All that we shared. His presence is everywhere in this house. And I like that. Comforts me. But…. Then there’s Carlos. Why’s he having this effect on me? Not like I was looking to find someone. Haven’t felt this way about another man since…. Don’t know what to do. What would James have wanted? Never had a chance to talk about it. Thought we’d grow old together. Have plenty of time to work those things out. Life didn’t play out that way. Has it been long enough? What’s the right amount of time? Would I know? Yeah. Guess I do. Think that’s why Carlos is having this effect on me. Maybe it’s time for me to move on. Allow another part of the healing process to occur. Doesn’t mean I have to forget James or what we shared. Think that’s what James would’ve wanted—me to go on living. Not be alone. Find happiness. Is that with Carlos? Who knows. Perhaps I’ll take baby steps. Have a dream or two about Carlos. If that works out, then….
I sigh. Cap my pen. Close my journal. Turn out the lights. Looking at the clock, I realize it’s still early. Perhaps there’s time for a dream or two about Carlos….
New Beginnings
I awake the next morning, glowing. Thoughts of Carlos still linger. Mmmm, such delicious fantasies. I roll over and view the clock. Still time. I roll back and resume my Carlos fantasy.
I wasn’t clumsy or awkward with words. Oh, no. I seduced him with my sultry voice, luring him into my world. Wrapped my leg around his upper thigh and pulled him close. Clawed my nails up and down his back, much to his delight. Stood on my tiptoes, nuzzled my lips against his neck to nibble and kiss just below his jaw line. Tasted the saltiness of his neck. I felt his body respond and trembled with the urgency of my own needs. And our passion had continued. Lost in each other, we forgot time, space and our own identities. The only thing that mattered was merging as one…. And in my fantasy, we had.
With the greatest effort, I extract myself from my Carlos fantasy. I pull myself out of bed, let Princess out and then take a bath. I smile as I wash myself, imagining that the hands that bathe me are not my own, but those of Carlos caressing each and every curve of my body…. I finish washing, towel dry and throw on a pair of jeans, boots and a sleeveless blouse.
I get the Sunday paper from the front walkway, then pour myself a cup of coffee and fetch a yogurt from the fridge. Settling in at the kitchen table, I skip the sections announcing world events and turn to the ad section. There I find it—my call-out. It reads:
Ladies, tired of not being able to face what’s reflected back at you in the mirror? Interested in taking control of your life and changing it for the better? If so, I’ve got the solution—pole-dancing classes. During my six-week course, you’ll shed some unwanted pounds, become comfortable with and accept yourself and have a brighter outlook on life. If this appeals to you, please contact Sally Whitmore at 555-4344.
Smiling, I lean back and take a sip of my coffee. I hear the front door open and with it, Angel’s voice. “Hey, girl. Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.” I look up and admire my friend as she enters the room. I swear she hasn’t aged a day since we met. Petite, five-foot nothing, 100 pounds tops, the only change is her new shoulder-length bob of jet-black hair that shines and swishes from side to side.
It finally happened. We grew up. Out of nowhere. One day we were being our crazy selves, flying by the seat of our pants, the next we assumed normal respectable lives.
Seeing Angel, a thousand memories of shared experiences flood my mind. Hanging with our group of druggie friends in high school. Having sex with all the boys in that group. Running away from home and beginning a life of prostitution that led to my getting pregnant. Angel by my side as I delivered that child on one of the same grungy beds where I’d laid hundreds of johns. Fleeing our pimp to become strippers. Angel helping me through overcoming my addiction to crack. Her shoring me up when my second son, born premature, lost his battle to live. Holding me together when my husband died in a car accident.
I smile as Angel passes by me and heads straight for the coffeepot. Grabbing a mug from the holder on the counter, she pours herself a cup—black—and holds the pot out. “More?”
“Sure.”
She freshens my cup, then returns the carafe to the warmer. Angel leans over the newspaper. “So, is it there yet?”
I tap my finger on my ad. She reads, then looks up. “So, you ready?”
“Think so.”
“First class tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“How many students?”
“Five.”
“Nervous?”
“A little. This is so strange, yet feels so right. More and more housewives are finding pole dancing is an excellent form of exercise. Builds self-confidence and self-esteem. Breaks them free of their shells and taps into what lies beneath.”
“Nice commercial.” Angel smiles and looks up with her caramel-colored eyes. “What do you have to lose?”
“It’s not what I stand to lose, but them.”
“The women?”
Nodding, I say, “I wanna make their lives better.”
“Like yours?”
“The ones who need it the most are the ones who think the least of themselves. The ones who’ve been broken by their life choices and society. I can relate. After everything that’s happened—losing my son, James dying, falling apart and then getting better—I wanna help other women find their strength so they can heal.” I pause to swirl my coffee before taking a sip. Unable to meet my friend’s eyes, I mumble into my mug, “What if this is a stupid idea?”
“It’s not like you had this crazy thought and jumped right into it. You took your time. Really thought it through…. Give it a chance.”
Can always count on Angel. She’s been my best friend for fifteen years. Can’t believe all the stuff we’ve been through. How she’s always supported me. Heaven knows I’ve tested the limits of our friendship. Can’t recall the number of times she covered for me and helped put the broken parts of my Self back together. All those times I disappeared and kept her worrying while I was off on three-day crack binges. Why’d she stay? Never would have made it through half the stuff I did, if it hadn’t been for her.
Changing the subject, I ask, “Wanna see the room?”
“Sure!”
We top off our mugs. I add cream and sugar to mine and then head for the stairs. As we cross the living room, Angel points at the coffee table. “Did a good job.”
“Sure did.”
We climb the dark staircase. I grin as the eighth step creaks under my weight. One of the many quirks I love about my house. We round a corner at the top. Stretched before us is a wide hallway. To the left is my room. Farther down is a closed door. Arriving in front of it, I rest my hand on the knob. “Promise to give me your honest opinion?”
“I will.”
I swing the door open, revealing a flood of light filtering in through two walls of wrap-around windows. In the center of the large room is a raised stage with a single gleaming brass pole. Five additional poles surround it on a lower level. Rays of sunlight streaming through the tree branches reflect off the poles and create a dappling effect on the light tan walls and floor. As Angel enters, I hear her gasp. “Wow!” she says while rotating slowly. “You and your mom did a great job!”
I