Mind If I Use Your Toothbrush? Outside the pharmacy, I spotted him a half-block away and waved. Mike had seen me and waved back. I focused on his tall, rangy frame, his familiar stride as he approached. “Haven’t seen you in weeks,” Mike said, brushing his lips lightly across my cheek. “What’s new?” “Left my toothbrush behind this weekend. I was just going to buy a new one.” “You must learn to be more discreet.” Mike took a step back and eyed me up and down. “You look good.” “I assure you it wasn’t the weekend.” “Didn’t get laid?” I laughed. “I did, in a waterbed, but I think I’m losing my touch.” “How so?” “It’s getting harder and harder to seduce a man these days.” Mike took my elbow. “Com’on. Let a friend treat you to a cup of coffee and we’ll talk about it.” “I have to buy a toothbrush first.” “The coffee shop. Five minutes then.” Mike had ordered two lattes by the time I arrived. Sliding into the booth across from him, I put both hands around the steaming mug. “Want anything else?” he asked. “No, not really,” I said. Our eyes met. “I’m stalling. I’m supposed to be at a conference at the Marriott, something about a new paradigm for dealing with child abuse.” I rolled my eyes. “How about you?” Mike shrugged. “Let’s go someplace and screw,” he said. “I feel like running my hands all over you.” I never let any other man make that kind of comment. “Sounds good to me,” I teased, “but I have other plans.” “I’ve got a meeting at noon. Be done by 1:30. Go show your face at the conference and I’ll meet you outside the Marriott at 1:45.” I shook my head. “By then you may have changed your mind.” I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. Mike pulled his hand away. “Just be outside waiting.” Right on time, Mike maneuvered his motorcycle into a parking space in front of the motel and got into the driver’s seat of my dark blue Chevy. “I’ve got a few errands to run,” he said. “Do you mind?” “Does it matter?” “Sure it matters. I could do them some other time.” “What do you have to do?” “I have to drop off color samples for the kitchen,” Mike said. We drove down the winding country road to the new house he was finishing. It’s a miracle this house ever got built, I thought, remembering the last time I’d seen it, nearly nine months earlier. I woke early, but the day was already hot and the sheets damp with perspiration. I took a cool shower and washed my hair, but the uneasiness didn’t let up. After splashing myself with cologne, I put on a denim skirt and t-shirt. Half-dazed, I found myself behind the steering wheel driving down the road to the half-finished house. How long had it been since I’d seen Mike? I bumped into him at the supermarket several weeks before. We spent a few minutes chatting until a frazzled woman with a baby rammed her shopping cart between us. As I approached the house, I had no idea if he would be there. Then I saw him roaring down the unpaved drive from the house, his motorcycle blowing a torrent of dirt in every direction. Mike killed the throttle. I got out of my car, immediately aware of thick dust settling over me. “Hi,” he said, unfastening the strap of his helmet and taking it off. “What are you doing out here?” I hardly recognized him. He had lost weight, his clothes were filthy, eyes glassy. Clearly, he hadn’t shaved for several days. “Are you okay?” I asked, deflecting his question. “Just need a bath.” “Been working on the house?” I asked gingerly. “It’s almost done.” I approached him and touched his beard. “You don’t seem okay.” “I know I look a mess,” Mike said. “I was just going home to change.” The sun was beating down. I closed my eyes and felt perspiration running between my breasts. My mouth was full of grit. Averting his eyes, Mike began fidgeting with dials on the motorcycle. “What brings you here?” he asked again. “I had a feeling you’d be here.”I put my hand on his arm and he didn’t pull away. “Is there anything I can do?” “No.” I stepped away from him. “How’s the house coming along? “Slowly.” “Need money to finish it?” “Babe, I always need money.” Mike began brushing dust off his well-soiled jeans. Then, he blurted. “I don’t know whether I’m coming or going these days. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, if I ate anything. I can’t remember coming out here. I must have blacked out.” Before I could think of what to say, Mike started up the motorcycle and strapped on his helmet. “Look, I have to get home,” he said. He waved as he sped off, spraying up another cloud of dust. I turned away, shielding my face with my hands, the heat unrelenting. “It looks deserted,” I said, as he pulled the car up in front of the house. “It’s sold. There’s a family living in it. I’m going to let them choose colors for the kitchen. Then it will be finished.” “Make any money on it?” “At the closing, I was lucky to get away with my hide.” Mike got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A young girl with braids opened the door cautiously. “I have one more stop.” Mike said, as he pulled into the parking lot behind the Victorian apartment house he owned. The downstairs tenants, college girls, were not home. A note detailing repairs was propped against the toaster. Mike glanced at the note, crumbled it up, and tossed it into a wastebasket. I wandered through rooms I’d been in before. When Mike moved in right after his divorce, the rooms were barren, almost monastic, and in need of basics—coat of paint, new faucets. Since he only planned to stay a few weeks, and then rent the place, he didn’t bother to fix it up. His wife got everything useful or valuable in the divorce. Now a clutter of clothes, wall hangings, papers and books, several cats, a litter box in need of a good cleaning, and hanging plants couldn’t disguise the deterioration. “Do you remember how many times we made love in this apartment?” I asked. “Was that you?” Mike teased. “Do you remember how many times you couldn’t get it up?” I countered. “Take this,” he said, ignoring my comment. Mike handed me one end of a metal tape. