Chapter 2 - Dressed to Kill 

Marianna put on her red lace dress. It hugged her narrow waist and flattered her figure. She finished the outfit with black pumps, which had been widened to accommodate the thickness of the flat knit compression stockings she wore on both legs. Her legs looked almost identical; one had to look closely to notice the difference. For some strange reason, modern medicine couldn’t explain why the disease had plateaued. Despite everything being dead inside—lymph vessels, blood vessels, and tissue—and the skin dressed in a purplish tone, the swelling still looked like stage one.

Her makeup was always discreet, except for a deep red lipstick that made her smile radiant. Her hair fluffed, she sprayed her neck and chest with Ysatis. Damn! She looked so good, so healthy, and fit. At 56, she looked 40. The same type of men who hit on her in her 30s were still hitting on her today. 

She walked to the dining room, her mouth dry, her abdomen hollow; for a split second, she wished she could leave. Why should she inflict her trashed self on this innocent creature? Too late to back out. She located him and her breath slowed down.

He smiled and stood to greet her. He wore a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt, which accentuated the ocean blue of his eyes. She moved toward him with feline steps. They hugged tightly and sat next to each other.

“You look stunning.” He whispered. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I only ordered sparkling water.”

“Well, there is only one beverage fit for the occasion.” She turned and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Are you on a diet?” He said, swiping a hand on her left cheek. 

“Just an appetizer to get you warmed up.” She said before he pressed his lips against hers.

The waiter interrupted their embrace. “Good evening. My name is Dan and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Any drinks to start?” He placed the menus before them.

Marianna glanced at the beverage menu and asked, “A bottle of Moët & Chandon, please.”

After the waiter left, he kissed her again, but this time softly, as if he wanted to discover her slowly, like unwrapping a present.
 
“You haven’t told me what we’re celebrating,” He asked.

“You.”

“You’re a very intriguing woman, Marianna.” A crease formed between his eyebrows as he looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you dying?”

She lifted her chest to bring fore her firm, perky breasts. “The boobs are real. I’m 56 and in perfect health. Haven’t had sex for years, so nothing for you to catch. Here is a bonus. No worries about babies. Anything other questions?”

He put his arm around her and lowered his forehead on her shoulder, “I’m sorry.” 

“How old are you, child?” She asked.

“Fifty.”

 Her brown eyes threw daggers in his direction. “Thirty-eight.” He corrected himself.

His face darkened. “My second wife never told me she had cancer. She borrowed money from her father and we vacationed in the Maldives and Hawaii. She quit her job and went trekking in Nepal, scuba diving in the Red Sea, and skiing in Chamonix. Eight months later, she was gone.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. At least she spent her inheritance.” They succumbed to silence with their fingers interlaced.

The waiter returned with the champagne. He opened the bottle and filled 2 flutes. They lifted their glasses, and Marianna said, “Let’s drink to the end. The end of suffering.”

“You’re a poet.”

“That's the thing about us cougars. We know all the right moves.”

“Marianna, I know so little about you. I can’t explain why I’m so drawn to you.” He smiled. “I could fall for you. Hard.”

“Only for tonight, darling.” She swallowed a gulp of champagne and faced him. “OK. I owe you an explanation. I’m celebrating my exit.” That part was true, but what came next made her uncomfortable. Why were the gods punishing her? Why can’t she go with a smile on her face? No worrying about STDs, pregnancy, or whether he’d call tomorrow. The best sex a woman could ever have. In her younger years, all men wanted was to have sex with her. Where were all the jerks who just wanted one nightstand? Why can’t she find one of them to use for one night?

“I’m leaving the country. You won’t see me again and you shouldn’t miss me. In 20 years, you’re still in your prime. I’ll be in the elderly. Not a burden you want to take on.”

“Can I be the judge of that?”

“Don’t you want someone who can give you babies, a cosy home, and obnoxious in-laws?”

“Tried that. Didn’t work.” He took another sip of champagne and put the glass down. “Relationships are not about age. They’re about making memories that nourish your soul.”

She cupped his face and sucked on his lips and swallowed his breath. “In that case, this memory should make your soul obese. Wait till you see the profiteroles.”

"Profit what?”

“It’s a French dessert. Small balls of vanilla ice cream inside a puff pastry, topped with chocolate sauce.”

“Sounds sinful.”

Marianna always believed in signs. Could this be one prompting her to delay her project? No, her diagnosis was final. Her mind was made up.

 The waiter came to take their order, but they weren’t hungry. He refilled their flutes and moved to the next table.

