5/10/10

AN INSTANT CURE
Michael A. Kechula


Andrea yawned, stretched, opened her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Five after six,” I said.

“My God, what happened?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK. Your medication must have caused it.”

“I’m so embarrassed. I invite you here, then fall asleep. I’ve ruined your Christmas.”

“No,” I said. “It’s been a wonderful day.”

More apologies. She was getting upset. I didn’t want her working up negative emotions. She was already emotionally ill. I reassured her again.

“I don’t remember laying down or putting this afghan on,” she said.

“I moved you so you could stretch out, put the afghan over you, and got a pillow for you from your, uh, bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. It’s OK. Geez, Tom, you did all that for me? Nobody ever did anything like that for me.”

Nobody ever loved you unconditionally, I thought. But I said, “I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“You’re such a caring man. I can’t believe someone hasn’t latched on to you.”

I didn’t answer. Having left the seminary six months before ordination, I had no recent experience with female relationships. I’d retained my celibacy. Andrea knew nothing about this, because our conversations were always about her.

She rose, straightened her dress, fluffed her hair. “I can’t get over how you just stayed here. Another man would’ve been insulted and left.”

Changing the subject, I asked if she was going to wait until next Christmas to open my gift.

She read the card first, saying the wording was true—we were friends. Then she added, “I wish I’d met you sooner. My life would’ve been so different.”

She implied more than I wanted to ponder.

Fussing over the candle I’d given her, she lit it. A delicious vanilla aroma filled the room. Then she switched off the lights in the apartment, except for the Christmas tree.

She came to the sofa and sat close. “I almost slept this whole day away. I’m such a lousy hostess.”

I assured she wasn’t.

“Wanna see something other than Scrooge movies?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Surfing channels, she stopped at a movie in which Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire were dancing. Suddenly, Fred kissed Ginger.

Andrea leaned against me and put her head on my shoulder. Her pressure and warmth felt wonderful. I’d forgotten the magnificence of a woman’s physical closeness.

“Tom…would you hold me? Just hold me?”

For the first time in the months I’d known Andrea, I reached for her. She pressed her chest against mine, and slid her body down the sofa. I felt shock when we came together. She—or was it me?—let out a sound, a mixture of need, gratification, surprise, heightened tension.

I dampened the surge of pleasure, because I knew this was nothing more than her cry for help. She was emotionally ill, frightened, lonely. She needed the reassurance touch could give. She needed someone noble, understanding, who’d hold her with compassion. She needed me, Tom the comforter who knew the difference between an erotic advance and the need for consolation through an embrace.

I won’t lie and say I’m Saint Tom, and wasn’t tempted. We were alone and single. But, wanting that which should not be had, is easily controlled when you want to control it. And in Andrea’s case, it was vital not to seduce. Tampering with somebody already sick could have devastating results.

Had she been emotionally healthy, she wouldn’t have given me the time of day, much less asked me to hold her. I was out of her league. She was stunning, seven years younger, sexually experienced. She could’ve had any man in a flash. But at this moment, she needed me.

I’d convinced her to see a psychiatrist the day I stopped her from cutting her wrist more deeply. What a way to meet. In a few months, I’d assumed a unique, supportive role in her life. Perhaps she perceived me as brother, uncle, or even father. But never lover.

Through Andrea, I learned things I never knew about altruism and sympathy. I discovered how my deep sympathy for a beautiful woman could transform into love. When it happened, I was shocked. I hadn’t meant to fall for her. All I meant to do was give compassion, advice. Then suddenly, I felt lost. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt as if I were dying for love of Andrea.

The sense of being lost got stronger, because I knew it was a one-way street. My heart was torn, my emotions shattered. I suffered the unrelenting agony of unrequited love. I knew I was liked and appreciated, but I wasn’t loved.

As we held each other, I heard her breath, felt her heart beating against my chest. I felt a sudden rush of raging passion. But I fought the urge. This was a platonic, friendly embrace, and the only reason she was so close was for my emotional comfort and reassurance. I didn’t want to do anything to corrupt her trust.

“Tom.” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Do you believe what Oscar Wilde said?”

“He said a lot of things. Which one are you referring to?”

“He said celibacy is the most unusual of man’s perversions. Are you unusually perverted, Tom?”

“We shouldn’t be talking about me,” I said. “My situation isn’t important. Your life is more important.”

“You give so much and never ask for anything. Let me give to you, for once. I have an instant cure for your perversion.”

All my defenses collapsed.


* * *


Once she cured me, all the altruism, and unconditional love I’d showered on Andrea to keep her afloat, disappeared.

Passionate love does not conquer all, like the poets say. Passion dies. So did Andrea. By her own hand when we broke up.

I puke whenever I hear Oscar Wilde’s name and his convoluted bullshit.


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Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.