“I never thought grocery shopping could be so scary.” She reached into the trunk of her Honda, grabbed two more bags, and started for the door.
“Where did you shop at? Because I went to Kroger and half of the shelves were bare.” I leaned on my rake as she disappeared into her front door. I looked around the neighborhood and made note of how many cars were home for a Tuesday morning. Joe was home, he did road construction and drove the company truck. Mrs. Landon’s caddy was in her driveway, she defended drunk drivers and light felony cases at a small firm. She also served as the unofficial watchdog of our street and any information she collects she shares with Janette who’s minivan is home, but I expected that, she’s a single mother of three.
“I went to Frank’s. They were out of toilet paper of course. And canned soup. Not sure what I’m going to eat for lunch now.” She grabbed two more bags and disappeared inside.
I raked, then she appeared again, “You’re working from home?” I asked.
“I am. How about you?” She took the last bag from her trunk and slammed it shut.
“I am too. I’m Bo, by the way. I don’t think we’ve ever officially met.”
“I’m Shannon.” She stood there for a moment, that uncomfortable moment between neighbors when the light conversation ends and it’s time to move on.
“You better go get that ice cream in the freezer. Nice meeting you.”
“They were out of chocolate, I’m so pissed.” She smiled and turned. I watched her as she closed her front door, then I felt a pang of desire for the first time in nearly a year.
“I found chocolate,” It was two days later.
“Oh my God. Thank you.” She took the bag. She moved away from the door in a gesture of invite.
“I saw it and thought I might save you a trip. Kroger is fairly well stocked now. Still no soup though.”
“You looked for soup too?” She leaned her head against the edge of the door and with her face she thanked me.
“Just looking out for ya. Have a good one.” I turned and headed for my house next door.
“I owe you one,” she yelled. “Do you drink wine?”
I turned, but didn’t stop walking. “You don’t owe me anything. But yeah, I drink reds, any of them.”
“My back porch, tonight at 5.”
“I’ll be there.”
At 5 o’clock I went out my back door and hopped the fence between her house and mine. I’m not a fitness guy but I do pride myself on staying spry in my forty years on this earth.
Shannon’s back yard was much nicer than mine. She had a brick patio with chairs and a round firepit that ignited with the push of a button. She was already drinking a glass of red and even before I made it to her she was filling a green tinted wine glass from the bottle on her table.
“Are these chairs socially distanced?” I said, stepping onto her patio. She handed me the glass. “I figured I’d show up informally in the back yard to keep the neighbors from talking. One in particular.” She knew which neighbor I meant.
Over the next hour we talked about everything from books, she liked fiction and the classics, to movies, which she watched little of. She kept my glass full and when that bottle was empty she went in the house and brought out another. Pop music played from an Alexa on the window sill.
The conversation during that second bottle was deeper. She was divorced. The marriage was short and her husband got lazy. She was seeing someone now, he worked overseas at times and when the shutdown happened he decided to ride it out over there rather than here.
“That decision told me all I needed to know about what this was to him.”
“I’m sorry,”
“Don’t be. It is what it is.” She emptied her glass, “Your turn.”
I knew it was coming. There wasn’t a lot to tell. Shannon lived there when Denise and I were still married. She knew I had a young daughter, we glanced at the swingset in my back yard when I said her name was Gracie.
“And since then I’ve been focused on my daughter and myself,” I hoped this was a way of putting and end to the subject. I was right.
“Alexa, play some hiphop,” Shannon said, smiling at me when the heavy beats of Dr. Dre began.
“What do you miss about it?” She asked.
“About what?”
“About marriage? I mean, not about Gracie and living under the same roof as her, but about being in that kind of reationship?”
“Touch,” I said. She looked me in the eye. “How about you?”
“The same,”
I drained my glass of the last of the second bottle.
“I should go. Thank you for the wine. Very good stuff. Let me give you my number, you can text me your shopping list. I already know chocolate ice cream and red wine are staples here, but you know, anything else.” She put my number in her phone and thanked me for coming. I didn’t feel quite as nimble jumping the fence as I did a few hours earlier. But even after we shared two bottles of wine I felt invigorated. Alive. It was like a date that went well, only this was simply two people, bored because of the lock down, having wine and talking about life.