Marianna stood and took the exterminator's hand. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

They entered the room, and a chill ran through Marianna. This was wrong on so many levels. As soon as they closed the door, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her head against his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, uplifting and confusing. She wiggled her shoulders to pull away, but he refused to let go. He kissed her neck, her face, and when he got to her lips, she shivered and let the warm sensation sweep all over her as her fingers threaded through his soft, luscious hair. Then her hand drifted over his shoulders and back. She marveled at how strong and yet gentle he was.

He must’ve kissed hundreds of women to kiss like that and awaken in her a passion she believed dead for decades. Or maybe when life is about to end, everything is amplified, becomes more vibrant, like an exploding bomb, generating heat and flames before turning into ashes.

Wrong time for a love story, but the universe is a sadistic bitch with a sense of humor.

She lifted her head, looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Jack, I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

“What’s going on?”

“Enjoy the room. Breakfast is included. I need to go.”

“Is the Dear John letter in your purse, or were you planning to write it after I fall asleep?”

She interlaced her fingers behind his waist, “After you fall asleep, I’d just cut your hair.” 

“You’ve been misinformed, Dalila. My power isn’t in my hair.” He squeezed her body against his and the Eiffel Tower nudged her again.

She pursed her lips sideways and looked at her shoes. “I did plan on having my way with you and disappearing. But you don’t deserve that.”

“I knew something was up. A woman like you doesn’t throw herself at a random stranger.”

She sat on the bed and he joined her. “I’ve done everything right all my life. I never strayed; never made a mistake. I never took a wrong turn. I thought, just this once, I’d do something new, wild, and totally out of character.”

He lowered his head and placed her hand between his. “Continue.”

“Do you know about monocarpic plants?”

“Nope. I only know about bugs.”

“They’re plants that devote all their energy and resources to one bloom, then they rot and die.”

He slapped his palms on his thighs. “I knew it! You’re dying.”

“Not exactly. I have a debilitating disease called lymphedema. It’s causing my body to deteriorate.”

“Is there a treatment?”

“There is, but I don’t qualify. I’m too advanced. The Charles procedure will leave me disfigured and provide only minimal relief.”

“How about Japan? China? They’re more medically advanced than we are.”

“I just found out this week. Everywhere I looked says there is no hope.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“Cancer. Sixteen years ago.” She pressed her lips tight against each other to suppress the rising anger. “The doctor said it only gets worse, never better.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not yet. Now you know everything. I’m sorry, this was a bad idea.” She stood to leave, but he held her hand and pulled her back.

“You can’t leave now! I’m just getting to know you. Besides, I’m hungry. Need dinner.”

“You can order room service.”

“I can’t eat alone. Please… have dinner with me. I’ll make you laugh, and if I’m really bad in bed, you can kill yourself. It’s something you can do anytime. What’s the rush?”

“I don’t need a savior.”

“I’m not trying to save you. I wanna use you for sex.” He nibbled on her neck and whispered,  “Over, and over, and over.”

Marianna threw her head back with a loud laugh. His compassion drew her closer and her heart opened again, like annuals bursting into vibrant colors for one summer before succumbing to fall.
 
“You’re really something!” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Why now?”

Before he could answer, Marianna covered his mouth with hers and poured in all the passion and love she kept bottled up for years. His arms crushed her chest against his and the frozen edges of her body thawed and dissolved. He ignited in her a wild desire she could no longer tame.

 Marianna woke up before daybreak, her hand still locked inside Jack’s. She stared at the rich midnight blue ceiling dotted with gold stars that glowed with restraint in the predawn light spilled from the curtains.

Marianna anthropomorphized the ceiling. It must’ve witnessed countless lovers over the years—honeymooners, wedding anniversary couples, milestone birthdays. Nobody came to the Inn at Little Washington to end their life. She would’ve been the first, but fate had intervened and robbed her of a unique opportunity to exit in style. 

 As she listened to Jack’s rhythmic breathing, her body lifted above the bed, and she watched the scene from above. Jack’s smooth skin glowed in the dim light, reminding her of summer—the song of cicadas, sweet watermelon under a starry night, listening to her grandmother’s stories. 

Why did this man, who didn’t know her, want to save her? Was it love at first sight? Did he have a thing for defective women, or was it just his Mencian nature? The truth was probably more complex than a 5:00 AM amateur psychoanalyst could untangle. The more immediate question was whether she cared enough to stick around and find out.

She wiggled her hand free, waking Jack. With his eyes still closed, he scooped her closer to him and mumbled, “You’re not going anywhere. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Her face softened, she caressed his hair and her arm lingered on his chest.

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