an excerpt from The Comfort of Women
By Michael Hemmingson
I met Alexia in one of the graduate courses that Barry McGinnis taught. She had a quirky look to her I found appealing—thick, dark-rimmed glasses; a white streak in her otherwise jet black hair; an odd-assortment of attire, cool in this age of awkwardness; when geekiness, coupled with intelligence, was sexy. She was one of the regulars who hung out at the same pub where I first met McGinnis—and often this crowd was orbiting around McGinnis, a charismatic man in his own right. He was at the pub three nights a week, and I soon found myself there as well. Alexia was there, as were a great number of young women in the graduate department (some of whom will appear later in this tale). I was sort of the odd-ball, I felt, brought into this circle by McGinnis because of my book and not my academic struggle (and I had a new book, a collection of stories, coming out soon from another small, obscure publisher soon.)
I felt something from Alexia, the way she looked at me—I knew that feeling; but like I said, it'd been a while.
One night, at the pub, McGinnis wasn't there, and many people departed. I sat drinking beer with Alexia and Bart, a blonde surfer poet, and his bombshell blonde girlfriend, Randi. We all decided to go to a different bar and play pool—Alexia was insistent on this particular bar, telling us all we'd like it very much.
It was an okay bar. Bart and Randi wanted to play pool, which wasn't my thing. Alexia bought a pitcher of beer and we sat together.
Bart was bending, ready to take a shot at the table, his rear end very close to her. "Get your butt somewhere else," Alexia said, "or I'll take a pool stick and shove it up—"
"Oh yeah," said Randi.
"That's not very nice," I said. "How'd you like it if someone stuck a pool stick in your ass?"
Alexia raised her brows. "I just might like it."
That was the first clue that I didn't get—I wasn't paying attention. I'd recall in hindsight, yes, as well as overhearing her talk about how her favorite scene in Last Tango in Paris was when Marlon Brando put butter up his young lover's backdoor.
Bart and Randi left (we'll get back to them in another chapter), and Alexia and myself finished the pitcher of beer.
"What will you do now?" Alexia said.
"I don't know," I said.
"Drink more?"
"I don't know."
She took her glasses off and looked at them. "I live a block away, you know."
"No," I said, "I didn't know."
This was the second clue—but I wasn't paying attention.
"Well," she said.
"Maybe we can go there," I said.
She put her glasses on. "Okay."
We walked up the block to her place, which was a small cottage. It was nice, a little messy. I asked how much she paid for it.
"Nothing," she said. "My parents own the property."
"Nice."
"I don't work," she said, "I go to school. Like you."
"I used to work. I worked too much. Dumb jobs, blah blah blah. Now I have a fellowship."
"What about your book?"
"I don't make any money from that."
"Oh. I have it, your book."
"Really?"
"I didn't read it."
"That's okay."
"Dr. McGinnis said I should."
"Listen to him."
"I have beer, I think," she said, going to the kitchen.
I sat on the couch in the small living room.
Alexia returned with two Budweisers. "Yes, I have beer."
She sat next to me.
I don't remember what we talked about. On the floor, I noticed an action figure of the Warner Brothers Martian from the Bugs Bunny cartoon. "I always loved that Martian," I said.
"Me too," she said, going to the floor and picking it up. I touched her hair. She put her head in my lap. I stroked her hair. It was nice to touch her.
"I, um, I don't know what to do," I said.
"What?"
"I haven't been with anyone in a while."
"I don't believe that."
"It's true."
"It's a line," she said. "Do you like me?" she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I like you." She got on the couch with me and we began to kiss. She had to take her glasses off, they were getting in the way. We kissed for a long time. She pushed me back on the couch, and lay on top of me. I grabbed her ass, put my hands down her skirt, feeling her ass.
She pulled her mouth from mine. "Bad boy," she said.
I grabbed her head, and we kissed more.
When I tried to touch her cunt, she stopped me.
"No," she said.
"Sorry," I said.
"Don't worry about it," she said, and we kissed.
When I touched her breasts under the fabric of her blouse, she pushed them away. "Now, now," she said.
"Sorry," I said.
She took one of my hands and put it back on her ass. "Play with that."
I did, and we kissed. My hand, and my second hand, were all over her butt.
"Hey," Alexia said, "rub my asshole."
"What?"
"With your finger," she said, and I found her asshole with my finger. "In small circles," she said, "yeah, like that," and we kissed.
