Blind Dates Page 2

  He’d been here before. Hateful hippies, angry self-righteous yogis, psycho vegans, smug Buddhists—he’d dated them all and had been invariably so turned off that he’d never pursued anything past dessert . . . when it had even gotten that far, which it usually hadn’t.

  It wasn’t only his mind that was a master of interpretation; it was his total being. He could read body language, and his body had a reaction to language and its undertones. The reaction now was visceral. The crawling on his scalp spread over and penetrated his skin, then tickled and pricked his nerves until the mass of discomfort congregated in the area of his stomach. He was losing control of himself. Something was coming out.

  “Excuse me.” He hurried to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty—not that the presence of anyone else would’ve helped tamp down the sick that crawled up his throat. He managed to project all of it into a toilet bowl, but it took several heaves. He expelled a lot more than he’d taken in over the past day.

  After he gave up all there was to give, he hefted himself up and shambled to the sink to rinse his face and throat. It was only when he finished drying that he checked the time on his phone. He’d been in the bathroom for close to an hour. That couldn’t be right. But the sight of his table seemed to confirm.

  Dinner had been served and mostly eaten. The woman’s plate was clean. The food on his was cold. Her seat was empty. On his, she’d left an envelope, and inside were more than enough bills to cover the entire meal. There was also a folded note that had the word tip written on the outside. He unfolded it.

  . . . so sweet, so sinful—decadence has a thin skin . . .

  He shrugged off the nonsense and sat down to refill his stomach.

  Wayne almost regretted getting into bed. Something refused to let him alone.

  It had started with his head rolling from cheek to cheek on his pillow, but it soon spread to the rest of his body. He tossed and turned, trying to find a position of even semi-comfort. It was a lost cause. He was just too damn hot.

  It wasn’t the mattress, the covers, or the room’s temperature. It was something inside him—something in the pit of his stomach—as if he’d eaten a handful of Carolina Reapers before tucking himself in.

  In a fit of frustration, he heaved the comforter and sheets onto the floor, then slipped off his pajamas, flinging them on top of the discarded bedclothes. The fire in his stomach remained, but being naked helped just enough.

  He fell back in relief and sank, as if nestling into fresh, dry, cool sand. The memory foam mattress and pillow formed a mold for his body, cradling him as he fell into a deep, abiding sleep.

  Wayne felt warm, but it was a comforting warmth, like a tropical tide of pure bliss was slowly crawling in, touching him, teasing him, lapping at him, toying with him, clinging to him . . .

  He’d wet the bed. And he was still wetting it.

  Realizing, he tried to open his eyes, but it felt as if his eyelids had been glued shut. The glue was still wet and was drying fast. When he finally managed to part his lids, a heavy fog suffused with amber filled his vision. So concentrated, so glutinous, the fog stuck to his sight, preventing him from shutting his eyes.

  Dreaming—he had to be.

  He tried to turn to his side, but fatigue fought the effort. His movements were no different from those in a dream when some mugger, monster, or other vague villain was chasing him as he tried to escape. The foam mattress and pillow no longer felt like sand, not even wet sand. He didn’t feel them at all. Over him, around him, under him—there was no bed, no furniture, no room. He was enveloped in some kind of aqueous gel.

  He arranged and steadied his body like a wooden plank, stomach down, then let instinct take over. The environment wasn’t right for walking or wading, so he jerked like a worm with limbs—languid appendages he wasn’t yet sure how to use in a foreign environment. Soon, however, he felt less like a worm and more streamlined. His body was a more coherent whole, swimming the gel as he wondered a little about how he was actually breathing and a lot about where he was actually going.

  Aimless for what seemed like an hour or more, he noticed a shimmering black dot. He swam toward it, thinking it might be an escape from all this. He swam faster and faster, straighter and straighter, watching the patch get bigger and bigger but no less mysterious, until he could go no farther.

