Dealing Flesh (24 page)

Miss Vanity:
Damned be the one who robbed me of my saliva.

After continued tries to swallow the muffin globs, they finally go down. It hurts the sensitive tissue in my mouth so much that I cannot force anymore down after that.

Ken gets in at 2:30 a.m., and I pretend to be asleep. He springs into bed next to me, but turns away from me at once. My body trembles incessantly.

Scaredy Cat:
I wonder if this is what happens before a person transitions to the other side.

“Come on, get over yourself. Knock off the shaking act,” Ken barks.

I snag a blanket and migrate into the living room where I toss and turn on the couch for a good hour. This moment Ken tramples in, demanding I drive to the bank and withdraw money to pay him half my share of “some bill” he claims I owe him.

“If I don’t get the cash right now, I’ll have the locks changed tomorrow,” he says angrily.

Scaredy Cat:
He freaks me out. What about Maus if I can’t get back into the house? She’s the only thing I’ve got left.

Tough Gal:
It’s no time to play hardball, that’s for sure. Who knows what that man is capable of? For your own and Maus’ sake, get him the money.

I speed over to the automatic teller machine and pull out the requested funds, returning to the apartment at once. Ken clutches the cash without a word and vanishes inside the bedroom.

Tired of crashing on the uncomfortable living room sofa nearly night after night, I join him inside the bed, but turn the opposite way. Not before long, his fingers fold around my waist. He presses his body against mine, starts moving his lips up and down my neck while periodically blowing into my ear.

Romy
: I want him so, sooo bad.

Tough Gal (forcefully):
Do not let him reel you back in. It’s a trap
.

I don’t remember what quickens me to repel him, but he ultimately cancels his pursuit and leaves me be.

Morning hits. Squinty-eyed, I follow Ken’s silhouette as he moves back and forth from the mirror to the closet.

Neither fully asleep nor completely awake, I drowsily abide resting on my stomach. While contemplating on flipping over to test out what kind of mood he is in, I suddenly feel my ears clog up like they would at high altitude, for instance.

A soothing but eerie hollow rushing sound, the one you hear when you stick your head into a pool of water or dive below surface level in an ocean, pulls me more and more into a trance. It is as if my mind floats around in an invisible bubble while the rest of me lies here like a deserted shell, unable to listen to any commands.

A sweet floral fragrance tingles the inside of my nose, the same scent I picked up several times over the last few weeks in diverse places, places no one but me was present at.

Scaredy Cat:
Very, very weird, but very, very cool.

Doubt Cloud:
Sure you are not hallucinating?

I don’t think so.

Doubt Cloud:
Then try lifting a finger right now, or open your eyes, or something.

I do, but nothing happens. It is like I don’t have a body.

Scaredy Cat:
Trippy, real trippy, to say the least.

I rest in this position for another minute; then inhale deeply, which breaks the calming bond with the ovum.

