Chapter 1 - The Kiss

It was an ordinary Wednesday; trees bent in the wind as they always did; the sun shone as brightly as it always had. But for Marianna, the night had already fallen. She wished she could cry, scream, or cuss, yet no reaction came. She had already died, like those poor souls lingering in a coma, most of the organs still working to hold on to life, but the brain had departed, never to return. Unlike a coma, though, her numbness hurt. 

She drove from the doctor’s office to a bar twenty miles out of town. Using the back roads to avoid traffic gave her more time to process the diagnosis and finalize her decision. She wasn’t sad or depressed. She simply refused to submit, serve, or obey. 
Arriving at Serendipity’s parking lot, Marianna turned off the ignition and sat in the car for several minutes, as though her body had become too heavy to move. She stared at the pale yellow facade, bleached by years of merciless sun. Above the entrance, a neon sign buzzed and flickered through its remaining letters. Another car parked next to hers pulled her out of her apathy. She climbed out of the car, walked to the door, and pushed it open; she recoiled before stepping inside. Odors of coffee, stale beer, and cigarette smoke fused into a rotting bouquet that permeated the air.

A group of men in short sleeves, fiddling with their beer bottles, chatting, and laughing in a corner, stopped talking and turned to look at Marianna. She could never blend in with the crowd. Her petite figure, her elegance, and something exotic and wild about her always drew attention. Even in the crowded streets of Paris, there was always someone inviting her for a drink or dinner when she wore a short skirt in the summer. Even as a little girl, she was always the one boys picked on.

She sat at the opposite end of the bar. Her left leg dangled and hurt, so she placed her foot on the footrest of a second stool. The bartender, a tan man with wavy blond hair and arms covered with tattoos, came to take her order.

“What can I get you?” He asked, wiping spilled beer on the counter.

“A margarita, please.”

She pulled her cell phone from her purse to Google the procedure the doctor recommended, but the connection was too slow and her cocktail arrived before the page displayed. She took a sip of the beverage while her eyes scanned the bar. The door swung open, and a tall man stepped inside. He wore a light pink polo shirt tucked into tailored Prince of Wales trousers. His broad shoulders gave him a masculine presence and his biceps flexed beneath bronze skin. Under the bar's fluorescent lights, his jet-black curls caught a faint sheen. He moved with assurance and measured strides. He looked at least twenty years her junior.

The moment he entered, their eyes locked. Marianna raised her drink as he approached, a calm and confident smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that would make a warrior surrender.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but your glass is still full. I want to buy you a second one, anyway.”

“If you buy me a drink, it means you want sex. If I buy you a drink, maybe I want sex, maybe I don’t.”

“By all means, buy me a drink. I’m a big fan of ‘maybe’. It opens all kinds of possibilities. Even a knocking opportunity?” He winked.

“Maybe.”

He waved at the bartender to draw his attention. “I’ll have a beer and put it on her tab, please.” The bartender looked at Marianna, who nodded.

“What’s a handsome man like you doing in this dive? And that’s not a come-on. I’m really curious.”

“My car broke down. I’m waiting for the tow truck. What’s a beautiful woman like you doing here? And maybe it is a come-on.” He smiled, revealing unbleached, all-natural teeth. 

The bartender put the beer in front of the young man. “Enjoy.”

“That I will. What should we drink to?”

She lifted her eyes and gave him her biggest and happiest smile. “To Charles.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Not exactly. But he does want to do things to me no one has ever done before.” She opened her eyes wide and gave him a wicked smile.

“Divorce?”

“It’s safe to assume Charles and me will never be together. Carthago delenda est.”

“Is that Spanish for cargo is delayed in the East? Charles is a drug dealer.”

“Close enough.” She laughed and took another sip of her cocktail, and let the lime flavor linger on her tongue. 

He lifted the bottle of beer and a gold tennis bracelet around his wrist glinted before Marianna’s face. Her eyes landed on a 1-2 engraving. She grabbed his hand and pointed at the bracelet, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Wife 1 and wife 2.”

“Oh, you’re a serial killer.”