  He’d hit a curved barrier. Although firmer than the gel, the barrier was also pliable and transparent, or enough so for him to dimly see through, over the depths, across the expanse—his vision got sharper the more he gazed—through vales of varying shades of darkness until his sight hit its own barrier. He pressed himself closer to the membrane and concentrated, focused, letting his vision widen, adjust, as his head increasingly ached. It was approaching migraine territory when he made out a trace of a gargantuan, imperfect oval and got an inkling as to what was looking back, focusing on him.

  I see that you’re awake.

  He heard the deep, feminine voice come from outside and within—all around—as he felt the gel quiver.

  Shall I turn on the lights?

  She did, and he trembled. The outline across the distance took on immediate color and definition, and the joyous smirking expression made it seem even more dimensional, almost overwhelmingly vivid.

  The mirror image of Nayantara’s face took up most of his view, but not so much that he couldn’t tell that he was in a cramped bathroom—probably hers. She was illuminated only by a single bulb above the mirror, hardly what anyone would consider a vanity light; yet she seemed pretty pleased with what she was seeing: him, ensconced in her right eye socket, trapped inside her eye.

  It seemed ludicrous to try to consider the physics or physiology of it all, but the questions involuntarily streaked through his mind: Is she somehow seeing via me? Am I the lens of her eye? Part of the optic nerve? Am I somehow connected to her brain? What’s inside her other eye? What else is inside this one?

  The flashing questions missed only the most obvious one, and it continued to elude him as she cracked another smile—wider, broader, grimmer—one so uncontainable it cracked the corners of her mouth, cracked the skin on her cheeks, her temples, across her nose, her forehead, all while her face steadily darkened to a deep reddish brown.

  It was then that stark fear elicited the great question: “What are you?”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Nayantara said, “aren’t you in the absolute perfect position to know?”

  Greenish lines appeared in the fissures, lines that writhed and squiggled, attaining length and girth with each movement, becoming more like organic wires and sentient cords as they emerged, crawled, and spread over the increasingly uneven skin.

  Wayne moaned. “I . . . don’t know . . .”

  “You will know,” she said, “just what makes you you.”

  In the mirror’s image, Wayne saw the reverse of her right hand rush toward the eye before his view of everything pitched to nothing. The gel enveloping him shook slightly, then violently. His entire new world trembled and turned as he experienced a frisson and was tossed about, aimless, uncontrollable, witnessing flashes of golden light and blackness strike his minuscule planet until his body was pressed against the curved membrane, and his view was once again clear.

  This time, he saw no reverse image. It was Nayantara’s actual face transfigured—a region of untamed vegetation scarred by a grinning rocky gorge, all of it featuring one abnormally large piece of embedded fruit. There was a hole for another . . . or the seed of another. A temporary burial in the fresh wound from which fruit had just been plucked.

  His sixth, seventh, or maybe even eighth sense kicked the realization into him.

  “What makes a man but his hard labors?” he whispered as if induced by some gossamery angel. “What unmakes a man but the combination of his cracked actions?”

  “You? A man?” Nayantara’s laugh sounded like an avalanche in reverse. “You’re just dessert.”

  She laughed once more before tossing him—his entire wo
rld—into the gorge.

  Descending into the abyss, he grew less concerned about where he’d end up and more worried about the fragmented souls he’d be joining.

  Love Among the Ultramoderns

  The all-suite hotel promised the nicest lodging in Poagstown. He’d spent two hours doing the research before asking his secretary to book it. Even after a two-hour drive, most of it spent winding through poorly lit roads, he had a smile for the front-desk clerk.

  The man gave a genuine smile in return before asking, “Name?”

  “Rodgers.”

  The clerk handed him the key-card envelope before Rodgers even thought to give him a first name.

  “I’ll just need to see a credit card, Mr. Rodgers; then you can head on up.”

  Teresa had reserved the room using points, so he figured he might as well use the card that had earned them. He handed it to the clerk. “Where’s the best place to get a bite at this hour? Someplace close.”