She pulled away from me, and sat. She took the finger I'd been rubbing her with, put it in her mouth, a sucked on it. She smiled, and gave my finger back. She put her glasses on.
"What's wrong?" I asked, moving to her, wanting to kiss her more.
"Nothing," she said. "I have to pee."
"Hey." I grabbed her hand as she stood up. "Can I watch?"
"Oh? You want to watch me pee?"
"Yes," she said.
"I need a commitment before I go that far," she said.
"We hardly know each other."
"Exactly," she said, and went to the bathroom, which was connected to the bedroom.
I sat there. I got up, and went to the bathroom. The door was unlocked, and I went in. Alexia was sitting on the toilet, and she looked up at me. She smiled and said, "You." I could hear the stream of her urine. I sat down on the floor.
"You're bold," she said.
"The door was unlocked."
"There is no lock."
"I couldn't resist."
She stood up. "Okay, Mr. Bold. Clean me."
" "With my mouth?"
"Absolutely not."
I would've done it with my mouth, if she'd asked (and as she wanted me to later in our relationship). I took a wad of toilet paper, and wiped her cunt. She pulled her panties up.
"I have to go, too," I told her.
"Then I get to watch," she said. "Quid pro quo."
"Okay."
She took my place on the bathroom floor, as I stood in front of the toilet, took my cock out, and started to go.
Alexia made a weird sound. She moved to the toilet, snagged my cock, and put her mouth before it, drinking my urine; what she didn't get flowed out of her mouth, down her chin, and into the toilet bowl. I liked the sound it made, going into her mouth, the liquid. I breathed hard; it was an experience in itself just watching her drink from me.
She pressed her face against my leg. "Oh God, Nicky, I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"I couldn't help myself," she said, softly. "Now you know my fetish. Okay, I'm weird. You'll never love me."
"I could love you," I said.
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
"Will you kiss me to prove it?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She stood, and we kissed, and I tasted her—and me.
"I want to make love to you," I said.
"No, I can't," she said.
Alexia left the bathroom, and sat on the edge of her bed. I sat next to her, and we kissed; we both fell back on the bed. It was a nice, big, comfortable bed, the kind of bed I liked; the kind of bed I didn't have (I had a futon).
"It's late," she said, moving away from me. "I'm a little drunk."
"Me too," I said.
"You can stay here," she said, "if you want."
"I'd like that."
"I'd like it too," she said, standing. "I'm going to turn the light off."
"Okay."
In the dark, I saw her silhouette; she was removing her clothes. I also took my clothes off, and got under the covers. She joined me; we didn't touch. My hand went to her body; she was still wearing her bra and panties. I moved closer to her, kissed her.
"I don't think I want to screw," she said.
"Okay," I said.
"I mean, I'm not sure if I can."
"Okay."
"I'm not sure if I'm in the right frame of mind."
"Okay."
"It's not okay," she said, "you don't understand, you don't know."
"I want to," I said.
"I know you do," she said.
"Alexia," I said.
"It's nice having you in my bed," she said.
"It's nice to be in a bed with someone," I said, lying on my back. She placed her head on my chest, and then a hand, playing with the hair. We were quiet, touching each other. Her hand moved down, and grasped my hard cock.
"This is nice," she said.
"Yes," I said, "it is."
"Nice..."
I kissed her on the head. "I want to make love to you," I told her again.
"I know," she said, and she said, "I'm twenty-eight years old."
I said, "Yeah?"
"I'm still a virgin."
I laughed, after a moment.
"This is true," she said.
"Now who is giving who a line?"
She let go of my cock. "Nicky, listen. I'm Jewish. I'm not a nice Jewish girl, but I'm Jewish and a virgin. I come from a really hard-ass strict Jewish family, even though, like I said, well, I made up my mind years ago that I would save myself for my husband, because some day I plan to marry a nice Jewish man, I mean my family won't have it any other way. And this man will expect me to be a virgin."
"I see," I said.
"No you don't see," she said. "I don't expect you to understand. Other men haven't. Like I said, I'm twenty-eight. This doesn't mean I'm sexual. Obviously I'm sexual, and I have fetishes. I'm really pretty basic in that matter—I have a pee fetish, and an ass fetish. I mean, I'm a virgin, vaginally, but I like having sex in my ass."