“I am. I gave both of them cancer.”

She cocked her head toward him, “Now, I’m dying to know you. When do we get married?” If only she had cancer. People run races for cancer; they organize fundraisers; insurance covers the treatment; money flows from everywhere to support scientific research. But the real beauty of cancer is its final solution. Jealous of cancer patients! That’s something she never expected to experience.

He lowered his head close to her face. 

“I’m a boxer, you know.”

“I have no intention of fighting with you.” She replied, pushing her hair over her shoulder.

“I meant, I’m used to getting hit and I know how to defend myself. At the moment, I feel defenseless.”

She framed his face with her hands to bring it closer to hers, and in one gesture, she shattered all her inhibitions, kicked her Catholic rigid boundaries, smashed years of waiting, and waved a finger to shame. She became a wild, fearless gazelle running free in the Sahara. The touch of his lips softened her numbness and her body, lighter and flocculent, floated in the air like those puffs of dust lifted by the wind, unaware of where they’d land.

As she dug into his mouth and swallowed his lips, her hand wandered lower on his body until she came in contact with his abs. Hard as rock. The universe is a cruel bitch. Why now? Why couldn’t she have met such a man when she was healthy, vibrant, and with legs?

She withdrew when his Eiffel Tower poked her thigh. His face turned red as the entire bar broke into applause behind him.

The beautiful man pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Gotta go. The tow truck is here.” He licked his lips and took one step back while still holding her hand, and slipped the other hand in his shirt pocket. “Since there is a ‘maybe’ involved, here is my card if you want me to buy the next round.”

She put the card in her purse and asked the bartender for the check.

“Your drinks are on the house, Ma’am,” Said the bartender without making eye contact. Two people kissing was probably the most entertaining event in that bar in an entire month.

She drove home, singing. That’s the thing about the heart, sometimes it opens without warning, and then, all kinds of things get in: joy, laughter, beauty, and memories. They all swirl into one cocktail that makes one delirious. In a way, running out of time was exhilarating. No worries about the future, no regrets, no desire for accomplishments, and no shame about her conduct. What if she were a slut for one night? Who would care? She certainly wouldn’t be plagued by guilt or remorse. In a way, not having a future made for a bolder present. 

She stopped by a grocery store, grabbed all the boxes of Tylenol left on the shelf, and drove home. Once inside, she took off her shoes and sat on the couch, a bottle of water and the medication at her feet. 

The effects of the alcohol wore off and the numbness returned. She relished the delicious silence. The tick-tock of the Howard Miller on the wall regulating time softened, fading away. She felt hollow like a Halloween pumpkin with all its insides carved out, but the skin still thick and shiny. As usual, whenever she needed a warm, comforting feeling, her mind presented all her cats standing on the rainbow bridge. Would they be there waiting for her? Would they run to greet her? How about Bernard? Would he be there, or had he moved on with eternity? Fifty was too young to be widowed but too old to start over. For some people, the simplest things in life, like growing old together with a spouse, are a luxury out of reach. 

She grew accustomed to single life, but losing her freedom was not an option. She hoped Dr. Strauss would wave his magic scalpel and restore some QoL, as they called it in the scientific journals she pored over. But too much damage had been done. 

Google rendered disfigured images of patients who had the Charles procedure. Skinny carved legs with exposed tendons under ballooned thighs. But carving one leg wouldn’t suffice. The disease would eventually move to her abdomen and second leg. It was only a matter of time before her svelte silhouette expanded, her legs became heavier, and her entire body would rot, ooze, and deteriorate. Dr. Strauss's words “chronic,” “progressive,” “incurable” hit her like bullets, over and over. 

If only she had been diagnosed early. But for six months, nobody had a clue. First, the ER doctor failed to find the cause of her swollen leg and told her to wait two weeks for it to resolve. When it didn't, her primary care physician referred her to a vein specialist, who treated her for venous insufficiency for a month without success. Then came the MRI, the CT scan, lymphatic drainage sessions, acupuncture, and physical therapy —all to no avail.

