"Now when his pleasure was complete, the god
spoke softly to her, holding fast her hand..."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 11, Lines 279-280. Used without permission.
 

MARTHA:

"Are you going to work?"

He shrugs. "Somebody should. We still have delusions of getting out a November issue. Which, by the way, is not an option. And I don't see the others exactly pushing to move on it."

Here we go again.

One of Mel's biggest problems, and I think the element that causes him the most stress, is his sense of responsibility for everyone and everything.

Granted, I can't be irritated with Langly, Byers and Michael-they've certainly had preoccupations of their own that require their attention, but Mel has had his own problems as well. And he isn't even supposed to be back at work yet. The soonest he was to be released was the end of October-pending approval of his cardiologist. I mentioned this to him-once.

"Fuck my cardiologist," was his response.

I made the decision not to try to use that argument again.

Go ahead, tell me I'm overreacting. That I'm being a hysterical female. I'll simply present you with the facts of the matter: Mel's suffered two heart attacks in two years, and a bleeding ulcer to boot. He's still not walking exceptionally well-our walk on the Mall was intensely tiring and he seems to be in pain today from walking.

And then there's the little fact of my nursing one husband into his grave already. I really don't think this would be better the second time around.

He's not your husband, Martha, I chide myself. He's free to do as he pleases. And even if he was your husband...

This thought takes me by surprise.

I have been literally brought back to life by this relationship. I cherish our time together, all aspects of it. From the mundane, washing dishes together and making the bed, to the sublime...well, you know.

I haven't even contemplated the possibility of taking another husband. Of ever getting married again. Many things have crossed my mind being with Mel, but being married to him has not been one of them.

Until now.

Martha, you must be a glutton for punishment, I tell myself. After all you went through with Daniel-all the hard times, the travel, the uncertainty, and then the prolonged and deadly illness, you'd be crazy enough to consider doing it again, with a man 13 years your senior, with children, in poor health and involved in work that has serious implications for all of your
personal safety?

Yes, I think I would. If he asked.

Of course, neither of us is anywhere near that point. We're both still among the walking wounded in the relationships department, and we'd be crazy to think that this short time together would be sufficient to restore us to emotional equilibrium.

Of course, we might just be plain crazy, and then all bets are off.

Whatever course this relationship might take, all I know is that I want Mel in my life, and I'm not willing to have him go and die on me. Of that I'm certain.

"Mel, I really think you need some rest. We have a lot of activity ahead of us tonight and tomorrow." Logical reasoning might work here.

Then again, maybe not.

He grabs his wallet and car keys, leans over and kisses me with those oh-so-soft lips. "I'll see you later. Have fun shopping."

I shake my head as I watch him depart. He is the most stubborn man I have ever met. And I know a lot about stubborn men. I had one for a father, and then for a husband.

They have nothing on this man. When his mind has been made up, you might as well be quiet and accept what will happen next. He's not about to listen to argument, rational or otherwise. And this is not just with me-I've watched him with his son. The same rules apply. One night, Mel was asleep in my lap, and I was watching a movie set off the coast of Gibraltar. It's a
lovely place, and when Michael came in, I pointed out the Rock of Gibraltar, how amazing it is that something like this has withstood the forces of nature and man for thousands of years, and stands in the face of it, undaunted.

Michael simply gave me a bored look, shrugged, and said, "Yeah, sounds a lot like my old man."

He wasn't kidding.
 

"Have fun shopping."

Not even close.

I hate shopping, and I hate shopping for clothes for myself more than anything. I'm a rather odd size, what with my overendowed chest, and so few things fit well and look good...I've not gone shopping in years. The only reason I own the black outfit I wore to my birthday dinner was that a couple of years ago, I had to attend a hospital-sponsored event and needed appropriate evening dress, which I didn't own.

I live in my scrubs for the most part. Granted, not much of a fashion statement, but they're comfortable and serviceable, which is what's important when your job is as physical as mine is. Off duty, I tend to live in comfortable, easy items such as leggings, long sweaters, sweats and long skirts, and I choose basic styles. I don't like anything fussy or confining.

