by Tony J Winn
He ran his hands up the insides of her thighs, then cupped her buttocks. His head went down, and he did things to her that she hadn't even imagined were possible, let alone felt so good.
After, they napped together like kittens.
*
Bobby didn't have coffee in his apartment, but he did have a frozen lasagne in the freezer, and when they woke up famished, he put it in the oven. After Nora wiped the hiking dirt off her prosthetic and put it back on, she dressed herself in a shirt and sweatpants Bobby offered her. Their hiking clothes mingled together in the washing machine and then in the dryer.
He opened a bottle of wine and they sat together on the sofa, making conversation. She couldn't shake the feeling she was borrowing Bobby from his future wife, and he was as temporarily in her possession as the clothes she was wearing.
“I'm glad we can keep this casual,” Nora said tentatively.
He held up his hands. “I am your boy toy, I get it. Casual. Friends. With benefits.”
She shuddered. “I do hate that term.”
“More people are choosing to live alone, and to stay single. There's nothing wrong, so long as both parties are in agreement.”
“You sound like you're about to draw up a contract.” She tipped back the rest of the wine.
“Are you seeing anyone else?” he asked.
She thought immediately of Aaron. “No.”
“Me neither. So how about this: we keep it casual, but if either of us starts dating someone else, he—or she—lets the other party know.”
She nodded and gazed over at the bottle of wine. The scent of lasagne cooking made her hungry. Exercise, sex, wine, and food. What more could she want?
“I'm happy with that,” she said. “And since we're being honest, I'll need a couple of weeks off from frolicking around in your shower and bed. I'm getting that little nose surgery. It's all booked and paid for.”
He put his chin in his hand and rubbed his non-existent beard, which reminded Nora of her father.
“I suppose the proper thing to say is you shouldn't do it. But I think you should. Everybody says we shouldn't be shallow, but people are shallow. I should know. I do work in advertising. And I'm a ginger.”
“Ginger?”
“That's what the English call people with red hair. It's an insult.”
“That's ridiculous. It's just hair.” She squeezed her own tight blond curls, which were still damp from the shower and likely would be for another hour. “At least you don't have a white girl afro.”
“I don't mind if you change your nose, but never touch that hair.”
Nora grinned. “You and your weird fetishes.”
“I'm not weird.” He playfully grabbed her by the tops of her thighs and pulled her toward him, then laid on top of her. “Grr.”
The waistband of his pants were loose, and she slipped her hand in them easily. “Ginger,” she whispered in his ear, “is one of my favorite flavors.”
*
Since she had the time off, on Monday Nora went to Tianne's house. The older kids, Lucy and Matthew, were at preschool and school respectively, and the baby was asleep in his room.
To Nora, Tianne and Tyson's home was always surprisingly harmonious for a house with three small children, with hardly any visible toys amongst the antique furniture and slip-covered sofas.
Nora had helped Tianne sew the white denim slipcovers the previous summer, when Tianne was expecting and in that phase of her pregnancy where she had endless energy for nesting activities. The slipcovers had been one of the most popular posts on Tianne's blog, thanks to the step-by-step instructions and photos. She was no Martha Stewart, but she was relatable, and she made mistakes and talked about those more than anything, which was what people liked. They also enjoyed hearing tidbits about her sex life, and while her husband had been reluctant at first, once a few checks came in from advertising dollars, he didn't seem so shy.
“We're doing a pudding test,” Tianne said to Nora, waving her into the solarium overlooking the back yard.
“I thought I'd help you with laundry and other chores. I'm at your disposal, and you want me to eat pudding?”
Tianne sat across from Nora, on a wicker chair, and pulled the lens cap off her camera. “Yes. Put on the blindfold.”
“Kinky,” Nora said as she wrapped the silk scarf around her head. A tiny bowl was pressed into one of her hands, and a plastic spoon in the other. “Wow, you don't mess around.”
Nora's nose kept the scarf from truly blindfolding her, but she didn't let on that she could see straight down her cheeks, through the opening.
Tianne said, “This is my secret of creativity. Work while others are resting. Very applicable when you have a baby. Now taste the first one and tell me what you think.”
Closing her eyes so she'd be doing it blindly, Nora scooped the spoon through the dish and opened wide. It was sweet and creamy and cool. “Is this chocolate or vanilla? Butterscotch?”
“You can't tell?”
Nora took another taste. “Vanilla. Lavender?”
“You're smelling the flowers I have in the room. No, it's not lavender.”
Nora pulled up the blindfold and looked at the pudding, which was brown. “Chocolate? I had no idea.”
