So, there we were, sliding down into the recesses of my couch, hands and lips all over one another, building and releasing passion feverishly.
“Oh Edgar,” I whispered, “You are so hot. You feel so frocking good.”
“Ohhhh…Miss Biggs…” he murmured into my hair. The shriek he heard was the teakettle; the shriek I heard was my own indignation. Sure, I knew we were just satisfying needs for one another, but he could at least get my name right. After all, we thought alike, and he had brought me flowers, and chocolate and had written a poem for me – well modified and memorized one anyway. I pulled away and went into the kitchen. I studied him while I made the coffee. He had a wild and strange look about him. He did not look like the nerdy professor I had seen yesterday, and it wasn’t just the hair, that I’d made a mess of or the torn shirt. He now looked a little frightening…and thrilling.
“What did you call me?” I asked. “It sounded like Miss Biggs?”
“Huhhh?” he said. He seemed dazed or confused.
I poured two cups of coffee and brought them over to the coffee table. I sat down, but not so closely this time. I peered at him intently.
He said, “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous.”
I put my hand on his face. Suddenly I realized this man was hot. I don’t mean HOT, I mean hot, feverish, sick…
Dang! The last man I held while he was feverish had told me all his successes and failures, his challenges and triumphs… We had spoken intimately. I had fallen in love with him. The pain of love had left me impotent – frigid? – well, needy, but unable to respond – for months…or weeks anyway…well maybe days. I could still remember the feelings of panic, loss of control, the inability to think of anyone or anything, the desire for chocolate all the time instead of only once a month.
I just wanted a frock from Edgar, an encounter during horny season. I just wanted to get laid; to scratch that itch; to alleviate those cramps. I didn’t want to fall in love again! I had to get rid of this man. He was a toxic pool inviting me to swan dive, but I, not knowing how to swim, feared drowning in his depths.
“Let me call an ambulance,” I suggested. “You need more healing than I can give you.”
“Will they barter?” he asked.
“Let’s go in my car.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. I smoothed his hair and shirt and wiped my lipstick from his face and neck. I drove him in silence to the nearest charity hospital. I dropped him off at the emergency entrance. I told him I was going to park the car. I drove home. I cannot afford to fall in love with a Poe fella from Groger.
Since that afternoon, I’ve been letting the answering machine pick up all my calls. Of course, the message memory has been full for weeks. I can’t bring myself to check it. I don’t want to know. I can’t seem to purge him from my memory. All I can think of is Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher…and my house is closing in around me, The Cask of…Oh God! I hope there is no casket for him, The Pit (of my soul) and The Pendulum (of time), The Raven and how I shall see him nevermore, and how I must see him nevermore.
My neighbor has investigated and found that he was very sick; some sort of insect-borne disease. He’s been released from the hospital but is in a long recovery at home. His car is still parked outside my window. I can see it from my seat here at my computer.
Come here Isadora, puppy. Keep your mommy company.
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