Things started to come together for me—the pool stick remark, her living close to the bar she wanted to go to. "You lured me here," I said, "the bar."
"Of course. I'm terribly attracted to you. I want you. I want you inside me. But I want more than a fuck-buddy. I had a fuck-buddy for a while, for a few months, it was just sex, nothing more. I didn't like it; I mean it was okay, but it wasn't me. It was a different me."
"He fucked you in the ass?"
"Yes. I don't know if he liked it that much. Some men do, some don't."
I'd only had anal sex with a woman once, and I think I was nineteen or twenty.
"I want you to fuck me," Alexia said, "but I'm looking for more than just fucking."
"I'm not a nice Jewish boy."
"I'm not looking for a husband. I'll do that in my thirties, maybe my forties. I'm looking for companionship, closeness, a little love. Devotion, all that."
"Sounds nice," I said.
"Yes. It sounds—it sounds nice." She took her panties off, and lay on her stomach. "I'd like you to fuck me," she said. "I want you to."
"I don't have a condom." I felt stupid.
"I'm not going to get pregnant this way," she said.
"Still," I said.
"Hey, you told me you hadn't been with anyone in years."
"It's true."
"You look healthy and safe," she said, "and so am I."
"You look healthy and safe," I kissed her.
Looking at her, I told myself the hell with it—I wanted her right now.
"Lubricant?" I asked, thinking of the last time I'd done this, I had to use a lot of petroleum jelly.
"Spit is fine," Alexia said. She spit into her hand, and put her hand between her ass cheeks. She spit into her hand again, and rubbed the saliva over my cock. "I'm getting impatient," she told me.
I moved on top of her, feeling inexpert. Alexia reached back, took my cock, and guided my cock into her ass, where it slid in just fine, without hesitation or resistance. The warmth of her interior sent a tingle up my body and soul. Alexia whispered, "Oh yes yes," and pushed her rear up, hard, slamming into my pelvis. I looked down at the streak in her hair, which was scattered about the back of her neck and on the bed with the rest of her hair. I swear she had an orgasm, I wasn't sure, but mine came quickly, and it was a lot; I emptied inside her.
We lay next to each other after, and Alexia commented on the amount of semen I put in her, and how she liked how it felt up her ass, coming out her ass.
She touched and played with my cock and balls, and soon I was hard again. She got on top of me. "This position is always tricky," she said, sitting down on my cock and sliding it in. She leaned forward to kiss me, and it popped out, covered in semen from that first ejaculation. Alexia giggled, and put my cock back in her. I reached for the light by the bed. "What are you doing?" she said.
"I want to see you."
"I like the light off."
"Okay."
"Oh, turn it on if you want."
I did. She still wore her bra; her hair was a mess. I reached to unclasp her bra and she pushed my hand away, smiling, and my cock slipped out of her.
"Let's try it like this," I said, gently pushing her off me, onto her back. I put her legs on my shoulders; I didn't need her help to find my way in, I guided myself. I was deep in her.
"I like this," she said.
"I can kiss you," I said, and did.
"Kiss me more."
I did.
"Fuck me harder."
I did, and I came inside her again.
"I have to piss," I said to her, "do you want it?"
She made a noise, reached up and bit my right nipple, hard.
"Ouch," I went.
I took her hand, pulling her from the bed, and took her to the bathroom, where she sat before the toilet as I urinated. She drank just about all of it. Then she sucked and licked at my cock for a while, her eyes closed.
We went back to bed, in each other's arms, and fell asleep.
I woke up, the next morning, with Alexia messing around with my ass. She had her face down there—I was lying sideways—licking from my balls to my ass. I'm not sure how long she'd been doing this, but it was a nice thing to wake up to. She pushed me onto to my stomach, spreading my buttocks, a light finger on my sphincter, then a tongue. She licked it a bit, asked me if I liked that. I did, of course—"Yes," I said. She said, "I like it too," and licked more, harder this time, pushing the tip of her tongue into me like a thirsty animal at a waterhole. I felt saliva roll down onto my balls—a funny tickling feeling. She did this for the good part of an hour, as I lay there in ecstasy, having discovered a new world. She was making perverse sucking sounds, and a soft hum from the back of her throat. She turned me over, and sucked on my cock for a bit. "My mouth is getting tired," she said, "can you fuck me?" Of course I could. She was on her hands and knees on the bed, and I took her from behind. I grabbed her hips, and slammed myself inside and out of her. I wanted to come in her mouth, this image was in my head. I told her this. She turned around and took me in her mouth, and I came.