I was just climbing into bed when my phone went off, it was from her, “Thank you again.”
I waited a few minutes, deciding what all of this meant. Because that’s what I do, I over think, over analyze. Wonder what the meaning of every word is.
“You’re welcome. We should do it again soon”
So that’s what we did, two days later, I hopped the fence and again on her back porch, we talked, music played, I brought her chocolate ice cream, only this time we met as two people who knew each other. Strangers no more. Not best friends, not BFFs, not yet anyway, but we no longer circled the subjects but rather, dove right in.
We talked about first love, first sex, and first heartbreak. She was young, younger than me when all of that happened to her. As she told me I felt drawn to her. She didn’t tell those stories like she was still sad about them, but during our sharing I felt closer to her, and as the wine in the bottles sank, an intimacy formed.
After I drained my glass, and stood to leave, she hugged me, whispering in my ear, “Fuck social distancing.” We both laughed. I held her body against mine for a long time. It all felt natural after the hours of sharing we had done that week. She’s a tall woman, nearly as tall as my 6 feet. Tall and athletic. Small breasted, something that I always found attractive.
Later, as I crawled into bed, my phone went off. It was her, “Thank you for the ice cream, and the hug, I needed that.”
Again, I laid in the dark and thought of what it all meant. I wasn’t ready for love, everything was too screwed up in my head and heart and to let a woman into that would be silly and end in disaster. Maybe she was feeling something toward me? I always wished I could read the minds of women. It would be so helpful in knowing the next move.
“You felt good against me. Thanks again for the wine and company.”
A light rain fell the next time we had planned to meet so she invited me inside. Her house was clean and elegant, and had that indescribable, woman’s touch. After the first bottle we moved to the living room and sat on opposite ends of the couch. She stretched her long legs toward me as she was telling me about the latest book she was reading, The Lover, I began rubbing her foot. She didn’t stop me. She had on tights and a long sweater, no socks. I used my thumb to massage the arch of her foot. She turned her body and placed her other foot next to it, I moved over to that one.
“Duras has a way of describing beauty that I found fascinating,” I continued with her feet as she talked. “And the way she describes the sex, you almost forget the age difference.” I moved up her legs, her calves were hard and lean. “The way his driver picked her up everyday after school, I don’t think that shit would fly in today’s Me Too world.” We laughed, she sipped her wine. We looked at each other for a long beat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“That hug, did you feel something or was it just me?” She was smiling now, lightening the weight of the question at hand.
“It felt good, and yeah, I felt something. Not sexual. Is that what you mean?”
“No, I didn’t mean sexual. I just meant,” she hesitated for a moment. My hands moved across the thin fabric of her tights, “I guess I just wonder if it felt as good for you as it did for me.”
“I think it was equal. We shared a lot of stuff, and a lot of wine. For me, it’s natural to want to hug someone after all that.”
“Good,” There was an awkward pause.
“Tell me more about the book,” I finally said, back to the safety of what we were discussing before all this talk about hugs and how good they felt.
“Hold on,” She jumped from the couch and grabbed the book from her television stand. When she returned she placed a pillow behind her and her feet were now resting on my leg. “I’m gonna read you a part that I liked. Is that dumb?”
“No, I’d like to hear.” My hands went back to her calves.
She opened the book to a dog eared page. The cover is the same as the copy on my book shelf, the face of a young girl, black and white, her hair pulled back, her lips painted dark. She could be twelve or twenty-one, a perfect image for a coming of age book about first love and womanhood I always felt.
“We go back to the apartment. We are lovers. We can’t stop loving each other. Sometimes I don’t go back to the boarding school. I sleep with him. I don’t want to sleep in his arms, his warmth, but I do sleep in the same room, the same bed. He gives me a shower, washes me, rinses me, he adores that, he puts my make-up on and dresses me, he adores me. I’m the darling of his life. He lives in terror lest I meet another man.”
She set the book on her lap, her index finger marking the page. She watches me touch her legs. “To be adored like that. I think any girl, any woman, would fall for that.” she says, then empties her glass. “I can’t have sex with you, Bo. I’m sorry.”