  “This hour?” The clerk eased his attention toward the clock sitting on the desk. “The steak house across the street closes in about forty-five. The bar next to it will be open later, but you probably don’t want to put up with all that racket if you’re tired. Otherwise, it’s a hop, skip, and jump that way”—he hooked his thumb to the left—“to a few fast-food joints. That’s about it.” He handed back his credit card. “Welcome to our sleepy little family town, Mr. Rodgers.”

  Rodgers nodded, then headed toward the elevator. On the way up to the fifth floor, he chuckled. Poagstown was a way station, a town cluttered with little more than hotels, outlet shops, and a variety of eateries. The few people who actually lived here long term were probably related, or may as well have been.

  And even though it was “sleepy” compared to DC, Poagstown wasn’t so little—not as little as the town in which Bessa lived. That’s why he’d chosen it. Small towns tended to be overpopulated with big-eyed, nosy sorts.

  He walked into his suite. Teresa had done well. Tidy kitchen area, neatly arranged living room, and spotless bathroom. The queen-size bed he was expecting was closer to a king size. And the pulsating shower water was warmer than any he’d experienced during his other travels over the past four months. Best on-the-road shower this season.

  After twenty minutes of scrubbing, he figured enough of Washington’s stench had been washed away from his skin, and in the fifteen he spent getting dressed, he figured he’d accumulated enough northern-Maryland funk to wander into the dive bar across the street without pricking any busybody’s senses. He wasn’t exactly undercover, but his sub-missions did call for exercising a fair measure of discretion.

  The joint seemed to cater mostly to hard-rock bangers and body-art aficionados, much as he’d expected. He had no tats, but he hoped his boots, jeans, and black leather jacket would make him seem less like an out-of-towner. Above the shoulders, he fit right in. He had the hair, he had the right look in his green eyes, and he could talk hard-core music—and hard-core anything else—with even the most intimidating chatterbox.

  The bar had twenty stools but only eight warm bodies. He took a seat that gave him plenty of elbow room and a good enough view of the stage. The bartender looked in his direction. Even though the guy had never before set eyes on him, he nodded in a way that was more friendly than professional.

  Rodgers let his shoulders slump, then gave his order. “Double IPA. Strongest one on tap.”

  The bartender nodded again, and Rodgers turned toward the stage. Two twentysomethings trying too hard with a retro-psychedelic look were trying even harder at playing and singing Hendrix. They divided duties and did well enough that Rodgers wasn’t tempted to throw the glass of ice water the bartender had set in front of him, though he didn’t know what the hell else to do with it. Water was for showering; his stomach was reserved for beer and maybe a burger. He wanted both his metaphorical and his actual guts ready for tomorrow’s dirty deed—and this one, he had a feeling, would be damned dirty. He’d need that shower afterward.

  He checked his smartphone. No new texts.

  The bartender set a pint on the coaster in front of him. “Start a tab?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” He unthinkingly patted his jeans pockets for his wallet before finding it inside his jacket. He opened it, considered using the card that was racking up those ever-valuable travel points, but decided on using the generous gift card his secretary had given him for Boss’s Day. He’d hopped on the horse of discretion; might as well ride it till he left town.

  The bartender looked at the card, made the briefest eye contact with Rodgers, then glanced at the card again. “I’ll be right back.”

  Rodgers sipped his IPA while keeping his eyes on the bartender. Other than that momentary eye lock, the man wasn’t acting suspiciously. Something bugged him, but, after taking a breath, Rodgers shrugged it off. Most likely the guy just wasn’t used to folks paying with gift cards.

  He sipped, then checked his phone again. No new messages. Bessa had promised to reach out by Wednesday afternoon. It was a little past nine. He hadn’t heard from her since Tuesday morning. He hoped she hadn’t left her phone where her husband could find it. Rodgers only knew her virtually, but he’d already figured her too daft to password protect anything.

  “Here you go, Mister . . . ?” The bartender handed him his card.