Scaredy Cat:
Aww. I wished I could go to that place all the time. I felt so taken care of, so loved.

~~~

Saturday at 11:00 a.m. Ken sits emotionless on top of the computer desk in the corner of the living room, watching the movers carrying the remainders of my things away. I despondently hand him the original house key now that the men hauled the last load of boxes out into the hallway.

Scaredy Cat:
So glad I made a copy. You never know. The way Ken acted lately, he seems capable of trying to use Maus for leverage.

Romy:
Not my baybee. I love him. Nothing will ever change that.

Tough Gal:
That is all fine and good, but don’t forget—dope is his master. Even if he wouldn’t want to hurt you deliberately, it does not mean he won’t. Drugs do horrible things to people, take them hostage, and level everything in their paths like you hear within those groups you’ve consulted for help.

Romy:
Aren’t you dramatizing this a bit? My honey? Purposely wanting to harm me? Ha, ha. I mean, really—we are soul mates in case you forgot.

Tough Gal:
Just my point. He is not doing stuff on purpose. He’s just doing it.

“Bye,” I say sweetly, hoping for a miracle that might bring change to Ken’s heart this instant.

“Take care,” he mumbles with plain sterility.

Maus’ soft meows inside her carrier bum me out. I lift the pet taxi off the floor but the cat keeps crying every step of the way. As I pull the door shut behind me, the crater inside my belly enlarges.

Tears dribble down my face on my march to the
guillotine
…a life without Ken.

Romy:
There must be something else I can do that will make him reconsider
?
Shhhiiittt. I have to do something. I have to. Can’t just walk out of my soul mate’s life.

I turn around on my heel and ring the bell to the apartment. Ken opens.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in for one more moment?”

“What’s up?” he says, as I step inside.

“I just want to make sure this really is what you want. Do you really want me to go?”

“It’s for the best.”

Tough Gal:
Waaalk awaaayyy…now.

“Alright then, so long.”

The door shuts again. Like a badly wounded soldier, I hobble to the helicopter…the elevator.

Romy:
Wherever you go from here, count me out because the dead don’t walk; they are just that: dead.

I get into my car and shortly after, I arrive at Janet’s house in Pacoima.

Wrong Kind of Woman

I sift through the seemingly endless emails in my office inbox while simultaneously rehashing every word that has ever come from Ken’s mouth. Questions that have been hauting me since childhood that I’ve heard many times before, as well as a whole repertoire of new ones, fly at me like balls in a pinball machine. So what exactly it is that a woman needs to possess in order to guarantee that her mate will permanently resist another? Does she need to be famous, built like an Amazon or like Cinderella, be a diva, a singer, a martial artist or a hip hop dancer, be short, tall, thin or large, black, white or yellow, hyper or calm, submissive or domineering, rich or poor, outgoing or shy, feisty, witty, or sweet, young or older? Does she need to be equipped with a chiseled midsection, a pierced navel, toe rings, tattoos and extraordinary creativity and kinkiness in bed, or could her intellect, educational status, religious belief, or kind heart make him immune to outside temptation? Would being a great cook, driving a flashy car, wearing dazzling outfits and undergarments, having plenty of friends, keeping hands and feet manicured, and having long silky hair turn him into an eternal one-woman man? I could add questions ad infinitum, but never mind.

The shrill sound of the phone propels me back onto the earthly plane.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Hi, there. It’s Ken. How are you?”

I see the sky opening up, a barrage of sunshine piercing through the murkiness of my scrambled head. At least two weeks went by since we’ve last spoke or laid eyes on each other.

Romy:
He loves me
.

“Fine, and you? What can I do for you?” I answer smugly.

“I know of a whole lot of things you can do for me.”

Unable to stay serious in the presence of his profound cuteness, I let out a giggle.

“Oh, shut up, Ken. I can’t really talk right now, so please get to the point.”

“I miss what we had.”

Entirely lost for further responses, I scramble to descend from the clouds.

“Can I pick you up for lunch, so we can talk some more?”

Romy:
Say yes. Please say yes.

Ken waits for me in front of the building, and together we drive over to a sushi restaurant a few blocks away. During our talk, I take extra care not to say anything that could give him reason to get upset. We kiss and hug by the end of the rendezvous, and I return to my desk with a newfound pep in my step.

Romy (twittering):
I’m walking on sunshine, baby
.

Several days go by without another sign from Ken.

Seeing his number on my pager this evening evokes an even bigger rush. I call him right away. He asks me to join him at his house, the place I used to call home. Once there, we make love, but something is lacking.

Doubt Cloud:
I dunno how to relax; the moment I try, images of women who may have had a piece of him lately pop into my head.

