"I'll give him, too; through all the days to come,
tipping his wine to Zeus or other gods
in his great hall, he shall remember me."

"The Odyssey," Translation by Fitzgerald. Book 8, Lines 458-460. Used without permission.
 

FROHIKE:

October 16, 2001

A most special day. The weather is autumn perfection; crisp air, golden sun, hard blue sky with puffy white clouds floating in it. The trees are dazzling in their color display.

I was supposed to have made my appearance into the world on this day, according to my mother, but I was a laggard and waited ten more days. By then, October is of an entirely different character.

I'm not sure what day Martha was anticipated on, but this is her day. And I intend for it to be memorable for her.

She was supposed to be off work at 7 last night, but ended up being on until nearly 11. This was fine, I had a ton of things to accomplish yesterday, and I did get many of them out of the way, though certainly not nearly all of them.

She arrived at my place last night, completely dragging. I felt as if I should make her a cup of tea and tuck her in bed, but she insisted that she needed wine. Of course, we didn't have any in the house, but I've been told that reds are therapeutic for heart patients, as well as those on the verge of a nervous breakdown (which is not color specific). I was able to secure a bottle of Robert Mondavi-I've been informed by oenophiles on the Web that it's a bit boring, but the quality is consistent.

It was actually a very nice Merlot. I'm not much for wine, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to expand my horizons a bit. And on impulse, I grabbed her a pint of Godiva Turtle Caramel Pecan ice cream, which I know she adores but does not eat in front of me. I had to fight the impulse to grab a spoon and dive into that chocolate decadence with her, but the expression on her face
was well worth it.

Had it been the Chocolate Raspberry Truffle version, I might not have been so successful. Then again, that's assuming she would be willing to share. Martha's caring and generosity know almost no bounds. That almost covers such things as Godiva ice cream. I don't think her motives in not offering me any were entirely altruistic, but I had so much fun watching her eat it,
complete with obscene spoon gestures and noises that we normally reserve for the bedroom.

Her frame of mind seemed to turn around with the consumption of chocolate and wine. She then announced that she wanted to get out of her scrubs, which to me seemed perfectly reasonable. I turned on Conan O'Brien as she took over the bathroom.

I actually felt myself dozing off while she was otherwise engaged, but to my great surprise, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I discovered Martha, clad only in a purple silk nightgown, straddled over me on the sofa. Believe me, I woke up in a hurry.

The silk was very soft, and thin enough that I was able to feel everything without even removing the gown. I was just about to see what skin felt like under the gown, the soft skin of her breast, when the door flung open, and in walked my son, who stared at us for a moment, shook his head, and went to bed.

It was like being caught in flagrante delicto. While doing naughty things in naughty places can add to some people's experiences, mostly for me, it means that I have to deal with my son.

I asked him on his way out this morning where he was planning to spend the night, and seeing as he was fairly comatose, he stared at me as if not comprehending the question. I then explained that it was Martha's birthday today-

"Okay, okay, I'm staying with Kelly, okay? Jesus."

So tonight we will have no worries regarding youthful invasion. Not that we couldn't teach these kids a thing or two. I feel sorry for them. It's probably over so damn fast for them that they miss out on all the fun.

Of course, Martha knows plenty of ways to vary the experience. It's not always long and slow. Keep in mind she is a nurse, and she knows some very unusual places. Let's just say that some of the things she does, well, I haven't come like that since I was in high school.

Mostly, though, we have our routine, and we take our time. We don't like to be rushed, either of us, and except for the rare times when nothing beats a quickie, we tend to be leisurely. Hell, at my age, you got to be.

Tonight, we can take all the time we want. The place is ours, and she's off until Sunday.

Right now she's fast asleep. We stayed up way past our bedtime, and while I can't seem to sleep past a certain point, when she has the opportunity, she takes advantage of it. And why not? Today is her day. She should spend it as she likes.

And this gives me time to do a few things. Such as visit the florist and pick up some of the things I know that she adores for breakfast.

I do the bakery first. That's easy. Basically, if it contains chocolate, Martha will eat it. And this bakery, known as the Buttery, provides all kinds of chocolate delicacies. As the name suggests, I can feel my arteries clog up as I walk through the door.

I could easily cave into temptation here, but I have a special dinner planned for tonight. We're going out for a French meal, and I have all intentions of misbehaving for that.

And that's nothing compared to the ways I plan to misbehave after we get back.

I settle on a carrot-raisin muffin-Michael will actually eat these. Not that the boy is fussy-anything but. But he has developed culinary appreciation beyond Burger King, which I consider something of a coup.