  “Johnson.” Rodgers kept a wary eye on the man as he put the card back in its place.

  “You been here before?”

  “No—why?” He furrowed his brow.

  “I was going to ask if you needed to see a menu, or if you already know what you want. Assuming you wanna chow?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” He let his shoulders slump again. “I’ll take a menu.”

  The bartender smiled and handed one over. “Name’s Jet, by the way. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Rodgers nodded and scanned the menu. In the back of his mind, he knew what he had a taste for, and his eyes quickly found it. He motioned for Jet.

  “Questions about the menu?”

  “Only about how quickly you can get a Devil Burger out here.” Half-pound burger with pepper jack cheese, fresh-cut jalapenos, three fried onion rings, and choice of sauce.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Medium rare. With the jumpin’ jack sauce.”

  Jet nodded and went to punch it in. Rodgers tapped his password into his phone. After being idle for more than ninety seconds, it had locked up. No new texts, so he scrolled up to the top of the chain he’d created with Bessa over the past week and reread it, prepping for tomorrow’s body-and-mind ’scaping chores.

  His message was first. He’d started the exchange after connecting with her on the Amorous Anonymous site and rapidly convincing her of his sincerity in helping with her body issues.

  What time u want to meet on Thur?

  Don’t matter. Told huz I’m going to a friend’s for the day. Time’s unlimited.

  Sounds good ;-) I’ll probably drive up Wed night and get a room. So we can meet early for coffee if u want.

  Drive up where?

  Ur profile says you live near Borino . . . ?

  Halfway between Borino and Poagstown. Borino is closer.

  I’ll get a room in Poagstown, is that okay?

  Yeh. I get off at 8. After I shower, change, I can be there @ 9. Just want to have enough time for us.

  Cum early ;-)

  I will, if u don’t ;-)

  I can’t wait—won’t be able to stop thinking about u till then…

  Hope u are more than a 2-min man. 10-min man?

  I can go well over an hour ;-)

  The back-and-forth went on for nearly a hundred more exchanges. In between the passing of smut and promises, Rodgers had picked up some details that weren’t in the profile of the woman using the virtual name KissMeNewBe. The only information in her profile other than a blurry face pic was a summary of her age, height, weight, location, and status and two strings of words describing what she was looking
for. She was north of fifty years old, about six feet tall, roughly two hundred pounds, a resident of the Wolfston, Maryland, area, and was—like almost everyone else on the site—“attached.”

  Through the various exchanges, Rodgers determined her real name—possibly—was Bessa. She was paid to work from 7:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. six days a week as a caregiver for the old and enfeebled. She wasn’t paid or even appreciated for the care she gave to her husband, who’d fallen victim to some debilitating ailment shortly after their wedding ten years ago. In the wake of the tragedy, he became distant and even abusive toward her. Among all the other distorted perks of a relationship bound and twisted by the ties of illness and tradition, sex was absent. Love was a ghost. The words in her profile were simple: “Need someone to break my long dry spell. Been too long.”

  Rodgers had “favorited” her and sent her his private pic—the picture of his actual face to complement the picture of his well-defined pecs and abs on his public profile. He then sent her a message, introducing himself as “the Son of John,” an unattached but job-holding man whose divine and devoted underground mission in life was to connect with women disappointed in their relationships in order to help them “find the sweet, soothing honey hidden in the dry valley.”

  Both verbally and physically, he put it different ways to different women, depending on each one’s background, her personality, what he could glean about her situation, what she wanted, and what he felt she actually needed. Oftentimes, he had to resort to describing himself in so many words as a curious and hardworking itinerant immigrant, ever seeking out new lands where he might be of some use in helping rejuvenate what was worn out or overlooked and on the verge of being lost to the dust.

  The message he’d initially used with Bessa was now lost to the ether, thanks to the capacity limits of certain technologies, but whatever it was, it had gone over well with her. After a brief exchange of private emails via the site on Sunday, they began texting on Monday.