My one luxury, and even when I was running so severely in the red that I could barely buy groceries I still indulged myself, was in the lingerie department. When you're a 40DD, you don't scrimp on your bras. A bad bra will kill your back, and my work would do that without any added help.

Plus, I don't need to be embarrassed when I get naked for Mel. It's bad enough he sees me the way I look after a 12-to-16-hour shift, my hair matted and frizzed, my scrubs wrinkled and stained, and my nails sorely in need of a manicure. Yet he always tells me I'm beautiful, and I believe him, because somehow, when I'm immersed in his touch, I feel that way.

This weekend, I'd like to do more than feel beautiful when I'm in the arms of this man. I want to look beautiful, and this thought takes me as much by surprise as the one I had only a short time ago.

I've just never cared about it. I've always been too busy, and when Daniel would be on leave, both of us would be so starved that it didn't matter if the other one had turned purple with pink spots and green hair. I honestly haven't thought much about my appearance since I was a size 12 and still had a body I'd show in a swimsuit.

My goal for this weekend: knock Mel's socks off.
 

Of course, as soon as I begin to look at clothes, reality sets in painfully.

Most one-piece items are out of the question; I'm two different sizes top and bottom, both of them too large a number for my liking. And for some reason, the colors featured this fall just don't thrill me. Gray figures prominently, as do shades of mustard yellow and a slew of other colors that I either don't like or do nothing for me.

Who do designers make clothes for, anyway? Certainly not for any of the women I know. Even Ally, tiny at a size 8, can't wear most of this stuff, and wouldn't even if she could.

And I'm very picky about fabrics. I don't like anything rough or stiff. Fortunately, amid the sea of worsteds and tweeds, there are some soft, drapeable fabrics that I find much more to my liking-it simply involves a great deal of effort to locate them.

The possibilities get even narrower in the dressing room. Even if I like it on the rack, much of the time, once it's on me, I find it unflattering or of improper fit.

By the time I've worked three stores, I'm getting hopelessly depressed. I need two things to wear, and so far the score is: Designers 2, Martha 0.

I should have started doing this weeks ago, but like most unappetizing tasks, I've put it off as long as possible. I asked Mel if there was something he'd like to see me in, but he basically gave me a look of total bafflement, assured me that whatever I chose would be fine.

I appreciate diplomacy, but I could have used more concrete advice.

Gizzie, who also needs to shop for tomorrow (lucky girl-only one outfit for her), offered to accompany me, but I've shopped for so long by myself I'm not sure that I could handle shopping with her, or anyone, for that matter. And I believe she was going to have to go in today for at least a toxicology meeting and a standards meeting, and once Gizzie is in the building, she
tends to succumb to the call of the CCU and jump in and keep things going. We're constantly short of help, and the shortage has become even more critical since the closure of our day-care center, which took a number of working parents out of the running. Staffing graveyard shift is in particular a nightmare. I've worked alone more nights than I care to remember, and I get scared. We're so vulnerable to lawsuits in that condition.

I almost feel guilty for not being there this weekend, and right now, I'm thinking it might be a better alternative than shopping for the elusive perfect outfits. I can deal with a coding patient. Trying to locate a nice outfit, well...

I decide that I need some restoration if I'm to properly tackle this task. Luckily for me, there is a Fannie Mae candy shop in this mall, and I am lured by the rich aroma of chocolate into its clutches. Three truffles later, I decide, I have to do this, and do it right. I will find clothes or die trying. I hope it's the former.

Department stores tend to be depressing in their sameness. Once upon a time you could go to different places and find different merchandise, thus insuring that at least there was selection available. Nowadays, it seems that all stores carry pretty much the same merchandise.

And I'm disinclined to spend a lot of money on clothes, for the simple reason that for me, it's a waste. I don't wear anything that much, particularly not anything of a dress-up nature.