I looked her in the eye, mine narrow, “Who said anything about sex?”
“Nobody, but the way you’re touching my legs, it’s making me think it’s possible.”
“We’re not having sex, Shannon.” I said.
“Good. But I am enjoying that.” she glanced at my hands on her legs.
“I’ll keep rubbing if you keep reading, how’s that? But no sex, no matter what. Deal?”
“Deal. Can I fill your glass?” she took both our glasses and went to the kitchen. “So you’ve read that book?” she asked, returning with two full glasses of red
“Yeah, years ago, I forget the details but hearing you read that part was a nice reminder.” She handed me both glasses.
“Hold on,” she said. She disappeared into the bedroom. A few moments later she returned wearing a long t-shirt and shorts, the same short shorts I’ve seen her wash her car in. She sat in her place, I handed her her wine glass, then she rested her bare legs on mine. “Where were we?” She giggled.
She read another passage, my hand now on her bare skin. There was an electricity that moved between the tight skin of her legs and my fingertips. After a few minutes she rolled over to stomach. I continued to touch her, she continued to read.
“I tell him to come over to me, tell him he must possess me again. He comes over. He smells pleasantly of English cigarettes, expensive perfume, honey, his skin has taken on the scent of silk, he’s desireable. I tell him of this desire. He tells me he knew right away, when we were crossing the river, that I’d be like this after my first lover,”
“Man that’s good.” I tell her. My hands have made another advancement, to the back of her thighs. They’re softer than her calves and I press the my thumbs into the muscle and soft flesh. She continues to read. A few moments later I’m massaging the crease between leg and butt. As she reads she opens her legs a little, inviting me to continue.
“His hands are expert, marvelous, perfect,” I reach for the waist band of her shorts and when I pull at them, not only do she not resist, she lifts her hips to allows me to remove them.
“He becomes rough, desperate, he throws himself on me, devours the childish breasts,” My eyes are on the white underwear she’s wearing. A bit of lace around the legs and waist. She knows I’m looking, she must. Men are the more visual of the two and women know how to exploit it. This was a body that men desired and I wasn’t going to soon forget this moment.
The reading and touching continued. There were moments when she stopped and put her head down like she was sleeping, then she rose again and found another passage to read. Finally she put her head down and I could tell she was asleep. I pulled her t-shirt down over her panties, and moved from under her legs. I covered her with a blanket and turned off the light. I took our wine glasses into the kitchen and slipped silently out the back door.
I hopped the fence, this time feeling like a night prowler, stealth in my movements, like I’d just committed the perfect crime and was hasty in my get away. I was also clumsy after so much wine.
As I crawled into bed my phone lit up, it was her, “That was wonderful. I owe you.” Then, a moment later, “Read something good and share it with me on Thursday.”
I waited a few minutes, then responded, “I will. Good night.” I couldn’t help but imagine her moving around her house in that t-shirt and underwear, washing wine glasses and folding the blanket I had laid over her. The intimacy of the evening warmed me, then I slept.
The next morning I brewed coffee, slammed two aspirin, then went to my bookshelf. There was work to do. I had to find the right thing to share with her. I browsed the shelves, remembering the titles and the stories, the characters jumped from the bindings. By Thursday I’d be ready, I told myself. The day passed quickly as I read and replayed the way her skin felt in my hands.
On Thursday, at the same time we’d established in the two weeks we’d been meeting, I glanced around, making sure the neighborhood watchdogs weren’t on my scent, then hopped the fence that separated our yards.
“I brought wine. I couldn’t in good conscious drink on your dime anymore.” I said. She was sitting in her usual spot, a glass already filled and waiting for me next to her’s.
“Don’t be stupid.” She teased.
We watched the sun fade, talking about the virus and the devastating numbers. When it was dark she asked if I’d been reading.
“I have. It’s in the bag.” She reached into the grocery bag I brought and took out the novel.
“Betty Blue? Never heard of it. I’m sure it’s good. Let’s go inside.”
She opened one of my bottles and filled our glasses, then we moved to the couch. “Will you read me some?” She asked. I sipped my wine and without answering, opened the book.
