What I see in her, this pull I feel, is difficult to explain—another confusing element—for she is not the first woman I’ve seen unclothed; this is not a case of gaining interest in a woman because she is new. I’ve never been so strongly drawn to another person. Is it because I’ve wanted us to be close since we were kids? Is it because being with her is forbidden? Does it even matter?
“I should wait outside,” I say, as convincing and true as if I’d said I was recruited by the Knicks.
Melody frowns. “But how will you guard me?”
She’s kidding—but she’s right. I really shouldn’t take my eyes off her. Every time I do, something bad happens. I reach in my pocket and pull out my nicotine gum and throw a pair of tablets in my mouth.
Melody squints at me, the box, then me again. “Is that Nicorette?”
I shove the box back in my pocket, shrug. “What can I say? You make me want to be a better man.”
She laughs a little, brushes her cheek with the back of her hand, watches me chew. Then she squints again. “Are you serious? You stopped smoking for me? I never asked.”
“Well,” I say, “you shouldn’t have to.”
Her smile disintegrates as one corner of her mouth turns down, then the other. “You… really are full of surprises.” She looks as if she’s just received bad news. “I mean, we don’t really know how much time we’re going to have together.”
I lean forward on my knees and nod a little. “That’s why I’m stopping now.”
Melody looks at me, parts her lips a little, appears like she’s saying something to herself, yet the words seem aimed for me. Her eyes are fixed on mine. I can’t look away. My chewing decelerates until it comes to a complete stop; my breathing follows suit.
She says, “Have you ever given a woman a massage before?”
I swallow, adjust my glasses. “No,” I say quietly. Though I have, what I really mean is, Please don’t ask me to do this.
“Get up,” she says, “take steps in my direction, and stop when you reach the table.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans a few times, get out of my chair with all the grace of a colt making its first attempt to stand. I walk over and stop in front of her.
She reaches behind her and slides the towel thing down farther, exposes an inch of cleavage on her backside.
“Place your hands on the small of my back.”
I feel like a fumbling teenager. “This is not a good idea.”
“Place your hands on the small of my back.”
It takes me fifteen seconds before I have the strength—the weakness—to put my hand on her skin, and when I do I press down hard so she’s less likely to notice the way it’s trembling. She raises her lower body a little and pushes back as my other hand joins the effort. I feel dizzy—nothing metaphorical here; I blame either the withdrawal or my new overdosage of nicotine. I drag my hands across her back and steadily slide them up and down her body, let my thumbs ride the hills and valleys of her backbone. Her flesh is so tight and smooth, so free of scars and damage from the sun. I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to press my lips against it, to open my mouth and taste what I’m seeing and touching. But as I force this thought away, the fantasy is replaced with the image of a bullet piercing her beautiful skin—by my hand or anyone else’s—something invading to destroy this perfect creation: a bullet, a knife, a tight length of wire. My eyes fill with tears from anger and regret, and as a droplet falls from my cheek and splashes on Melody’s back, the masseur reenters the room.
I quickly wipe my face, stumble toward the door. “I’ll just… wait… outside.”
A few minutes later Melody finds me in the lounge again, standing in the corner by the waterfall, cracking my knuckles one by one.
She’s apparently abandoned the massage altogether, now wearing a different robe, a longer and fuller one that looks like it’s meant to be worn over clothes. She walks up and hugs me, whispers, “I loved having your hands on my body.”
“There’s really no other place they’d rather be.” I clear my throat. “Listen, I’m gonna make myself scarce.”