that. This evening, after a day like today, anything including the word "love" probably didn't sound nearly as appetizing as it might. So where could I fit in?

And now this. We both knew what kind of risk she took by placing herself in a position that, for most people, entailed nothing more than complete relaxation. For her, it was obviously associated with a traumatic experience. I could still recall its consequences quite vividly.

I made a suggestion. "How about if we start on your back? You can turn over onto your stomach later if you like. And if not, then that's fine, too." Despite all its luxury, her bedroom had suddenly taken on the atmosphere of a doctor's office. Nothing said here could be remotely suggestive. In any other case, that would've been just the opposite of what I wanted. Today, it was just right.

She looked at me. She untied her belt slowly and removed her robe. Well, perhaps the bit about the doctor's office had been somewhat rash!  I pretended to look for an outlet to plug in the heating pad. By doing so, I could stick my head under the bed until it cooled off a bit.

When I stood up again, she'd undressed completely and lay under the blanket. I handed her the heating pad. "I plugged it in. It should start getting warm any minute. It'd be best if you put it under your shoulders. They usually tense up first."

She examined the pad - she'd probably never used it - and laid it between herself and the pillow. She held the blanket firmly over her breasts. I almost had to laugh!

And so I began. She followed me with her eyes as I crossed the room. I got some massage oil out of my jacket pocket, took the jacket off, and rolled up my sleeves. The massage oil made quite an impression on her. She was more than surprised when I pulled it out of my pocket. I could tell from her eyes that she thought this increased the probability that I was actually going to give her a massage. I grinned. "A good housewife always has something like this around," I kidded.

I sat at the foot of the bed and looked at her expertly. "I think I'll start with your shoulders, what do you think?" Given that her shoulders were the only part of her body currently exposed, she wouldn't have to give up any of the blanket for me to do that.

I opened the bottle and rubbed a small amount of oil into my hands. Now was the time for me to practice self-control! I laid my hands carefully on her shoulders. If she didn't jump, I did - or it was both of us at the same time. The silky softness of her skin didn't exactly catch me unprepared, but I felt butterflies anyhow. All evening, I'd wanted to touch her - and now she lay here, I was touching her, and this was it. But I had promised her - and in any case, I wanted her to get what she needed for once.

I began to massage her muscles gently with my thumbs. Tense was an understatement - she was hard as a rock! She must've had quite a day. When I increased the pressure a little, she let out a small yelp. I softened my touch again. "I'm sorry," I said, "but you're so tense. It's going to take awhile before it gets much better."

"You're actually massaging me." She was nothing short of amazed.

I looked at my hands with a bit of uncertainty. "Uh - yes. I think that's what this is called."

"But you're really doing it." She still couldn't believe it.

"I think that's what you need most right now. Why shouldn't I do it?"  How could I make her understand that she had an obvious and inherent right to this? Not to the massage, but simply that someone should care about her. That seemed completely strange to her. I busied myself with practical matters. "If you had a bathtub, I'd have put you in there first to soften your muscles. It takes longer this way." She shouldn't think about anything other than relaxing.

She closed her eyes. "It can't possibly take long enough," she murmured savoringly.

I rubbed her shoulders until they finally loosened up. Then I pulled the blanket back a little and massaged her arms. The next time I pulled the blanket down, her breasts were uncovered. I swallowed as discreetly as possible. How could I be so naive to think that I could control all feeling - with this body? Her breasts rose and sank with her breath. My hands began to move toward them all on their own. Just before I touched her, I stopped myself. Unfortunately, there was nothing to massage there. I had no excuse whatsoever. Sighing to myself, I pulled the blanket down a little more. I watched her very carefully throughout this. I didn't want her to tense up again.

She blinked a little. "Are you cold?" I asked.

It took her a good minute to react at all. "No," she answered then. Her voice sounded much more relaxed than before. "It's wonderful."

"You should get a massage more often." I began to knead her hips. I almost followed that with "in your line of work." I held my tongue at the last second.

"Maybe I will," she replied casually.

I wandered over to her thighs and massaged them as well. I tried with all my might to look only at her thighs, and only where I was massaging her. I started to sweat. Thank God that wasn't too obvious or unusual for this activity. I could always say it was from the effort.