For the Last Time

Tuesday afternoon, she turns the key in the lock and opens the door. As she shrugs out of her coat, she shivers and adjusts the thermostat. Carrying the shopping bag through to the kitchen, she fills the kettle and sets it on the flame. She rinses the teapot with warm water and carefully measures the leaves. With a sigh, she pulls the tray from its storage space next to the fridge and sets out two cups and saucers. She cuts up a lemon and pours a little cream in the pitcher. She unwraps the raspberry tarts, his favorite.

Just as the water comes to a boil, she hears the front door open.

"In the kitchen, dear. I'll be right there."

After setting the tray on the low table, she bends over the club chair to give him a kiss. His face is warm, his scent so unique, so delicious. He smiles and pulls her into his lap. "How's my girl?" But as usual he doesn't wait for an answer before he kisses her. Gentle little nibbles at each corner. Tasting and tugging on a lip. Tongues touching. En garde! The game begins with parries and thrusts, advances and retreats. His hands over her back, touching under her sweater. The warmth of his palm against her skin gives her that delightful shudder. She tugs on the buttons of his shirt, lets her nails rake through the dark curls on his chest and play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Upstairs, please." He moans in her ear.

She takes his hand as they climb the stairs.

They know where to touch. How to excite. When to pause. What pleases them both. "Now, please." "Yes." The dance is old, yet new and always unique. Their pace varies, now frantic, then slow and lazy. They pause to store the memory. They smile to share their affection. They kiss to remember. So special, so lovely.

They caress, touch, hold and doze. He stirs and rises. Silently she watches as he dresses. He sits on the edge of the bed, gathers her to him and kisses her, deeply, possessively, tenderly. For one lingering moment he hesitates and looks pained just as he pulls away. "Be happy." he whispers. She nods, not trusting her voice. Then he turns, pauses at the door and smiles over his shoulder, before he hurries down the stairs.

The front door opens and slams shut.

After a while, she rises, dresses and goes downstairs to empty and rinse the teapot, clean the cream pitcher and shelve the unused teacups. She starts to rewrap the raspberry tarts, but sits at the table and eats both, ignoring the tears that burn behind her eyes.

*****

It had been a Tuesday, around three o'clock. She had the whole afternoon ahead of her. Her husband and daughter had looked at her as if she was speaking in tongues when she announced that she would be taking Tuesday afternoons off. "I will go into the city, do something I want to do, on my own and I'll be back after supper."

The time for herself had been exactly what she had hoped it would be. She had felt free with no one to look after but herself. Cleansing her thoughts, renewing her spirit, so that she could love and care for her family the way she wanted. For the past several weeks, she had visited museums, a matinee, art galleries, bookstores and seen a movie when it rained. Every Tuesday, she'd buy a newspaper and stop at the little coffee shop to look at her choices and plan her day.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" She looked up. He was about her age, a hint of grey in his dark hair. Brown eyes. A questioning half smile. A quick look around, told her that the small shop had filled up. She blushed, gathered her coat and purse.

"I'm sorry. No, please sit."

"Thank you." He unbuttoned his jacket before sitting down. With a nod at her paper, he asked. "Looking for something to do?"

"Yes," She nodded. "I have a few hours before I go home."

"You don't live in the city." He concluded.

They chatted, she ordered another coffee, he a tea. They talked about the movie she had seen last week. He recommended another one she might enjoy the next time it rained. She enthused over the art gallery she had visited a few weeks ago. He gave her the address of another one she'd like. They talked about books. He told her about a reading and signing by one of her favorite authors. "It's next Tuesday. I could take you, if you like."

When they parted, they promised to meet again at the coffee shop next week. Week after week, they met there and made plans for the afternoon. He introduced her to a side of the city she would never have found on her own. Out of the way art studios, poetry readings in dim coffee shops, smokey jazz clubs, tiny ethnic restaurants offering delicious home cooked meals

She looked forward to Tuesday, even though it was no longer just her time. Now it was their time. His hand would rest on the small of her back as he'd hold a door open for her. Her hand would slide under his elbow as they walked down the street. His arm would wrap around her shoulder, pulling her close under the umbrella. They'd hold hands, fingers laced as they strolled through a park. The peck on the cheek as he left her at the train station, became a quick kiss on her lips, then more lingering, deeper, hands roaming freer, more intimately.

"I wish ..." He'd murmur against her lips. "Yes..." She'd sigh.

And then, one beautiful May afternoon, a hotel room. Shy and awkward at first. Then bolder and finally feeling free, daring they explored, learned what they liked, what they needed. Experimented with how to touch, where to touch. They laughed and giggled together. Embraced and caressed whispering sweet nothings.

Three months ago, he'd said, "Come. I want to show you something." He'd brought her here. To the small rowhouse, away, far away from downtown. "It belongs to a friend of mine. He's out of the country for a year. Said I could use it. What do you think?" He looked excited, hopeful.

Yes, they felt freer here. There were no all-knowing, judging desk clerks. Quickly, they had settled into a routine. But they had not visited a museum, eaten in a fun little restaurant, seen a movie or browsed in a bookstore in months. Here she made tea since he didn't like coffee, even though she didn't care for tea. Here she stayed to clean up.

A soft, self-mocking scoff.

She had told him that once again, she had lost herself. That once again, she had allowed herself to set aside her wants. That she had forgotten she needed time for herself. Needed time without deferring to someone else. Time to cleanse her thoughts. Time to renew herself.

That she had simply substituted one suburb for another.

She gathers the trash in her shopping bag and slips into her coat. She steps outside and locks the door behind her. A brief hesitation before she slips the key in an envelope and pushes it through the mail slot. With a sigh she lets go.

For the last time she walks to the corner and hails a cab.