said.
“Hello, Terese.”
“Checking out my ass again?”
“I prefer the term ‘derriere.’ And yes.”
“Still choice?”
“Grade A.”
“Ahem,” Myron said. “Please wait for the meat inspector.”
Win and Terese looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Myron had been wrong before. Emily was not Win’s favorite. Terese was—though it was strictly because she lived far away. “You are the pitiful, needy type who feels incomplete without a steady girlfriend,” Win had told him. “Who better than a career woman who lives a thousand miles away?”
Win headed for his Jag while they waited for her luggage. Terese watched Win walk away.
Myron said, “Is his ass better than mine?”
“No ass is better than yours,” she said.
“I know that. I was just testing you.”
Terese kept looking. “Win is an interesting fellow,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” Myron agreed.
“On the outside, he’s all cold and detached,” she said. “But underneath that—way down deep inside—he’s all cold and detached.”
“You read people well, Terese.”
Win dropped them off at the Dakota and returned to the office. When Myron and Terese got inside the apartment, she kissed him hard. Always an urgency with Terese. A desperation in their love-making. Pleasant, sure. Awesome even. But there was still the aura of sadness. The sadness didn’t go away when they made love, but for a little while it lifted like cloud cover, hovering above instead of weighing them down.
They had hooked up at a charity function a few months back, both dragged there by well-meaning friends. It was their mutual misery that drew them, as though it were one of those psychic crowns only they could spot on each other. They met and ran away that very night to the Caribbean on a let’s-just-flee dare. For the usually predictable Myron, the spontaneous act felt surprisingly right. They spent a numbingly blissful three weeks alone on a private island, trying to stave off the flow of pain. When Myron was finally forced to return home, they’d both assumed it was over. They’d assumed wrong. At least, it appeared that way.
Myron recognized that his own healing was finally under way. He wasn’t back to full strength or normal or any of that. He doubted he ever would be. Or even wanted to be. Giant hands had twisted him and then let go, and while his world was slowly untwisting, he knew that it would never fully return to its original position.
Again with the poignant.
But whatever had happened to Terese—whatever had brought on the sadness and twisted her world, if you will—still held firm, refusing to let go.
Terese’s head lay on his chest, her arms wrapped around him. He could not see her face. She never showed him her face when they finished.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
She still hadn’t told him, and Myron rarely asked. Doing so, he knew, was breaking an unspoken though cardinal rule.
“No.”
“I’m not pushing,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that if you’re ever ready, I’m here.”
“I know,” she said.
He wanted to say something more, but she was still at a place where words were either superfluous or they stung. He stayed quiet and stroked her hair.
“This relationship,” Terese said. “It’s bizarre.”
“I guess.”
“Someone told me you’re dating Jessica Culver, the writer.”
“We broke up,” he said.
“Oh.” She did not move, still holding him a little too tightly. “Can I ask when?”
“A month before we met.”
“And how long were you two together?”
“Thirteen years, on and off.”
“I see,” she said. “Am I the recovery?”
“Am I yours?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Same answer.”
She thought about that a little. “But Jessica Culver is not the reason you ran away with me.”
He remembered the cemetery overlooking the school yard. “No,” he said, “she’s not the reason.”
Terese finally turned to him. “We have no chance. You know
“Hello, Terese.”
“Checking out my ass again?”
“I prefer the term ‘derriere.’ And yes.”
“Still choice?”
“Grade A.”
“Ahem,” Myron said. “Please wait for the meat inspector.”
Win and Terese looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Myron had been wrong before. Emily was not Win’s favorite. Terese was—though it was strictly because she lived far away. “You are the pitiful, needy type who feels incomplete without a steady girlfriend,” Win had told him. “Who better than a career woman who lives a thousand miles away?”
Win headed for his Jag while they waited for her luggage. Terese watched Win walk away.
Myron said, “Is his ass better than mine?”
“No ass is better than yours,” she said.
“I know that. I was just testing you.”
Terese kept looking. “Win is an interesting fellow,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” Myron agreed.
“On the outside, he’s all cold and detached,” she said. “But underneath that—way down deep inside—he’s all cold and detached.”
“You read people well, Terese.”
Win dropped them off at the Dakota and returned to the office. When Myron and Terese got inside the apartment, she kissed him hard. Always an urgency with Terese. A desperation in their love-making. Pleasant, sure. Awesome even. But there was still the aura of sadness. The sadness didn’t go away when they made love, but for a little while it lifted like cloud cover, hovering above instead of weighing them down.
They had hooked up at a charity function a few months back, both dragged there by well-meaning friends. It was their mutual misery that drew them, as though it were one of those psychic crowns only they could spot on each other. They met and ran away that very night to the Caribbean on a let’s-just-flee dare. For the usually predictable Myron, the spontaneous act felt surprisingly right. They spent a numbingly blissful three weeks alone on a private island, trying to stave off the flow of pain. When Myron was finally forced to return home, they’d both assumed it was over. They’d assumed wrong. At least, it appeared that way.
Myron recognized that his own healing was finally under way. He wasn’t back to full strength or normal or any of that. He doubted he ever would be. Or even wanted to be. Giant hands had twisted him and then let go, and while his world was slowly untwisting, he knew that it would never fully return to its original position.
Again with the poignant.
But whatever had happened to Terese—whatever had brought on the sadness and twisted her world, if you will—still held firm, refusing to let go.
Terese’s head lay on his chest, her arms wrapped around him. He could not see her face. She never showed him her face when they finished.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
She still hadn’t told him, and Myron rarely asked. Doing so, he knew, was breaking an unspoken though cardinal rule.
“No.”
“I’m not pushing,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that if you’re ever ready, I’m here.”
“I know,” she said.
He wanted to say something more, but she was still at a place where words were either superfluous or they stung. He stayed quiet and stroked her hair.
“This relationship,” Terese said. “It’s bizarre.”
“I guess.”
“Someone told me you’re dating Jessica Culver, the writer.”
“We broke up,” he said.
“Oh.” She did not move, still holding him a little too tightly. “Can I ask when?”
“A month before we met.”
“And how long were you two together?”
“Thirteen years, on and off.”
“I see,” she said. “Am I the recovery?”
“Am I yours?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Same answer.”
She thought about that a little. “But Jessica Culver is not the reason you ran away with me.”
He remembered the cemetery overlooking the school yard. “No,” he said, “she’s not the reason.”
Terese finally turned to him. “We have no chance. You know
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