inside my body was slowly unraveling. I told no one but my therapist, who nodded thoughtfully.
After Tomas returned from his trip, I drove up to his house. We sat again in his kitchen and tried to talk about whatever it was we might begin. He said he’d had a sense, since Henry’s death,that we were being drawn to each other for some purpose, and that he’d been curious about what might happen between us. Leaning toward me, as we sat in our chairs, he kissed me, his way of saying yes to my unusual proposal two weeks earlier.
A few days later, after a breathless e-mail exchange to arrange logistics, Tomas and I sat on my living room rug. Liza had been happy to go to Tanya’s house for a sleepover. Tomas and I ate lamb stew I had made following Julia Child’s instructions. I imagined Henry nodding approvingly from his corner of the kitchen; I had remembered to salt the meat before browning. We drank glasses of the red wine I’d bought from the redheaded wine merchant in town. I sat close to Tomas. He smiled and reached over to hug me—every cell in my body was thrilled and terrified.
I had to tell him how scared and nervous I was. He told me he was nervous too. I relaxed a bit. I hoped he had remembered to bring a condom. He leaned over again, and this time he kissed me. His soft lips tasted of everything young and fresh. My insides exploded. I can’t do this.
“Let’s look at you,” he said as he took off my T-shirt. I silently prayed that my forty-something body would not horrify him. I had a flat belly. But the skin crinkled in a telltale, postpregnancy way if I leaned over. I will not lean over.
We kissed again.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I felt Henry’s presence, as if he were reclining in the sitting chair watching me. I hoped Henry understood. Tomas said he could feel Henry too as we lay down, undressed, and slid under the covers. My body felt like it was levitating. A new man was touching me in my bed. My body was lying on the bed, but my consciousness was rising out of my body, floating above the bed. I watched this scene from a height above my body, the man making love to the woman that was me.I felt him come. He sighed. My brain settled back into my head, and into my body on the bed. I felt the warmth of the sheets and Tomas’s body next to mine. I cried with relief, sobbing and gasping. He cradled my body kindly. I felt alive.
After our first night together, we corresponded daily in a loving way, letters that someone else might have called love letters, though I hesitated to use such a word because it was clear that Tomas was both available and unavailable. Sensing that too much commitment would scare him away, I tried to reassure him that I would not ask more than he wished to offer. For now, I was stunningly happy to have his company.
A few weeks later, a friend in town threw a big party. Because Tomas and I were trying hard to be discreet about our whatever-it-was-we-were-doing, we arrived at the party in our separate cars—my muddy but still fancy-pants wine red station wagon with leather heated seats and his young dude pickup truck.
After briefly parting the ranks of the beer-drinking, loud-laughing smokers on the porch (wearing my impractical but wonderful new brown suede, high-heel platform boots), I greeted Tomas in what I hoped was a casual way. I poured myself a glass of wine and chose a chair against a wall, where I could slowly sip my wine undisturbed and take some pleasure in watching the rowdy crowd. Tomas stood silently, a short distance away, but when our eyes met we smiled. Our secret was undeniably fun.
A tall young woman walked over on her tall pointy heels to greet Tomas. I wasn’t jealous, for I didn’t think of Tomas as “mine” he was more loan than gift. I watched, fascinated, as she smiled and chatted prettily, and swayed her cute, young, jeans-sheathed buttside to side, tipping her pointy toes this way and that, edging ever closer to him. His previous
After Tomas returned from his trip, I drove up to his house. We sat again in his kitchen and tried to talk about whatever it was we might begin. He said he’d had a sense, since Henry’s death,that we were being drawn to each other for some purpose, and that he’d been curious about what might happen between us. Leaning toward me, as we sat in our chairs, he kissed me, his way of saying yes to my unusual proposal two weeks earlier.
A few days later, after a breathless e-mail exchange to arrange logistics, Tomas and I sat on my living room rug. Liza had been happy to go to Tanya’s house for a sleepover. Tomas and I ate lamb stew I had made following Julia Child’s instructions. I imagined Henry nodding approvingly from his corner of the kitchen; I had remembered to salt the meat before browning. We drank glasses of the red wine I’d bought from the redheaded wine merchant in town. I sat close to Tomas. He smiled and reached over to hug me—every cell in my body was thrilled and terrified.
I had to tell him how scared and nervous I was. He told me he was nervous too. I relaxed a bit. I hoped he had remembered to bring a condom. He leaned over again, and this time he kissed me. His soft lips tasted of everything young and fresh. My insides exploded. I can’t do this.
“Let’s look at you,” he said as he took off my T-shirt. I silently prayed that my forty-something body would not horrify him. I had a flat belly. But the skin crinkled in a telltale, postpregnancy way if I leaned over. I will not lean over.
We kissed again.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I felt Henry’s presence, as if he were reclining in the sitting chair watching me. I hoped Henry understood. Tomas said he could feel Henry too as we lay down, undressed, and slid under the covers. My body felt like it was levitating. A new man was touching me in my bed. My body was lying on the bed, but my consciousness was rising out of my body, floating above the bed. I watched this scene from a height above my body, the man making love to the woman that was me.I felt him come. He sighed. My brain settled back into my head, and into my body on the bed. I felt the warmth of the sheets and Tomas’s body next to mine. I cried with relief, sobbing and gasping. He cradled my body kindly. I felt alive.
After our first night together, we corresponded daily in a loving way, letters that someone else might have called love letters, though I hesitated to use such a word because it was clear that Tomas was both available and unavailable. Sensing that too much commitment would scare him away, I tried to reassure him that I would not ask more than he wished to offer. For now, I was stunningly happy to have his company.
A few weeks later, a friend in town threw a big party. Because Tomas and I were trying hard to be discreet about our whatever-it-was-we-were-doing, we arrived at the party in our separate cars—my muddy but still fancy-pants wine red station wagon with leather heated seats and his young dude pickup truck.
After briefly parting the ranks of the beer-drinking, loud-laughing smokers on the porch (wearing my impractical but wonderful new brown suede, high-heel platform boots), I greeted Tomas in what I hoped was a casual way. I poured myself a glass of wine and chose a chair against a wall, where I could slowly sip my wine undisturbed and take some pleasure in watching the rowdy crowd. Tomas stood silently, a short distance away, but when our eyes met we smiled. Our secret was undeniably fun.
A tall young woman walked over on her tall pointy heels to greet Tomas. I wasn’t jealous, for I didn’t think of Tomas as “mine” he was more loan than gift. I watched, fascinated, as she smiled and chatted prettily, and swayed her cute, young, jeans-sheathed buttside to side, tipping her pointy toes this way and that, edging ever closer to him. His previous
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