But the worst and most humiliating encounter was with a famous cardiovascular surgeon at Johns Hopkins, recommended by another doctor, her friend Adam. Like the previous physicians, he ordered an ultrasound and the results came in a week later.

Marianna was excited to talk to the smart doctor. She arrived at his office at seven in the morning and waited in the exam room with her leg exposed like those pilgrims at Lourdes waiting to enter the healing bath. 

When he finally walked in, he delivered the good news. There was nothing wrong with the leg.  With an exasperated tone, Marianna replied, “But it’s still swollen.”

He snapped, “What do you want me to do? I am a cardiovascular surgeon?” He stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

Marianna returned to the waiting room, but couldn’t leave. Where would she go? If the leading authority in the field didn't know what was wrong with her leg, who would? 

The waiting room shrank around her into a box with no way out. Tears streamed down her face while her thoughts dissolved into chaos. Questions crashed inside her head like thunder: What do I do? How do I live? What if it gets worse? Then the questions stopped. Images took over.

Crippled legs. 
Amputation. 
Wheelchair.

A couple of security guards entered the waiting room. Their lips moved, but Marianna couldn’t make out their words; she just understood they were talking to her.

Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she asked, “Are you here to escort me out?” 

“Right this way, ma’am.” The guard led her through the door. 

Disoriented, still in tears, and unable to remember where she'd parked, she sat on the ground, beside an azalea, to sort her thoughts. I’ve become trash that needs to be removed from their prestigious establishment.

The clock on the wall showed 3:00 AM. She rose from the couch, brushed her teeth, put on her nightgown, and carried her questions and regrets to bed. The image of the young man remained planted in her mind. Beautiful, fit, and despite having suffered so much loss at such a young age, he kept a childlike demeanor. He lowered his eyes when she stared at him; his hands trembled when she touched him; and he just followed her lead during their epic kiss. She sensed something so innocent about him that it ignited her curiosity and desire. She always had a soft spot for men who waited for her to make the first move.

She got up early and settled onto the couch with a large mug of coffee. Reaching into her purse, she retrieved the business card with a logo featuring a cartoon insect with a Superman-like hero plunging a sword into its back.

A terminator. She laughed out loud.

 She waited until noon to call the number on the business card. He answered on the first ring.

“This is Marianna. We met yesterday at Serendipity.”

“Marianna! What a pleasant surprise! Should I say a joyful one?” Glad you called since I had no way of reaching you.”

She breathed deeply, wondering if asking a man out was a wise thing to do. Sadie Hawkins would certainly approve. But then again, what were the consequences? Before she could voice her invitation, he made the first move.

“Listen, I need to jump into a meeting shortly, but if you’re available this evening, I’d love to take you out to dinner.”

“Actually, I have something to celebrate and was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

“I love celebrations. What are we celebrating?” His voice sounded soft and melodious. Marianna’s heart wanted to sing again.

“Are you free on Saturday?” she asked.

“Saturday is good. Where shall we meet?”

“The Inn at Little Washington.” 

After a second of silence that stretched into hours for Marianna, he replied, “Why so far away?”

“They have the best fish.”

“McDonald’s has fish and it’s much closer.” He had a sexy laugh that reminded her of her first kiss in high school. Tom Elliot. Tall, thin, shy, with the sweetest lips she’d ever kissed. She never forgot that first sensation of warmth, comfort, and closeness.

“I know the chef,” she said.

“Are you some kind of famous millionaire?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He laughed. “Is this an abduction attempt? Will you sell me into slavery?”

“Is that your fantasy?”

“I only fantasize about beautiful, strong women, with active minds.”

“Great. I’ll see you there at seven?

He hesitated, “You’re serious? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Marianna snapped and her voice took on an icy tone. “If the situation were reversed, a woman would think, ‘Wow, how romantic! He loves me.” She dragged her voice to imitate a naive young girl. “But because I’m a woman, it’s suspicious? If you don’t want to come, I can invite someone else.”

“Whoa, Whoa, slow down. I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. I’m just not used to such grand gestures, that’s all. I’ll be there.” 

She hung up the phone and an involuntary smile escaped her lips. 
 

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