Then again, I've noticed that Mel does like to dress up...not frequently, but he seemed to positively relish putting on a suit the other night. And he does look marvelously dapper. Bow ties have not been the fashion for ages, but on him, they look right.

You're no longer in debt, Martha. Granted, I'm moving the end of the month, and had to put down first and last-not a small consideration in DuPont Circle-but I'm not destitute anymore. With any luck, my house will be sold within the next few months.

Live a little, girl.

I decide to head for the designer floor in Bloomingdale's. I don't even shop Bloomingdale's except for lingerie normally.

At first, it appears that I made a mistake. Once again, there are about a million choices for someone the size and age of Miranda (size 1-I didn't even know there was such a thing until she told me), but for me...

I'm approached by a woman who looks to be in her late fifties. She asks if she can assist me. I'm mildly taken aback-when Target is where you usually shop, you're grateful if you can get a cashier to ring you up in a reasonable amount of time, forget about anyone helping you. And as for lingerie buying, well, I've done it long enough that I know what manufacturers and styles work for me. I don't require assistance in that area, and wouldn't welcome it.

I explain my plight to her, and she nods sympathetically.

I'm reasonably certain that despite her good intentions, and hopes of getting a commission off me, I'm not likely to have any more success than I've had all day.

She tells me to have a seat, asks me what sizes I wear (she's obviously done this-she can recognize that I'm not the same size all around), and heads off.

Several minutes later, she returns with an armload of attire. Some of it clearly isn't interesting to me, and don't want to try those on, but some of them look as if they might be possible.

One of them is a long silk chenille sweater in a lovely shade of emerald green, a color I like and can wear, and she couples it with a jacquard patterned satin skirt in the same shade of green. Simple, elegant, outrageously expensive-a peek at the price tags and I almost say, forget it.

Then I try it on.

The skirt is flattering-slim without being confining, with a slit to the knee on one side of the front. And the sweater-just the fabric alone would sell me. This is so incredibly light and soft, warm enough for October but not so warm that I'll die of heat prostration on the dance floor. It's cut in a low V-neck-not so low that my Southern military upbringing would make me uncomfortable, but just enough to fire Mel's imagination. A tiny bit of cleavage is all that is exposed.

I will probably faint when the Visa bill arrives, but I don't care. I feel positively luxuriant in this outfit. The fit, the color, the style-perfect. I think about a small set of gold butterfly pins I have that were a gift from my mother, which I have worn exactly once. They'd look perfect lining one side of the V.

And that's just the outfit to wear to the wedding. I still have the rehearsal dinner to deal with.

Oddly enough, it's a dress I find most flattering for this-how this woman ever found a dress that would fit me, it's a mystery of the universe. It's dark navy, in a soft fabric, with sheer sleeves and sheer above the bustline. I'm sorely tempted...even if it will involve a strapless bra. Which I don't own. My Visa card hasn't seen this sort of luxury, probably ever.

As much as I love this dress, however, I can't tolerate the thought of wearing a strapless bra for even a couple of hours-and this is assuming I can find one that would fit me. Reluctantly, I decide against the blue dress. I love the color, and my sales consultant disappears to locate more things in said shade.

I wear pants all the time, and I like them, but I'm not completely at ease with the idea of wearing pants to anything connected to a wedding-that Southern military upbringing again. But when I try on a pair of navy silk full-legged pants, and pair it with a navy silk tank and a navy lace shell over it, I'm sold. Once again, full coverage, just enough exposure to hint at naughtiness.

I hope Mel will be tempted. The expense will have been well worth it.
 

It's been an odd day for me. Shopping itself is an oddity for me.

And shopping with someone else in mind, and depending on others for assistance, has been very strange. I'm so used to doing for myself. I'm not accustomed to thinking of the opinions of others, nor relying upon their help. I've gotten used to the idea that if I don't take of things, they won't get done.

Maybe it's time to stop thinking that way.
 

