Taboo Soup

The room is dark, and I am in heaven. I am lying on my belly on a cozy leather couch, Terry’s knees folded on either side of me as she sits on my back, massaging hot oil into my flesh.

           I lied to her today. I told her I was terribly ill so that she would finally see me face-to-face. Terry is such a compassionate woman, and I knew that she couldn’t say no to that. There was, however, one condition: I had to come to her, on her terms—though the terms did include a homemade broccoli and cheddar soup, handcrafted by Terry herself. It’s my favorite of all.

The way she massages my shoulders is passionate. No, that’s not the right word; it is sensual. Borderline sexual. Her touch reminds me of the way I had felt the first time my husband kissed me on the neck—the goosebumps, the bursts of oxytocin. A feeling so powerful that I could feel the air lifting us off the ground. That was fifteen years ago, and I had never felt that way again with another person besides my husband.

Until I met Terry.

          I feel high, and I know I shouldn’t feel this way about another woman. It’s just wrong. Taboo. But God, Terry is no ordinary woman. There’s something about the way she looks at me—it pierces into my soul and awakens parts of myself I never knew were alive. 

           I am not gay. I have never even entertained a thought much less experimented in a homosexual experience. Hell, I have never even kissed another woman besides my mother.

What is this feeling?

           “You’re going to be okay,” Terry whispers. She picks up the bowl of homemade soup and mouth-feeds me a spoonful. “A few more sips to help.”

           “I can’t stop thinking about you,” I say, gulping down the Broccoli and Cheddar. “Why have you been ignoring me?”

           She hasn’t called me in two weeks. I can’t remember the last time we saw each other in person. She’s been avoiding me like the plague.

           “I’ve missed you,” I tell her. 

           Terry puts the bowl down and runs her fingers through my hair.

           “I told you, Emily,” she says, turning my face, “we can’t do this anymore. It was the only way to get through to you.”

           “By ignoring me?” I ask. “Why did you lead me on for so long?” I move her hand away from my face. “You promised me that this was real.”

           Terry backs away from me and crosses her arms.

           “What I felt at the time was real, yes,” she says, “but you know this isn’t right. I am married for God's sake!”

           “So am I, Terry!” I remind her.

           She walks closer to me and gives me that look—the one I can’t resist. The look that could help her get away with murder.

           “I love you,” she says. Even closer: “As a person, as a woman, a human. I love you. But we fell into temptation…that’s all that was. The devil—”

           “The devil?” I yell. “You’re gonna make this about the devil?” I stand up and pace the room. “No, Terry, this was all us. No devil was involved the night you kissed me. No Satan forced your hands to touch me the way you did. No Lucifer threw us on that bed and—”

           “That’s enough!” Terry yells. She gets in my face. “You better watch your mouth! This is not ever going to work. You really think I’m going to leave my husband of twenty-five years for…a woman? It was never meant to be! I tried to help you, Emily, I really did!”

           “Help me? Help me with what?”

“Help you rid yourself of this…homosexual spirit!”

I am shocked by her audacity.

“Is that what you were doing, Terry?” I ask. “You were helping me get rid of something that you created in me?”

           Terry scowls at me. She’s angry, I know.

           “That I created in you?” she says, “Are you delusional? You created this in yourself! You let the devil stir your dark desires.” She takes a deep breath and gets closer to my face—so close we could kiss—and she says, “I just helped you express it out of your system…so that you wouldn’t suffer from it.”

           My mind races in endless directions. I don’t know whether to be angry or feel pity for her pathetic suggestion.

           “You helped me…express it?” I say. “Who is the delusional one, Terry?”

           Suddenly, my eyes become heavy, and my breathing stiffens. I wonder if this is what true heartbreak feels like.

           Terry squints her eyes and looks at me intently. “Are you okay?” she asks.

           “I don’t know. I feel dizzy.”

           Terry helps me to take a seat. “Just relax,” she says. “You’re going to be okay.”

           My eyelids feel like they are at war with each other. My throat feels like a giant hand is squeezing the life out of me.

Terry kneels in front of me. She looks at me with deep concern—

— then a smile. Why is she smiling?

“There you go,” she says with that twisted smile. “Just relax, Honey. Relax. That’s it.”

My vision is incredibly distorted.

I see black spots everywhere.

It’s like I am in a tunnel…

“What is it that you said you were allergic to?” Terry asks.

I can’t speak. My throat…

“Seafood, right?” she laughs when she says this. “Shellfish? Things of that nature?”

There’s a knock at the door.

Terry quickly straightens herself up. She produces that look of concern again and yells, “Michael, please hurry! Call an ambulance!”

Michael, one of the Deacons at our church, rushes in.

I can only see his silhouette…

Terry cradles my head, brushes my hair. “Emily?” she yells, “Emily! What’s going on? Talk to me!”

I can barely breathe…

“Minister Terry! What happened?” Michael asks. He kneels next to me and touches my face. “My God! She’s cold.”

“Call 911!” Terry says. “Tell them something horrible has happened to Sister Emily!”

I have no more breath…

I am fading…

Help me...