with her. In fact, he was as in love with her as he would ever be with anyone.
A mangy hedge grew alongside Rick’s house. It had been planted there to cover the mystical electric meters. Invisible to casual passersby, a slender dog path ran between the house and the hedge, creating a perfect hiding place for Rick and Louise. They spent hours in their “secret place.”
Rick knew Louise was more than a friend. She was a girl, and Rick had heard interesting things about girls. So Rick bribed Louise with his prized possession, a small cherrywood pirate’s chest. In the chest lay trinkets he had collected from the bubble gum machines at the supermarket. Ornate tin rings, baby Troll Dolls with crazy hair, plastic charms for a nonexistent charm bracelet. Rick let Louise take her pick in exchange for one precious favor.
And so, behind the privet, where no one could catch them, little Rick took his first step down the long winding road of feminine mystique. He would squat so his eyes were only inches from the navel of his little girlfriend and watch as she wrestled her diminutive trousers and cotton panties (freckled with miniature blue blossoms) down over her white thighs.
The texture of the combed cotton, the blue printed flowers, the scent of fresh laundry burned onto Rick’s memory. And of course, the soft flesh, unblemished. The essence of femininity. The essence of beauty. Vulnerability. Softness. Mystery. As Rick knew intuitively, this precious perfect thing was it—the apple in the Garden of Eden. This was the central problem of the female, the puzzle of the girl, the nexus of all mystery, the conundrum to end all conundrums.
Would he be punished for this evil deed? Was someone coming, would he be caught? But no one knew. No one saw him seeing her, examining her, playing doctor. A lone robin redbreast hopped among the dandelions, cocked his head. Maybe this was Louise’s Catholic God-man keeping an eye on things? Could someone’s God cross the street if the sin were bad enough?
Six months after Rick learned Louise’s secret, she moved away, as if to get back at him. From then on, it was all about fists and dirt-eating and Rick missed her very much.
Now Rick sits in his car in the midst of the older and poorer neighborhood. He thinks, I loved that little girl. No, better than that. She was my friend. But he can’t remember how it felt. The neighborhood is strangely empty today, refusing to entertain him. He starts the car and drives home to his wife and children.
A YOUNG MAN WITH SILVERED DESIGNER SUNGLASSES cocked atop his gelled hair steers Rena into his boss’s office. Leaded-glass windows frame a stately sycamore under which the city traffic crawls. Classical cello bleeds into the room, absorbed into the thick white carpet, the heavy drapes. There are at least six sprays of red roses. And on the enormous glass coffee table stands a crystal vase choked with white lily stalks. The scent of the flowers compete with aromas of coffee, cigarettes and perfume.
A woman in a muumuu is poised by the window talking on a phone. She smiles at Rena. On her desk lie enlargements of Paul’s photographs. When Rena reaches the center of the room the woman hangs up and floats toward her, eyes twinkling. She takes Rena into her arms. Under the silk, Rena can feel the soft pillowy folds of the woman’s flesh. Despite her heaviness, she is possessed of the most lovely, perfectly made-up face. Like a porcelain doll, thinks Rena. The woman in the muumuu draws back, takes Rena’s hand and says, “Hello, there, little girl!”
Rena says, “Hi.”
“I couldn’t wait another minute to meet you!” Her wholesome scent reassures Rena. “Would you like some coffee? Some water?”
Rena says, “Water,” and the young man with the gelled hair leaves the room.
Marissa eyes Rena with an expression of hunger. She says, “Wow.” Rena grins with embarrassment. “Paul told me, but seeing you in person. Wow.”
Rena had washed
A mangy hedge grew alongside Rick’s house. It had been planted there to cover the mystical electric meters. Invisible to casual passersby, a slender dog path ran between the house and the hedge, creating a perfect hiding place for Rick and Louise. They spent hours in their “secret place.”
Rick knew Louise was more than a friend. She was a girl, and Rick had heard interesting things about girls. So Rick bribed Louise with his prized possession, a small cherrywood pirate’s chest. In the chest lay trinkets he had collected from the bubble gum machines at the supermarket. Ornate tin rings, baby Troll Dolls with crazy hair, plastic charms for a nonexistent charm bracelet. Rick let Louise take her pick in exchange for one precious favor.
And so, behind the privet, where no one could catch them, little Rick took his first step down the long winding road of feminine mystique. He would squat so his eyes were only inches from the navel of his little girlfriend and watch as she wrestled her diminutive trousers and cotton panties (freckled with miniature blue blossoms) down over her white thighs.
The texture of the combed cotton, the blue printed flowers, the scent of fresh laundry burned onto Rick’s memory. And of course, the soft flesh, unblemished. The essence of femininity. The essence of beauty. Vulnerability. Softness. Mystery. As Rick knew intuitively, this precious perfect thing was it—the apple in the Garden of Eden. This was the central problem of the female, the puzzle of the girl, the nexus of all mystery, the conundrum to end all conundrums.
Would he be punished for this evil deed? Was someone coming, would he be caught? But no one knew. No one saw him seeing her, examining her, playing doctor. A lone robin redbreast hopped among the dandelions, cocked his head. Maybe this was Louise’s Catholic God-man keeping an eye on things? Could someone’s God cross the street if the sin were bad enough?
Six months after Rick learned Louise’s secret, she moved away, as if to get back at him. From then on, it was all about fists and dirt-eating and Rick missed her very much.
Now Rick sits in his car in the midst of the older and poorer neighborhood. He thinks, I loved that little girl. No, better than that. She was my friend. But he can’t remember how it felt. The neighborhood is strangely empty today, refusing to entertain him. He starts the car and drives home to his wife and children.
A YOUNG MAN WITH SILVERED DESIGNER SUNGLASSES cocked atop his gelled hair steers Rena into his boss’s office. Leaded-glass windows frame a stately sycamore under which the city traffic crawls. Classical cello bleeds into the room, absorbed into the thick white carpet, the heavy drapes. There are at least six sprays of red roses. And on the enormous glass coffee table stands a crystal vase choked with white lily stalks. The scent of the flowers compete with aromas of coffee, cigarettes and perfume.
A woman in a muumuu is poised by the window talking on a phone. She smiles at Rena. On her desk lie enlargements of Paul’s photographs. When Rena reaches the center of the room the woman hangs up and floats toward her, eyes twinkling. She takes Rena into her arms. Under the silk, Rena can feel the soft pillowy folds of the woman’s flesh. Despite her heaviness, she is possessed of the most lovely, perfectly made-up face. Like a porcelain doll, thinks Rena. The woman in the muumuu draws back, takes Rena’s hand and says, “Hello, there, little girl!”
Rena says, “Hi.”
“I couldn’t wait another minute to meet you!” Her wholesome scent reassures Rena. “Would you like some coffee? Some water?”
Rena says, “Water,” and the young man with the gelled hair leaves the room.
Marissa eyes Rena with an expression of hunger. She says, “Wow.” Rena grins with embarrassment. “Paul told me, but seeing you in person. Wow.”
Rena had washed
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