Romy:
Yeah, it’s a bummer. It’s so hard to trust him again, but it sure feels awesome to hold him. I just wonder how much longer I can get by on scraps. I don’t understand why he won’t recommit to me wholeheartedly.
I could swear he loves me but he certainly has a strange way of showing it these days.

Weeks go by during which Ken keeps one foot in and one foot out of whatever it is that we have.

Romy:
Are we still in a relationship or not? I’m so confused
.

With frustration reaching the boiling point, I leave Ken several charged voicemail messages this morning while on breakfast recess. Getting cut off by his machine before I can get it all out of my system, I call him twice more, unloading more aggravations about his unavailability and calling him a hopeless addict. Back at my desk, the telephone rings off the hook. It is he.

“You fucking bitch. Don’t ever call me an addict again. From now on, we are enemies. You’re gonna regret this. Don’t ever bother me again. FUCK YOU!” he shouts.

Romy:
My poor honey. I love him so much, but his rage unnerves me.

Our little telephone game drags out for a good ten more minutes, during which Miss Winter shoots occasional strange looks my way. To keep her from continuing, I unplug the device from the wall at once.

By the end of this week, Ken and I are talking again. Peacefully, that is. He calls me around six o’clock this evening.

“I’m gonna go to a country music concert later,” he says.

“Oh, yeah? Whom are you going with?”

“Friends.”

“Can I come?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, they are still pissed at you for dumping me.”

“Waaaiiit just a minute. Who dumped whom, dude? I never meant to leave, remember? You basically kicked me out. Fine. If you don’t want me to go, have a great time.”

“I’ll call you when I get back, okay?” says Ken.

“What time will that be?”

“Will page you around eleven.”

I hang up. Twelve thirty comes, still no Ken. Tired and disillusioned, I go to sleep.

At 9:00 a.m., I wake up with Ken on my mind. Instantly, I reach for my communication devices, but they do not reveal a single sign from him.

Ragelina:
That’s it
.
I’m not putting up with his shit any longer. Love or not, he’s crossed the line.

Hot Shot:
Gosh, I so badly need a hit from somebody hot, so I’ll know I’m still the shit.

A tall, nice looking fellow from the gym pops into my awareness, someone I have seen training there many times while I worked out with Ken, albeit at that time I could have cared less because my heart only beat for my honey.

Romy:
It still does.

Hot Shot:
Right this minute though, this dude strikes me as quite a suitable candidate to help me blow off some steam.

Romy:
But two wrongs don’t make a right.

Lustania:
I agree with Hot Shot. What’s not to like on that caramel-colored, sexily-shaped guy?

Romy:
For one…he isn’t Ken. I’m not gonna be part of this.

Avengelia:
It’s about time your ‘Honey’ gets to taste some of his own medicine.
I’m gonna go hit some weights.
If the guy doesn’t show, at least I’ll get a good cardio work out in.

I park my car in the underground garage of the fitness center, turn off my pager and mobile phone, and drop them into the glove compartment. Once inside, I hop onto the treadmill near the entrance. I can’t help but smirk when five minutes later, the anticipated fellow walks in and steps onto a stair climber straight across from me, roughly twenty-five feet away.

Hot Shot:
Déja vu, I guess.

Lustania:
Looks like it’s meant to be?

Half an hour into the workout, the guy and I accidentally collide back to back inside one of the weight rack areas. Andrew, which is what he calls himself, cracks a joke and within minutes, we are deeply entwined in a joyful dialogue. Nearly finished with all my exercises, my newfound friend seeks me out, asking if I want to grab lunch nearby. “I would like that,” I tell him. We ship out to the Thai restaurant on Ventura Boulevard. The conversation at the table is pleasant, but my thoughts are entirely with Ken. This second, my pager pulses at my hip. Euphoria engulfs me seeing his number on display.

Romy:
I told you…soul mates don’t give up on each other.

I turn the pager off, but at the same second, my mobile phone rings, exhibiting Ken’s name.

Ragelina:
That’s it.
I really can’t deal with the fucking stoner right now. I got news for you, pal. No more Miss Nice Gal. I’ll show you…

I kill the switch to the telephone as well. The next ten minutes appear like hours.

Romy:
I really shouldn’t be here. I don’t want anyone else but my honey. I am begging you—get me outta here.

I gobble the food into me faster while hinting Andrew that I must get going. We walk out to the parking lot. I administer an uninvolved hug and get on my way.

Romy:
Call Ken. Hurry.

Pretender Babe:
I can’t. I can’t lie to someone I love. Now you’re asking me to distort the truth to protect his feelings? That’s not fair. But if your happiness depends on it, hey… I guess your wish is my command.

Romy
: My poor baby. I won’t tell him about this now. It’s only gonna hurt him for nothing because nothing at all happened. I may run it by him in a few weeks or so, but not while we are going through this limbo state.