And there will be real coffee today. Viennese roast. A touch of cinnamon. And real caffeine. I know, I was bad the day before yesterday, I had real coffee while Ms. Russell conducted business. And then there was yesterday...Allison had some fresh Colombian on, and there was no way for me to resist, short of leg irons and duct tape.

Fuck my cardiologist. It's milady's birthday, and I will do whatever she wants.

I get her a chocolate croissant-you can feel the butter ooze out these babies, and they load them up with Belgian bar chocolate, and sweep the top with a touch of fudge. I also see a triple chocolate muffin-not lowfat-and I decide that nothing is too decadent for my girl.

The bakery was a simple matter. Now for the florist, a place that I like very much, but am always at a loss as to what to get, regardless of who I am getting the foliage for.

The place is a riot of fall colors. Dahlias, chrysanthemums (which I hate-they remind me of funerals), pussywillow-

I remember I gave her pussywillow the first time I gave her flowers. It won't be all I get, but at least I've started somewhere.

I choose carnations, because of their spicy fragrance. Martha loves sweet smells. For her to enjoy a rose, it needs to be fragrant as well as picturesque. Whites and deep reds.

I choose stephanotis, because I've always felt the tiny bell-shaped flowers were very pretty. And some baby's breath, for how gossamer it is.

And some roses. I have to sniff all of them, make certain that they are suitable for milady. I see some deep fuschia that are a lovely color, but no fragrance. I eschew some lovely ones in deep gold because of insufficient scent.

Finally, I choose three varieties-a deep blood red, a red-and-white hybrid, and a deeply aromatic pure white.

I hope she'll like them.

Some things in life are priceless. For everything else, there's MasterCard.

This is definitely a MasterCard moment.
 

I'd really love to get her something else. Some jewelry, perhaps.

Much as I would like to, I'm not comfortable doing that yet-and I don't think she would be, either.

This is because the only piece of jewelry I am interested in buying her is an engagement ring.

We're not ready for that yet.

Maybe on her next birthday.

I wonder how Michael plans to afford one for his young lady. He hasn't got two nickels to rub together, and he doesn't have plastic, either. Thank God he doesn't have plastic. One less thing to screw up my ulcer. And don't tell me he's not going to get her one. He will. He has to. He's a Frohike. I know what Kelly has said, and I don't care.

If he's really going to do this, he will buy that girl a ring. One way or another.

I do allow myself a peek into a jewelry store, however.

Times have changed since I became engaged to Jan. I got her a simple quarter-carat solitaire in a thin 14K band.

I wonder what she did with it.

I wonder what her new husband gave her.

The possibilities these days are endless, in terms of style and size and choice of stone and setting. Juliet's solitaire is flanked by two tiny diamonds and set in platinum (way too rich for my blood). Allison has a wide filigree band with some godawful ugly green stone in it. But she likes it, says it's her birthstone. And I do like the wedding bands she and Langly have. The Hebrew inscription is both lovely in appearance and in sentiment.

What would Martha like? I don't even know. Come to think of it, I have not seen her wedding ring since the first night. I believe it was a plain gold band. No engagement ring. Perhaps she had one but did not choose to wear it; in her line of work, I can understand that.

My tastes run to the very basic. Simple settings and plainly cut stones. And diamonds. I'm sorry, Allison may cherish her green rock, but I think engagement rings should have diamonds in them.

Of course, one should ask the lady who will wear it what her preferences might be.

And this can be left for another day.
 

She's in the shower when I return, which gives me time to realize that I have no vase to place the flowers in-damn. I finally settle on a Pilsner glass I got at Sea World about a hundred years ago. Not very stylish, but utilitarian enough.

And she started the coffee, which I had set up-so she is not likely to suspect, or chide me, that I have been a bad boy. At least not this early in the day. Maybe after she's downed a few cups she might change her mind, but by then it will be too late, and I will have enjoyed myself immensely.

We don't have much of anything planned for today, which is just the way I like it. Maybe a walk on the Mall. We haven't done that, and it's a perfect day for it. I should get out and walk more; might relieve the pain in my stupid leg, which is improving but not enough for my liking.

And I plan to dance every dance at Byers's wedding, absolutely. I refuse to break with tradition and sit any of them out. Especially now that I have a partner to enjoy so many of them with. Of course I will dance with the bride-I'd be insulted if I didn't get the opportunity. And the bridesmaids, and various and sundry female friends...

And Kelly. If I don't dance with Kelly, I think my son will never forgive me. Not that he has said anything. He probably hasn't even thought about it at this point-he's submerged in the world of studying, sex, working, sex, fixing cars, sex, going to class...did I mention sex? But if she is going to be my daughter-in-law, I need to treat her with that much dignity.