“She came and sat down on my lap and we drank a toast. I ran my hand up between her legs.”
“Man, you went right to the sex.” Shannon said. We laughed. “Ok, keep going, I promise not to interrupt again.”
“It was the good life. I was hoping she remembered to buy cigars. I started diddling around in her panties but she stopped me.”
Shannon’s hands were on my legs, rubbing them through my Levi’s. I concentrated on the the book.
“She leaned back away from me. Her eyes lit up. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘Let me look at you.'”
“Hold on a second. Sorry to interrupt again, but, how should I say this?”
“Just say it,” I told her.
“No sex right?”
“That’s right.” I said.
“Ok, you have too many clothes on.” We smiled. I stood up and she began with my belt. I continued to read as she unbuttoned my jeans and slid them down my legs.
“I was in heaven. I let her caress my face without moving a muscle. She seemed to like that. I downed a few glassfuls of wine.”
Shannon’s hands were on my legs as I stood reading, I lifted my feet, one, then the other as she took off my socks. Her face was at eye level with my penis and I hoped the button on my boxers was intact. She moved my hips and gestured for me to sit. I kept reading.
“Betty was radiant, witty, desirable. I felt like I had gone into outer space and was floating in a vacuum. All that was left was to batten down the hatches and land in bed.”
Shannon’s hands moved in long strokes along my legs, to the tips of my toes, then back again to my thighs where she had pushed my boxers up, exposing more of my skin than what I was comfortable with in the moment. I begged the feeling off, and kept reading.
“Two bottles of wine and it was all he could to to keep from falling off his chair. The wine had made him drunk, the tenderness had made him drunk, well-being itself had made him drunk, but it was mostly the girl with the long black hair who was rolling her chest around in front of him who make him drunk.”
Shannon took my hand and moved me to the floor. Her carpet was lush and comfortable. She gave me a pillow and I laid on my stomach. Her hands moved up and down my legs, then under my shirt to my back. I pulled my shirt over my head and off, never losing my place on the page.
“She clung to him as though they’d come through a storm, her legs hooked across his back. he went into her gently, staring into her eyes.“
Her hands stopped. She had been straddling one of my legs but now she was standing behind me. When I felt her again it was the soft satin of her panties on the back of my thigh.
“By the time Betty woke up the writer was deep in a session of self-introspection, a small dreamy smile on his lips. Usually they fucked, then had breakfast together. It was the good life for the writer“
It was hard to concentrate on reading out loud knowing she was behind me in those panties. I knew what they looked like on her, magical was the right word for it. I rested my head on the pillow for a moment and she came down and rested her’s on mine, I felt her bare breasts on my back. All she had on we’re those strikingly sexy panties, and the length of her body was against mine. I felt the points of her nipples, the bulge of her pubic bone. Her feet twisted with mine.
“No sex,” I whispered. I felt her face smile against my cheek.
We stayed like that for a long time, Betty Blue was forgotten. She rolled to my side and I moved onto my back, she again planted her body against mine, careful to keep my penis away from something we might not be able to control. For as tall as she was, she felt light on me, like I could fly away with her, like the writer in the book.
“Is this what you miss?” I asked her.
“It is.” she said. Again we were silent for a long time. I reached for the book and read it from behind her, but my heart was no longer in it. We simply melted into one another, enjoying the intimacy we had forged over those weeks.
The weeks of COVID passed in exactly this way. We read, shared, and pressed our bodies together. Once we took a shower together for nothing more than to feel each other’s wet skin.
She read Colette, Plath, and Salter. I read Hemingway, Bukowski, and Henry Miller. We touched and talked. Drank new wines.
After six weeks the Governor lifted the stay at home order and the economy began to come alive again. One morning I went to the street to get the paper. Her garage door lifted and I watched her get into her car, satin blouse, black skirt, and a flash of her calf muscle. She stopped in front of my house and rolled her window down. Her hair was pulled back and her cheeks were striking.
“I’m back to work.” she said, glancing away like old lovers do when they have found someone else.
“Take care of yourself.” I smiled. Then she was gone.
A week later her boyfriend’s truck was parked in her driveway, I heard music coming from the Alexa on her back deck.
Don't Think, Just Write 