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a spot across the room. “What are you measuring for?” “I want to rent both floors as office space.” “How will you get the tenants out?” “They’re on thirty days’ notice upstairs and the lease down here is running out.” “The shape this place is in you’re lucky to have tenants at all.” “What do you mean? I just raised the rent.” “No kidding,” I said, letting go of my end of the tape. I watched it snake across the room and snap into the metal case he was holding. The upstairs tenants, a group of foreign students, didn’t remember getting a letter about the rent increase. I kept looking at their feet. This was the first time I’d actually met them, although I heard their feet padding across the ceiling when I lay awake beside Mike in bed. “They’re nice kids,” he said. As Mike handed me one end of the ruler again and stretched it across the kitchen, one of the students also wondered what the measuring was about. “I’m going to redecorate,” Mike said. “Just look at the linoleum.” He kicked a section which pulled away from the subflooring and a large piece broke off. “You’re going to fix that?” The student sounded skeptical. “Sure,” Mike said, “right away.” “Where to now?” I asked, as I slid into the passenger seat of my car and dismissed what just happened in the house. I was well aware of how Mike conducted business. Distracted, Mike began making notes in his datebook. “Wherever you want to go,” he said, absently. I wanted his full attention. “I heard you’re back with Emily.” Mike nodded, but didn’t look up from his writing. “Does she know? Does she mind your being with other women?” Mike snapped his datebook shut and looked at me. “She’d probably be unhappy if she knew it was you.” “Christ, she puts up with a lot.” “Not to change the subject or anything, but where do you want to go?” “Dammit, this was your idea, you decide.” Pulling up in front of a deli, Mike cut the engine. “I’ll be right out.” A few minutes later, he emerged with a handful of chocolate bars, a pack of cigarettes, and two sodas. “I thought you didn’t like chocolate?” “I don’t, “Mike replied, “but I’m hungry. He handed me the chocolate bars. I unwrapped one and fed it to him as we drove to a motel a few miles away. “Feels like old times,” I said as Mike unlocked the motel room door. But once inside the room, I felt uneasy, maybe because we hadn’t been together for a while and I didn’t like going to motels anymore. Or maybe it had something to do with the weekend I just spent with that guy, who had trouble keeping an erection. I sat on the edge of the double bed and surveyed the room. A clumsy print of a bald eagle hung over the bed, its head turned discreetly up. The walls were knotty pine and the blue chenille bedspread was shedding tufts. The thermostat didn’t work. Mike kept complaining about how cold it was as he pushed the lever up and down in frustration. I took my purse and went into the bathroom, where water in the toilet bowl was rusty, and the towels dampish. “Geez,” I thought as I unearthed my new blue toothbrush and placed it on the narrow rim of the sink. By the time I finished in the bathroom, Mike was undressed and under the covers, still complaining about the lack of heat. I began to wonder if I wanted to stay in this dump, but I took off my skirt and sweater anyway and stretched out on top of the spread. “Aren’t you going to take off the rest of your clothes and climb under the covers?” “In a minute,” I said, running my fingers through his thick hair. With my head on his bare chest, I closed my eyes and tried to calculate how long we’d been involved during our affair and after we started dating others. One time in particular remained vivid. It had been a warm summer evening. Mike called around dinnertime. I could tell by his voice he’d been drinking. We went out for pizza and, as luck would have it, we ran into my ex-husband and his friend. The meeting was brief, and, fortunately, not unpleasant. “I didn’t plan it,” I said, after we ordered pepperoni and extra cheese. “I know you didn’t,” Mike said. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” “Not really,” I replied, remembering how abusive my husband had been when he thought I was sleeping with Mike. I put it out of my mind. Outside the pizza place, Mike glanced at his watch. “It’s early. What would you like to do? “I don’t care, except that I want to drive,” I said. I didn’t trust him, not after he totaled a brand-new Lexus. Mike opened the driver’s side door for me. “Want to visit Ken? He’s a producer for a TV network sports show. You might like him.” When we arrived at Ken’s two-story Civil War clapboard at the end of a country lane in the middle of lush farmland, the air was alive with the sound of cicadas and the smell of moist, freshly turned earth. Unfortunately, Ken was not at home. “Let’s wait for him,” Mike suggested. He gathered a blanket from the trunk of the car and spread it on the wooden deck behind the house. When he started to unbutton my blouse, I said, “Are you sure you want to?” “Yes,” he said. Mike rolled on top of me and began to caress me. I knew his body so well, a touch that brought quiet pleasure, but tonight we dispensed with that. “You are so wet,” he said, as he pinned me against the deck. Then a light rain began to fall. Droplets, like pinpricks, jabbed at my skin. I started to giggle and pulled away from Mike. “Why are you doing