Tianne snapped some photos in rapid succession. “You weren't supposed to peek, but that was the point. We taste with our eyes. Lots of people can't tell red wine from white if they're blindfolded. What we see affects our perception.”
Three other bowls of pudding—all different colors—sat on the table. Nora pulled the blindfold over her eyes again and asked Tianne to mix them up and try again. “I bet I go three for three this time.”
“You're competitive,” Tianne said.
“I play with the big boys.” She stuck her fingertips into the bowl Tianne gave her, then licked them off. Vanilla? She couldn't tell.
Tianne said, “You play with the big boys? What does that even mean?”
“I don't know,” Nora said, laughing. “I haven't even been off the air for a week and my mouth is regurgitating strange cliches and I don't know what.”
“You're too young for a mid-life crisis,” Tianne said. “This could be a quarter-life thing.”
“That's not a thing.”
“Oh, it is a thing.”
Nora kept scraping the spoon in the bowl, trying to get more delicious pudding, but it was all gone. She licked the bowl to make her friend laugh.
*
After the pudding tasting, during which Nora only guessed the banana pudding accurately, but not the caramel or pistachio, she caught her best friend up on developments with Bobby, as well as the appointment for the nose surgery.
“I will need someone to drive me home,” Nora said.
“I think you're beautiful just how you are.”
“Yes, but visual perception is powerful. Look at this, with the puddings. We taste with our eyes. I don't want to have a face for radio anymore.”
“A face for radio? Ugh, that's the worst thing I've ever heard.”
“Not as bad as peg leg, but yeah.”
“I will drive you, my beautiful friend.” She took two more photos of Nora. “These are to remember you just as you are.”
Nora rolled her eyes. “I'll still be me, just smoothed out. Why do people make such a big deal out of it? It's perfectly normal—expected, even—for kids with crooked teeth to get braces to straighten them. That's moving things around for the sake of aesthetics. You can still eat just fine with crooked teeth.”
Tianne picked up one of the bowls and cleaned it out with her finger. “I know a Jewish girl who got a nose job for her sixteenth birthday. She's one of my regular blog commenters. Maybe you could do a guest post for me?”
Nora grinned and said playfully, “I notice you just shot right through acceptance and into trying to monetize my surgery for yourself.”
“I guess I did. I'm a bad friend.”
“No you're not. But I would like more pudding.
”
Tianne leaned back, the wicker chair creaking under her, and put her hand on her forehead. “Me too. It's in the fridge, third shelf. I'm going to have a thirty-second nap while you go get it.”
Nora returned with the pudding and some regular-sized bowls, and the two of them talked for a bit about future career plans. Nora mentioned her concern about Kylie possibly having an eating disorder.
Tianne said she'd noticed Kylie seemed a little wobbly the week before, even accounting for it having been one of her first yoga classes. “I see it far too often in young women, and men too,” she said. “I know a woman who does a healing retreat, do you think Kylie would be interested?”
“You mean like where people beat on drums and stuff?”
“Good one. No, it's a residential treatment center. It's respectable. Not cheap, but I could get a discounted rate, because I know someone.”
“I should at least talk to her, but it's awkward, you know? And here I am, a total hypocrite, getting plastic surgery.”
“I don't think that makes you a hypocrite. It's never wrong to care, okay? Repeat after me: it's never wrong to care.”
“It's never wrong to care.” Nora scraped up the remainder of the pistachio pudding. If you closed your eyes, it really could have been vanilla.
*
The night before her surgery, Nora was almost too nervous to eat dinner. Her parents were aware of the appointment, but neither had said anything about it.
While Nora sliced mushrooms and her mother heated up the wok, Nora's father read The Economist and stroked his beard. “The world is in dire straights, but there's still so much wisdom in humanity,” he said. “I read one thing about how the environment is only getting worse, then I read about some wonderful new bacteria that might break down hazardous waste. I don't know what to think.”
Nora looked up from her mushrooms and said, “That's why I talk about celebrity gossip on the afternoon show. It's the illusion of being informed, without all the sadness.”
He said, “I suppose it is. Yes, it's nice to not have to think about ugly things. We're very lucky.”
“Yes, we are,” Nora's mother agreed. “So, what time am I waking you up in the morning? I've got the whole day off work, but I don't know if I should wait at the plastic surgeon's, or go run errands and come back.”
“Tianne's driving me,” Nora said.
“Don't be silly. I drive you to all your important doctor appointments. You know that.”