And that's how I ended my period of celibacy.
*
I didn't see Alexia for almost over a week. We played some phone tag, then she stopped calling, and she didn't come to class (it was a once-a-week thing). I drove to her place after class; her car was there, but no one answered the door.
The next morning, she answered her phone.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
"Where you been?"
"Nowhere," she said.
"I was worried."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
"You really were?"
"Yes."
"That's sweet," she said.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing really," she said. "I've been depressed."
"Depressed?"
"I get that way sometimes."
"About what?"
"This and that."
"I see."
"Don't you ever get depressed?" she asked.
"Well, yes," I said.
"When I get depressed, I get depressed big," she said.
"But you're okay?"
"Yeah," she said, "I'm okay."
She didn't sound okay.
"I've been thinking about you," I said.
"You have? I've been thinking a lot about you. What've you been thinking about?" she said.
"You," I said, "you and your ass, how I'd like to be fucking you, how I'd like to lick your ass like you did mine. I've never done that to anyone before. I'd like to do it to you. I have this image in my head. I even wrote it down."
"You wrote it down?"
"Yeah. A little story. I could show it to you."
"I wonder about this," she said.
"What?"
"Getting wrapped up with you."
"What?"
"Never mind," she said. "I guess I'm still a little depressed," she said.
"Can I help?"
"You could come over," she said.
"When?"
"Now."
I rushed over.
Alexia was wearing a thick, terry-cloth robe, no glasses. We immediately embraced. Her body felt good.
"Do you want something to eat?" she asked. "I was going to make grilled cheese sandwiches."
"I love grilled cheese sandwiches."
I sat in her small kitchen and watched her cook, drinking the last beer, even if it was early afternoon. It seemed like a good time for a beer. We ate the sandwiches in the living room.
"We should've gotten together again sooner," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"What've you been doing?"
I shrugged. "Writing."
"Anything good?"
"I don't know. Another novel."
"About?"
I smiled. "This and that."
"So be it."
"Essays," I said. "I've been writing essays lately for The USA Viewpoint."
"Really. That's a big magazine, isn't it?"
"I think so. They pay well."
"What do you write?"
"Opinions, views—viewpoints!"
"Your look at the nation."
"And the world."
"I should be impressed," she said.
"You're not impressed?"
"I'm impressed," she said. "But I'm more impressed with what you want to do with that mouth and tongue. Did you mean what you said? You want to get nasty with my butt?"
"Very," I said.
She took my hand, led me to the bedroom. She removed her robe, was naked underneath. I looked at the dark, thick bush of pubic hair between her legs, something I hadn't noticed the last time I was here. Alexia was on her stomach, spread-eagled. I didn't waste time getting to work on her, finding her puckered asshole and going to work at it with my tongue. Alexia seemed to enjoy my work, wiggling her hips back and forth. I reached to touch her cunt, thinking she'd like this, but she told me not to touch it, was very adamant about it. I continued to lick and suck, and then she touched herself, and she came. I moved up, my cock out now, my pants down to my ankles, and entered her.
We fucked for the rest of the day and night, and I stayed there. I stayed there for several days, engulfed in nothing but nasty sex with Alexia, fucking her in the ass, pissing in her mouth, her face buried in my crotch and rear. It was fun. In between, we slept, ate, drank, and talked. It was the usual talk—the past, our lives, our families. She was very close to her family (as I'd already gathered) and wanted me to meet her mother and father and two brothers, and some aunts and cousins tossed in. I didn't know about that; I nodded my head, but I was never comfortable meeting my lovers' families, both in the act and the thought.
We parted, as people must part. I went back to my life, she did what she did.
She called two days later, a Sunday. I was working on the novel.
"My family is having a big dinner tonight," she said. "Do you want to come over and meet them?"
"Well," I said. "Not tonight, I can't."
"You can't?"
"I'm on a roll."
"You just don't want to meet them," Alexia said, an accusation. I guess she could hear it in my voice.
"I'd feel weird," I said.
"Why?"
"I just would."
"It'd mean a lot to me," she said. "I told my mother about you," she said.
"You did? What'd you tell her?" I could just imagine—
"Not that," she said. "Just that—I'd met this guy. I told her: 'I met this great guy.'"
Great? "Oh."