that? The rain feels wonderful,” Mike said. “No, it doesn’t,” I protested, “and besides the deck is rough.” I couldn’t tell if Mike was annoyed or not, but he stood up and slowly turned around, arms outstretched, moonlight silhouetting his naked body. I watched fascinated. I took pride in being rational most of the time, but, when it came to Mike, I accepted the promiscuity, the drinking, the cocked-eyed investment schemes, the lack of order in his life. Whatever excuses I made to myself, the truth was that tonight I was huddled on a stranger’s deck in the rain, with no clothes on, wondering how I was going to get my half-sloshed lover dressed and out of there. Then I heard a car pull into the gravel driveway at the side of the house. “Ken?” I asked. “Probably.” A man emerged from the shadows. “It’s just me, Ken,” Mike called out. “Hi, good to see you,” Ken said, approaching us. I clutched the blanket and uttered a faint, ‘hello’ as Mike introduced me. “Come in and have a drink,” Ken said cordially, though he seemed nonplussed at finding us on his deck. He unlocked the back door and went inside. I looked around for my clothes. Kicked under a bench, they were only slightly damp. I hooked my bra. “You don’t have to get dressed,” Mike said. “You must be kidding?” I said, as I buttoned up my blouse. “Suit yourself.” Slipping into bikini briefs, Mike gathered up his clothes and went inside. I hurriedly finished dressing and followed him. “Place looks great,” Mike said to Ken. The interior was done up in a chic country look. “Thanks. I think they did a superb job, but it cost a small fortune. What are you drinking? “Scotch,” Mike replied. “And, my dear, what would you like?” “Scotch would be fine,” I said, as I surveyed the whitewashed sideboard, framed reproductions of pastoral scenes, and brass candlesticks. Ken disappeared into the kitchen. “What do you think?” Mike asked. “I met Ken two minutes ago under awkward circumstances. The place is charming,” I said, as I plopped into a chintz-covered armchair. Ken returned with drinks, handed me one, and immediately turned his attention to the other man in the room. “You know how it is,” Ken whined. “Everyone gets so bitchy. I was scheduled to go to Toronto last week to make sure everything was ready. Can you imagine they sent Brady instead?” I couldn’t follow the conversation nor did I want to, so I let their words drift over me, the Scotch warming me instead. “That’s tough, Ken,” I heard Mike say several times. “Hey, could I have a refill?” Reduced to counting the repeat patterns on the wallpaper, I ached for a way to leave. “This has been great,” Ken said, “but I’m suddenly not feeling well.” He stood up and began rotating his neck as if he were trying to loosen tight muscles and then smiled at me. I nodded. “Get dressed,” I said, handing Mike a bundle of clothes. “Time to go.” “I’ll stay here. Ken won’t mind,” Mike said petulantly, ignoring the clothes piled on his lap. His face expressionless, Ken busily plumped up a tasseled pillow. Taking the empty glass from Mike’s hand, I set it on the sideboard. I held up his shirt. Mike slowly began to dress. When he got to his belt, he fumbled with the loops on his jeans. I took the belt from him, threaded it through the loops and buckled it. As he watched me dress him, I was having trouble remembering how this whole evening began. “Sorry,” I said to Ken, as we helped Mike into the passenger seat of the car. “No need to apologize,” Ken replied. “Goodnight then.” He slammed the car door a little too hard, I thought. I could hear semis thundering down the highway, jarring me back into the motel room. “Are you asleep?” Mike asked, prodding me and lifting my head off his chest. “Just thinking,” I said. “Why don’t you take off the rest of your clothes?” “I will,” I said. “In a minute.” I was having a hard time letting go of the image of Mike gyrating in the moonlight. “What’s up?” “Never mind.” I slipped off the rest of my clothes. Mike reached over, smoothing my hair, lightly tracing the side of my face and around my ear with his fingers. His touch made me shudder, almost imperceptibly, but he must have sensed it because he asked. “Are you okay?” “I think so.” “Just relax,” he said as he kissed me slowly and pressed me against the pillows. Afterwards, I lay back on the bed, completely sated. The moment was marred, however, because Mike could make it happen for me in a way no other man ever did. I responded to a raw urge that required nothing beyond its consummation, no feeling of belonging together after that moment. As long as I’d known him I was never sure whether Mike just liked the idea of sex and wasn’t particularly invested in his partner at the moment. If I ever wanted to reach for real intimacy, I would have to give Mike up for good, forget the way he touched me, moved in me, and made me respond. I wasn’t sure I could do that. Mike went into the bathroom and called out. “Mind if I use your toothbrush?” “Help yourself,” I replied. Bio: Nancy Scott is managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets in New Jersey. She is the author of numerous collections of poetry, her most recent, Ah, Men (Aldrich Press, 2016) is a retrospective of men who have influenced her life. A social worker, Scott has worked for the State of New Jersey and various non-profits advocating for adoption and foster care, mental health and homeless issues. She is also an artist working mostly in collage and from time to time she exhibits her art and poetry together in print and online journals. www.nancyscott.net.
1 Comment
Adele Bourne
4/20/2017 11:14:17 am
To the POINT as it were. A fine and painful story. Thanks!
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