Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty-three

There are some people you meet who aren't particularly attractive physically, but once you get to know them, the fact that they're not attractive somehow goes away. And then there are people like Liz. To look at her you'd think she was "somebody." She's got great presence, a perfect smile capable of warming you when it's 20 below, and a fascinating cleavage. In the tradition of men, her smile lured me in, and the cleavage sealed the deal. But I was soon to find her personality annoying as hell.

Being with her was like having the chatter of talk radio constantly going. One of the good things about being in a relationship with Liz was somehow, a bit of her mania rubbed off on my lazy, lethargic, slothful ways, and I actually felt myself wanting to try out for a cheerleading squad.

My apprehension of Liz coming over that night preoccupied me to the point of feeling paralyzed. I ended up sitting in a chair in the corner of my flat with my arms wrapped around my legs, which were hoisted up on the chair, looking out the window at a snow-filled tree waving in the night.

Naturally I didn't know what to expect when Liz came over. I've always anticipated events, made things up, plotted expectations in my mind about how things might be or how I'd like them to be. But for the most part, they never resemble anything I ever imagine or make up. Usually, the higher the expectation, the greater the disappointment. I guess that should teach me a lesson.

Liz has been calling a lot lately, and I begrudgingly talk. I'm not sure why the call frequency has risen, and frankly, I couldn't tell you what we talk about. But that's probably due to the fact that she's the one doing all the talking.

Deep down inside, where the soul lives and hardly gets to express itself, I feel it's nice to hear from and know that someone cares. Even if it is Liz. Ben was the only other one who I felt really cared—deeply. He treated me like a son. Respected my talents, listened to my thoughts, and disagreed as much as he could.

I've learned there are people in my life that at times I get sick of being around. And Liz, although she means well, is one of them. I should really cut her some slack, but I can't. The irritating attributes are just too strong.

These are people who represent the same old thing. Where nothing in their lives ever changes. They have the same stories over and over. The same complaints day after day. There's no change. No growth. It feels stale to be around them. And when you're in a relationship and feeling this way, it's twice as bad, because you're with that person more than you're with anyone else.

So at times people bore me. At other times, I think, "Shit, could I be the boring one? Am I the one making things feel dull? Am I simply looking for someone else to stimulate, entertain, or satiate my existential meandering?"

I usually dismiss any thoughts of holding myself accountable. Those types of thoughts somehow tap into that deep-seated anxiety. It's usually easier to take a step back and blame those around me.

A dull pounding sound coming from the door snapped me out of my wonders. Not knowing my legs had fallen asleep from holding them to my chest for so long and so tight, I collapsed to my knees as I tried to get out of the chair.

"I'll be right there," I yelled as the pins and needles teased my legs.

I crawled to the door like a fallen soldier. Using the doorknob as leverage, I eased myself up as my legs began to cooperate one leg at a time.

"Guess who?" Liz said as I opened the door. Before the next moment passed, I noticed the pins and needles relocated from my legs to an area centrally located north of my thighs. I was off in the land of when we first met. It was like seeing Liz for the first time again. How her beauty took me and held me for a moment. I wondered where I was and why I was invited?

So there stood Liz, in my doorway and, the only way I can explain it, ready for action. She definitely took her time getting ready for the evening. She planned every detail of her look, right down to the shade of lipstick and how that contributed to making her legs look a bit longer than they actually were. What I'm trying to say is she looked great.

I was surprised by my favorable reaction, but not surprised at what happened next.

"You made me wait at the door so long, I started to think you forgot about our date—sorry, I don't mean to refer to it as a date. Anyway, like I promised, I brought a bit of King Wong—Ooh, that sounds funny, 'I brought a bit of King Wong.'" Her notorious cleavage led the way as she walked in. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as she breezed by, and set the bag full of King Wong on the dining room table.

"I got us a number seven and, if I remember correctly, your favorite, number sixteen. Of course, some white rice and an order of king rolls. Nothing fancy. But I did forget drinks. Do you still have that plum wine I brought for Max's birthday?"

She took off her long camel's hair jacket, held it out for me to retrieve, and revealed before me the Temple of Doom. I approached her with what seemed like extreme caution, like I was about to capture a vicious snake with no room for an errant move.

From what I can remember, she kept talking—nervous talk, to fill any awkward silence of the moment.

I moved closer and found myself in the "circle of scent." This is the area around a woman where her perfume either begins to take hold of its pursuer or parries the pursuer immediately. The familiar scent lured me closer and deeper into a trance. She had it all working, and she knew it. The winsome grin, the slow-batting eyes, and that damn cleavage. It all caught me off guard, and before I knew it, I was face-to-face with the enchantress.

It was either very quiet or my heart was beating so loudly it drowned everything out. The next moment we locked eyes. I could feel the heat emanating from her body as she moved a little closer. My stomach simmered with excitement, my loins pulsed with warmth and anticipation.

I tried to fight it, but I was pulled forth like steel toward a magnet. Our mouths were now closing in on each other inches at a time. She became a blur as we moved so close my eyes couldn't focus. We paused for a moment as our lips were a hair's distance apart. The warmth of her breath moistened my lips as she softly brushed hers across mine. That damn tingling sensation took hold completely and the game was over.

Our lips locked, the camel's hair coat fell to the ground, and the familiar crush of her soft cleavage made me feel like I was home again.