LANGLY:

I'm finally getting better, today I'm working at Ally's desk and I actually have clothes on. This is a major step for me. Kind of weird, too, I was getting sort of used to working in bed and not having anything but my sweatpants on. I've definitely gotten used to Ally washing my hair. I hope she'll still do it when my cast is off, somehow I don't think I'm gonna be able to convince her to do this every day. But maybe sometimes. And she can still soap me down anytime she wants.

She's been out, took Patrick to Azani's for a little while and had to pick up her dress for tomorrow. She said she would only be about an hour, but for Ally, that means more like two hours, so I'm sort of surprised when she's back in like an hour and ten minutes. New land speed record for her.

"This dress does nothing for me," she's sort of whining as she hangs it up. It's like the color of rust, if rust was shiny, and it's plain. Looks sort of like a long tube to me. Not like I could tell much about it from just looking at the dress.

"I'm sure it looks okay." I'm trying to be nice, but I also need to get this one thing finished before the goons show up, for the last time hopefully. I already told 'em I had a wedding I was in so don't come around after 1 o'clock, and if Zupan-prick doesn't like it, well, he can kick my ass on Monday, since it'll be back in the office.

Getting better has its downside.

"It does not. It's the wrong style and color and everything."

"Then why'd you buy it?"

"Because Juliet chose them, and it's her wedding."

"Yeah, but it's your money."

"Not the point. I always felt that if it's not your wedding, shut up and go with it."

"So follow your own advice."

"That doesn't pertain to bitching in private."

"Ally, I'm sure it looks good, don't sweat it." I'm like, Ally doesn't usually stress about clothes. What's the big deal? She looks good in everything. And nothing at all.

God, how long's it been since I was thinking like that?

I must be definitely getting better.

Because all of a sudden I have this wicked urge to see her in nothing at all.

"Hey Ally girl. Try the dress on."

"I did that at the shop. It fits."

"Try it on for me."

She looks kind of baffled. "Why? You'll see me in it tomorrow."

"Aw, c'mon, be a sport. You'll get my unbiased opinion."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Please?" I bat my eyes at her. This usually works.

She sighs. "Okay, okay."

She starts by unlacing her Docs and kicking them off, lucky for me not too hard, those things hurt when they fly across the room and hit you. Then she starts to take her tights off, and when she hikes up her skirt to do it, I can see she's wearing a lace thong underneath.

Oh yeah.

The little denim skirt she's got on gets taken off, and I'm treated to a nice view of her ass. Ally has a great ass. Frohike's the original tit man, Byers is into legs, me, I notice asses.

I sure as hell notice hers, anyway.

Then she pulls her shirt over her head, and she's got a lace bra on, sheer, her titties show right through it.

Oh God, I am soooo horny.

"Miranda better not have taken my beige strapless-wait, here it is."

She unhooks the lace bra, and her tits are there in all their tiny glory.

She looks over at me as she's about to put the beige one on. "Langly, are you staring at something?"

"Oh yeah."

She studies me with those blue eyes for a minute.

"Well, don't just sit there, get over here!" She pats the bed.

Don't need to ask me twice.
 

This is nice, only thing she needs to lose are the undies, and she'll be totally naked. I watch as she turns her back and pulls them off-I just about go nuts at the sight of her ass being totally uncovered.

Getting me undressed, that's more work right now, but it's fun to have Ally do it, particularly since she stops to touch certain things as she's working.

We haven't had sex since before I got hurt-haven't been up to much of anything lately, let alone doing it. This isn't the first time we've gone without. We seem to have these spells where we don't get much sex going on.

But man, it's almost worth it when the wait's over.

She lowers me on my back-not my favorite position in bed, I like to be a little more active, and usually, at the end, I'm on top. Yeah, we're not real imaginative, but we have a lot of fun, anyway.

Still, when she starts blowing me, I figure I can live with being on my back for a while. Jewish girls do give blow jobs, thank you very much, and this one gives one that is mighty fine. She's got a little mouth, but it works well. And I only cough a few times, which is pretty good, doesn't seem to break the mood for her. In fact, when I do, she comes up for air, and she runs her fingers over my chest and that's really nice.