I'm still annoyed by my inability to warm up to her the way I think I should. Martha, Jo, even Jan likes her very much. Me? I like her well enough...what is it about her that I find off-putting? I have no idea what it is.

It's probably me. Usually it is.

Maybe it's simple jealousy. Michael confides in her and depends on her, not me, these days. I've been pretty much reduced to housing and cash. I realize that that is unfair-I know that my son regards me in other ways. He is affectionate enough. But he's 25, and I can't hold on to him. And having lost years in between doesn't count. You don't get to make up for lost time. Once it's gone, it's gone.

Which is another reason to make the most of a day like today.
 

MARTHA:

How long has it been since someone gave me a romantic birthday?

What's so sad is, I don't remember. It bothers me that I don't. Daniel's illness in recent years precluded much in the way of celebration, and before that, he tended to be away for most of them. He remembered, of course. He was not inconsiderate; I was always in mind for him.

And of course, there are the terrible things Gizzie does to me every year. This year, it was a barbershop quartet-of sorts. They truly had the barbershop harmonies down beautifully, and their choice of material-they serenaded me last night with 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart'-was completely classical. It was their attire that was a bit unconventional; only Gizzie could find a barbershop quartet that comes clad in only their G-strings. Needless to say, I wasn't the only one enjoying the show. I confess that I was actually too shy to stuff money in their G-strings, and doubly embarrassing because I was the birthday girl, but I think the other women in the department more than made up for my deficiencies. I understand that one of the desk clerks tried to get a phone number from one of them. This forced Gizzie and me into a frenzy of laughter when we took a time out in our 'office'-these men were very obviously gay.

Quite honestly, I'm surprised Gizzie didn't lose her job over this, the way things are lately. And these guys are taking a large risk in performing in such a public arena. I wonder where she found them, but with Gizzie, no point in getting her to reveal her sources.

"What a waste of real estate," she complained after we were able to catch our breath from laughing. "Anyone with pecs like that should not be allowed to play for the other team."

Then again, whatever Gizzie pulls off, she manages in a big way, and sometimes, the more outrageous it is, the more success she has in pulling it off. And nobody in their right mind would fire her, provided they wanted to keep up their care standards. I think her entertainment value is part of her currency.

I wish I could make the same claim. I still wonder, what is it that this lovely man sees in me? I mean, let's face it. I'm short, dumpy, middle-aged, and while my financial situation has certainly improved, I hardly have a balance sheet that would recommend me.

When he holds me, all that changes. I feel young, pretty, and the wealthiest woman alive or dead. I don't even feel that short. He only has three inches on me, and to me, this is perfect. We can snuggle together in any position perfectly, vertical, horizontal, or any variation in between. He has the softest, most soothing voice I've ever heard, particularly in moments of intimacy-he could say anything in that voice, and I would melt. I feel as if I am being soothed with a feather when his voice touches down on my ears.

And there are plenty of other ways he touches down on me that do far more than soothe.

When I was going off shift last night, Gizzie asked me what we were doing today, and I just smiled.

She shook her head. "My fault for asking."

I didn't say anything! Really, I didn't.
 

Mel asks me over coffee and pastry what I would like to do today.

I look at him, straight into his beautiful, soft green eyes, and I just smile at him.

He gives me my first present of the day.
 

Coffee-flavored kisses start on top of our lips, barely touching, like a soft breeze caressing on a warm day.

These deepen, tongues darting at one another like hummingbirds in search of sweet nectar, and finding it. Our breaths mix, scents heighten. I can begin to feel a faint touch and smell of sweat on him, and I find this intensely erotic. His murmuring is soft, seductive, and tender. My hands find their way under the edge of his shirt, and I touch his back, broad and warm.

Oh God, I love this man.

We cuddle close, pressed into each other so that we can feel every curve and angle on each other's bodies, as many as you can feel when you're both fully dressed.

Time to remedy that.
 

FROHIKE:

I lower her gently into the bed, still unmade from our sleep. I love that I can smell her on my sheets, on my clothes, everywhere.

I love the taste of her lips on mine, of her tongue ever so gently touching mine, the swell of her breasts pressing into my chest, feeling her nipples become erect as I lean against her. The sound of her breath in my ear increases my own arousal, and I feel my hardness press against the soft swell of her belly. Her heart beats against mine, a tender, urgent rhythm. I don't worry that I'll suffer another heart attack. No, this is the healing heart, hers making mine race.

"I love you, Mel," she breathes to me.

"Oh God. You don't know...I love you so much, Martha."

She reaches her hands down and gently grabs my ass.

I want to feel her even closer.

"Mel." She breathes to me, hard.

"Yes?"

"Mel, I want you to do something for me."

"Anything."

She closes her eyes. "Get naked. For me."