"You are my boyfriend," she said, "right?"
"Yes," I said. I liked the way it sounded.
"I'd like you to come."
"How about next time?"
"Oh, fuck it," she said, and hung up.
I tried calling her back. She didn't answer.
She didn't come to class the next time, either.
Over beers at the pub, I asked Barry McGinnis about her.
"She's a strange one," Barry said.
"Well," I said.
"Fucking her?"
"You could say that."
"I had a feeling," Barry said. "Well, fucking is a good thing. There are plenty of fuck opportunities around here."
"She's kinky," I said.
Barry had this look on his face. "Really?"
I knew that look. "You didn't fuck her, did you?" I asked.
"Well," Barry said, drinking his beer. "Not exactly. Look. Okay. This was last year. It was two a.m., the bar had closed, she was sitting in my car with me. We made out, she was reaching down my pants. Then she stops and says, 'I can't.' 'You can't?' She said, 'I can't.' And that was that. There's always been this strange tension between us since. So," he asked, "how kinky is she?"
I told him.
"Wow," Barry said. "Hey, it's my birthday next week. Big party at my place. Do bring Alexia."
"Don't get any ideas."
"I never have ideas."
*
Alexia called the next day. "I guess you should know something about me."
"You're an alien?"
"Sometimes I think so," she laughed. "No. I mean. I'm manic depressive, I mean."
"Who isn't?"
"I'm serious. I get into these bad funks sometimes. That's why I haven't gone to class."
"It's not me?" I said. Jesus, what an egotistical thing to say. I hate those moments when you wish you could take back the few damming words that spill from your mouth.
"A little bit, I suppose," she replied. "It's mostly me. My screwed-up head. Do you want to come over?"
"Of course I do."
"In maybe an hour? I need to straighten up a bit."
"An hour," I said.
An hour later, I was there.
I kissed her, but it wasn't a long one—she pulled back.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," I said.
She had the fridge stocked with beer, and we sat on the couch and had a few. The TV was on, no sound. It was an awkward moment again.
"I need someone," she said. "I'm not sure if now is the right time."
"I'm never sure," I said. "I need someone, too. We all do, right? That's what I'm told. That's what the TV tells us."
"I'm twenty-eight and I feel like I haven't done shit with my life," Alexia said. "Okay, okay, so I'm getting my Masters, but so what. Me and a million people. I have all these things in my head that I want to do. I want to write novels like you. I have novels in my head. I just don't know how to write them. And movies. I have screenplays in my head, whole movies."
"Just sit down at your computer and write them," I said.
"Easy for you to say. Maybe you can do that. I can't. I tried, I mean I really tried. I can't. And that's what drives me crazy. That and a zillion other things. I really do want to make movies. I have a camera. It's hidden away, you haven't seen it. I have a camera, I have ideas, I want to make movies. Write books. Compose songs. Maybe even act, you know? So many things. But I'll never do these things."
"You don't know that."
"That's what the little voice in my head says. The Devil on my shoulder. 'Alexia, stop fooling yourself, you could never do those things.' And my parents, they don't care—they think it's all silly. 'Alexia, an artist? How sweet.' They don't even think much about my getting an MA. 'You already have a Bachelor's, Alexia, why waste your time further?' They just want me to get married. Before I'm thirty. 'You need to get married soon, you know,' my mother says. You know, you know—when I told my mother about you, when I said, 'I met this nice guy,' she said, 'Is he husband material?' You know what I said?"
"He's a pervert, Mom!"
"I'm the pervert. 'No,' I said, 'he may be for someone else, Mother, but he's not Jewish.' 'Not Jewish,' my Mother said, 'why are you wasting your time, Alexia?' And that's just it, Nicky—wasting time. I'm always wasting time. I don't mean you. I mean in general, my life in general—I always feel like I'm wasting my time! I should be—doing something else, I think. I envy you, in your way, how you're always spending your time writing this and that. This is what makes me so depressed—I feel like I'm getting old and I've done nothing."
"You're not old."
"I feel like it," she said. "And yes, I need to get married, right? Find a nice Jewish man who'll take care of me, and bare his fucking children for him. Lose my virginity, keep my secret desires hidden, for surely he'll be offended. And I won't have to work. He'll take care of me, I'll stay home and raise the kids. OH FUCK NICKY I DON'T WANT THAT KIND OF FUCKING LIFE! THAT'S NOT ME!! BUT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!? MY PARENTS EXPECT THIS OF ME! MY WHOLE FAMILY DOES!! 'WHEN IS ALEXIA GOING TO GET HER HEAD STRAIGHT AND MARRY AND START A FAMILY LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE DO???'"