Oh man, life is good again...
 

ALLY:

He is delicious. He's looking a lot healthier today, and acting it, too. I'd been missing my horny, healthy husband, and it looks like I have him back.

Having one injured arm, I decide to put him on his back for now. He's not crazy about it, and I know it, but I try to make up for it by giving him a blow job, and he seems to appreciate that. I have so missed the little sounds he makes when he's in the throes of passion, the soft, unintelligible murmuring noises that come out of him, the soft little cries when he's close, the way he says my name...

I take his good hand and hold it over his head while I work his chest and stomach. I'm not sure how he'll like this; he's not much for a submissive role in bed, even if he's generally a follower in the rest of his life. Little kisses bring about some goosebumps as I put my lips to the soft skin below his navel, and when I brush my lips against his chest nipples, the flat pinkness become hardened little nubs under my ministrations. I look up to find his uncovered eyes growing darker and wider. I trace the lines of his chest hair with one finger, and he jumps a little.

"Tickles," he says.

"I'll stop."

"No, feels good."

He wants to move now. He asks me to lie on my side facing him, and I do. Per his request, I move myself up high on the pillow and he shifts down till his mouth is level with my breasts, which he latches on to rather forcefully. Not that I mind. He does this, and I can come on the spot-and I do. He makes these small biting motions he knows I love, and I'm really glad we have no kids in the house right now. Frohike's out back, but if he comes inside and hears us, well, he deserves it for barging in.

I wrap my hands over his ass. Langly has a gorgeous ass. He tends to wear his shirts hanging over it, so you don't get the full view, but it's a perfect, well-built ass. I run my hands over it and he seems to approve, especially when I work my fingers down to his testicles and squeeze very gently.

"Oh man you're gonna make me come you do that Ally," he breathes roughly.

"I think that's the idea," I whisper back, my own voice catching in my throat as his hand explores the inside of my thighs.

"Remember how we did it when you got hurt?" he asks me.

"Yeah."

"Let's do that again."

This consists of me spooning myself inside of him so that he can enter me from behind, that way keeping his injured arm on top, and he can still hold me with the other one. He's so much bigger than I am, so I can slip into him with ease, and feel very protected as he kisses the top of my head and the back of my neck.

And I love the feel of his testicles against my ass as he moves gently inside me at first, but soon we're both ready to let go, and we go over the precipice in a sharp, delicious, mind-blowing mutual orgasm. His breathing is harsh, he seems to be trying to say things but they come out as mere sounds-we're both subverbal now, enmeshed in primal passion.

I love the way he feels inside of me, and I come several times as he slams into me, the feel of his body and breath driving me to incredible dizzying heights.

"I love you, Langly," I whisper to him, releasing myself gently from him and rolling over to face him.

He's smiling, a soft smile of drowsy satisfaction.

"Love you," he says, very quietly, in a voice that's almost childlike, and I'm overwhelmed with tenderness for him. He's an odd mix of power and vulnerability, and the combination as it occurs in him is irresistible to me.

We lay snuggled in each other, as I listen to his heart beat slow and his breathing, much less liquid than it's been, become more regular.

"I think you're getting better," I say softly, and we both giggle.

"Guess you could say that," he sounds drowsy, spent. He's probably going to need a nap after this.

"Hey Langly, you still want me to try on my dress?" I ask him, teasingly.

He opens his light blue eyes and gives me a mischievous grin. "Nah. I like you better like this."

I laugh. "You're definitely healthier today. So getting me to try on my dress was just a ploy to get me in bed, wasn't it?"

He winks at me. "Worked, didn't it?"

"And then some."

We're about to doze off when we hear the gate buzzer. We both groan unappreciatively. The goons have arrived for pickup.

"Hey, Ally, think I should answer the door like this?" We're both still stark naked.

I smile at him. "Tell you what. You try on the dress."

And we both laugh, in a way we haven't laughed in a long time.

Maybe life will be normal again.

Whatever that is.

END OF PART 86