No problem with that one.
 

And she does the same for me, slowly torturing me, but how lovely such torture is!

She's so lovely I could cry.

Having dispensed with such irritations as clothing, we can now settle into each other's skin unencumbered.

This warmth, this drowsy excitement, I keep thinking I'm dreaming, and I'll wake up and it will vanish in a cloud of smoke and vapor.

It doesn't. The only clouds that envelop us are filled with warmth and excitement.

Her breasts are the most wonderful place on earth. Soft, warm, and ample, I'm endlessly revived here. She moans very softly as her nipples swell to quarter-size, the areola darkening as her pleasure intensifies. I slip my mouth over one and kiss it very softly at first, but then increasing pressure on it, and her moans increase symmetrically. Just hearing her tiny expressions of pleasure increases mine in an unbelievably exponential fashion. My sucking finally produces an explosive wail from her, her face lit up like the moon on a hot summer night, and she cries out to me, wanting more, holding on to me so tightly I think her hands have become fused to my skin.

Her sex is hot and lush, dark curls damp from her arousal, and I probe her gently there, every sense satisfied by her arousal. This produces more moaning, then a soft scream, my name repeated over and over by her in her moment of greatest pleasure.

"More," she begs hoarsely. I'm only too happy to do it for her. And it's not as if this is a one-way ride. The greater her pleasure, the greater mine. I reach the phase where I begin to feel like a teenage boy who is going to lose it at any moment.

I slide myself slowly into her, stopping to feel each inch of velvet heat and dampness. Her muscles squeeze me gently as I move in slowly, carefully, and I can feel the inevitable and delicious encroaching.

I'm finally joined whole to her. I am flying. Every inch of my body is coated in thick sensation. Our moaning intermixes, breathing together, hearts beating together.

I finally can stand it no more. Love and physiology take over here, and I pour myself into her, both of us deep inside the other, everything mixing together to create something greater than the sum of its parts.

This is union.

I know this because I have this sensation of her soul touching mine in this moment, not just flesh and fluid.

When her writhing quiets, I kiss her tenderly, and she continues to cling to me, murmuring her love for me, and I do the same for her.

"Happy Birthday," I whisper to her.

"Yes, it is, definitely," she whispers back.

We fall into a deliciously foggy sleep.
 

MARTHA:

It's such a lovely fall day. I've always loved this time of year, and always been happy that my parents had the good sense to create me in January so that I could make my appearance in the time of harvest moon and blazing trees.

I haven't walked on the Mall in so long, and I've wanted to do it. I tell this to Mel, and while I know his leg still bothers him, I feel that walking more would benefit him. Don't get the impression that I have a problem inflicting my nursing discipline on him. I don't. But he is a stubborn man, and as for following my instructions...

Well...

But he instantly agrees to this activity.

Not many school groups are here today, thank God. I am not anti-child. I'm simply anti-swarms of children. I have no idea how schoolteachers manage without losing their hearing and their sanity.

Washington is lovely in the fall. It's rife with color. And today, the sky is perfection. I couldn't have asked for a better day. It's almost as if heaven smiled on me this year, as a way of making up for all the years where my birthday was just another working day.

Just my present this morning would have more than made up for it, but with Mel, there's always bonus points. Flowers, chocolate...the man is a consummate romantic.

I was never much for romance in my younger years. Love, devotion, caring, yes. Romance? I regarded it as a frivolity.

Not anymore. Romance is quickly becoming my oxygen.

We walk, holding hands like teenagers on a first date. There are long lapses of comfortable silence, which pleases me. I have a hard time holding conversations sometimes when I am not working. I am so much on sensory overload in my job that to not be forced into it on my off time is the greatest of gifts.

He is a quiet man, not into self-revelation. It sneaks out at times, when we are both least expecting it.

We are now near the Vietnam Memorial Wall.

He pauses, says nothing. He has become silent, contemplative, and more than a little wistful.

We sit, without saying a word, in one of the benches nearby. He continues to hold my hand, giving the occasional squeeze, but mostly, he is lost in his own thoughts.

I have been here a few times. I know some of the names on the wall. People that worked with my father, and who were unlucky enough to come home special delivery-they are here. Their ghosts scream out for peace and justice. This is perhaps the closest they will ever get to it.

This wall raises more questions than it answers. Its quietude makes a marked counterpoint to the mayhem that was Vietnam. A mayhem that may have slipped underground, but will never be at peace with the country that sent these souls here.

An odd place for solace, perhaps, but for Mel, this seems to be where it happens.

I've been, in this quiet way, given a glimpse into the soul of the man I love.

And that is the most wonderful present I could receive.

We stay here for a very long time.

END OF PART 83