She started to cry. I held her. She hit my chest with her fists, but not hard.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, wiping tears.
"It's all right," I said.
"It's not all right. You didn't come over for this."
"No, no, it's all right."
"You came here to fuck. So let's fuck."
"You don't seem in the right—"
"No," she said, "I want to fuck."
We went to the bed, took some of our clothes off, kissed a little. She wasn't into it, I wasn't into it.
We lay there.
"Barry McGinnis is having a birthday party next week," I said.
"How old's he going to be?"
"Forty-eight, I think," I said.
"I thought he was fifty."
"I'm not sure."
"You know what," she said.
"What?"
"I'm so pissed off at my whole family, everything, all of it," she said. "Fuck my heritage, fuck tradition. I feel like losing my virginity. Do you want to do that? Fuck my pussy? You can if you want."
"I'd like that," I said. "I never deflowered a virgin."
She laughed.
"What?"
"That sounded so silly," she said. "'I never deflowered a virgin.'"
"It's true."
"Anyone ever tell you you're melodramatic, sometimes?"
"No."
"You are." She kissed me. "Deflower on."
We got naked and fooled around, and I got on top of her.
"Wait," Alexia said.
"What is it?"
"I can't."
"I have condoms in my car," I said.
"It's not that," she said. "I'm scared all of the sudden," she said. "I can't."
"Well," I said, "okay."
I rolled off her.
"Nicky, I'm sorry."
"It's all right."
"It was a wild moment in my head."
"I know."
"I'll suck you off," she said.
She took my cock in her mouth and sucked me, slowly, gently, for a long time. I ran my hands through her hair. I came in her mouth. She spit my discharge into the palm of her hand, thick and white and wet, and looked at it. She smeared my come all over my cock, sticky and strange feeling, and sucked on my cock some more. I got hard again, and came in her mouth a second time. She swallowed this load.
*
I woke up from my nap to the sound of shattering—something. Breaking. And cries. Alexia. She was cursing, and sobbing. In the kitchen. I went to her. There was broken plates and glasses all over the floor; Alexia was naked, standing there, her feet bleeding. Her face streaked with tears. She just looked at me. She cried out, and broke the rest of the plates.
I went to her, cautious. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I need help," she whispered.
I held onto her, and took her to the living room couch. She was trailing blood. I went to the bedroom, found her robe, took it to her, put her in it.
"My medicine," she said.
"What medicine?"
"You need to call my brother," she said. "It's bad."
"What? What?"
"Just call my brother, he'll know what to do."
She gave me a number, and I called. An office. I told the man on the other line I was a friend of Alexia's— "She told me to call—"
"She's at home?"
"Yes," I said.
"I'll be there."
Half an hour later, a man in his early thirties showed up, in a suit. He looked a little like Alexia. Alexia was curled up on the couch. He went to her, and helped her up.
"Come now," he said, "everything's okay."
I felt stupid standing there.
"It's okay," her brother told me. "It happens. I can handle it from here."
And they left me there. Alexia and her brother departed in his car, and I was alone in her place, with broken plates and glasses and a bad energy lingering.
I tip-toed through the kitchen, like a mine field, and got myself a beer. I needed a beer. And another. She had Vodka, and I had some of that. I waited. Weren't they coming back? It was night. I finished the Vodka and beer and I was drunk and went to sleep. I dreamt Alexia's ghost came to visit me. "Hello, Nicky, I'm dead." I woke, sweating. I went back to sleep. I kept thinking she'd come in any minute, and join me, and we could make love. In the morning, I was alone. I took a shower, washed up. In the bathroom cabinet, I found a large assortment of pills. I didn't know what they were all for. I knew what Prozac was for.
I remembered her brother's number and called it, told him who I was. "I was just wondering if she's okay," I said. "I'm worried."
"Oh, she's just fine," her brother said. "I took her to the hospital."
"The hospital?"
"Yes. It happens sometimes. They bandaged her feet. She'll be okay. She'll be out in a few days. She has her medication. You're a friend of hers?"
"Yes."
"You're a nice friend."
I locked her place up, and went home.
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