Nora put down the mushrooms and gave her mother a big hug. “Thank you, Mommy.”
*
In the morning, the smell of brewing coffee that she couldn't drink was torture. Nora had read that when awakening from surgery, in addition to pain from the surgery itself, many patients had headaches from simple caffeine withdrawal. It seemed like such a small thing to make mention of, but Dr. Garrett's after-care notes were very detailed. They included answers to questions Nora hadn't even considered, such as how long before the patient could wear sunglasses. Nora had considered buying a sun visor, as was recommended in the notes, but she couldn't see herself actually wearing it. With her curly hair, she'd look like a clown in one of those hats.
After fussing around looking for free parking for several minutes, even though Nora offered to pay, Nora's mother finally pulled into the pay parking lot.
“Every little bit counts,” she said as she backed the car into a spot.
Nora bit her tongue and thanked her mom again for driving her. She was glad she'd been able to cancel the ride with Tianne, and thus safely avoid having her photograph taken post surgery for a blog post.
Inside the office, Nora's mother's eyes bulged at the sight of the short-nosed receptionist. As soon as the girl disappeared, Nora's mother whispered, “Don't tell me you're getting one of those. That nose would not look right on your face. Whose nose are you getting, again?”
“You saw the photos on the fridge.”
“Yes, I know what you look like now.”
“Mother, you do realize the photos were a digital simulation of what I'll look like after the surgery.”
Realization dawned across Nora's mother's face. “I thought that was just a really nice photo of you. You have such a lovely little smile.”
“See, I told you it was going to be subtle.”
Dr. Garrett appeared in the doorway, wearing surgical scrubs. “Who's this?” she said, her voice barely pitching up at the end to indicate a question.
“I'm the mother,” she said, holding up her hand as though calling a classroom to order.
“Two Valium,” Dr. Garrett said to another woman in scrubs. “One for the mother, if she wants it.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Nora's mother said to the woman in scrubs, then to Nora, “I've never had a Valium before! This is so exciting.”
*
After getting her mother settled in with some magazines—the staff assured her she didn't have to stick around for the entire procedure, but she insisted she did—Nora was alone in a small patient room, changing into a green thing. Was it a surgical gown? The Valium was kicking in. Gown? That sounded like something you'd wear to a ball. She giggled at the idea of a ball, then she giggled at everything, from her fuzzy pink socks to her button-down shirt—button-down because when she came out of surgery, she'd have bandages on her nose and wouldn't be able to pull something like a t-shirt over her head.
Dr. Garrett came in and drew on her nose with a pen, which seemed really funny. The Valium was nice, and she didn't feel nervous. It was a beautiful day outside, and the nurses were all so friendly and efficient, like a really great Starbucks, only for noses. One of the nurses asked if she would prefer to keep her prosthetic foot on, or take it off, and she opted to keep it on so there would be less fuss after the surgery.
She followed them down a hall to the procedure room and was introduced to some people who all looked the same, with funny caps on their heads and masks over their faces. Some of them had glasses and some did not. There were a lot of them, and she wondered for a moment if her bum was hanging out of the gown, but then again, she didn't really care. It was such a nice day.
She got settled back on the padded table—was it a bed?—and someone jabbed something into her arm. She thought she heard her mother's voice somewhere, and then someone brought her another blanket and tucked it in around her sides.
One of the people in green masks asked her to count backwards from ten as he administered the anesthetic. She would be going under lightly, a twilight sleep that would give her a faster recovery time than general anesthetic. She still wasn't clear what the difference was, but she began to count, just as they asked.
She felt sleepiness come up suddenly and persuasively before she got to five.
*
Ache.
Throb.
That's not so bad, Nora thought before she opened her eyelids. There was a heaviness on her face, as though Razzles the cat was sitting on it. Her throat was dry.
A woman was talking to her and stroking her hand. “Wake up sweetie. That's right, there you go. Wakey wakey.”
Nora wanted the woman to go away, but she persisted. When Nora opened her eyes, the woman worked quickly, helping her sit upright. She had to breathe through her mouth, because her nose was completely plugged up, like the worst sinus cold ever.
As she tilted up, the pressure in the bandaged area changed and she winced.
“How bad does it hurt, on a scale of one to ten?” the nurse asked.
“I'm fine,” Nora said.
When her feet touched the floor, she was surprised that one of them was numb, still sleeping, then she remembered. Tears came to her eyes as she felt the loss of her right foot all over again. It was gone, forever.
The woman led her into a dimly-lit washroom, where her clothes were laid out on the counter. Nora went pee in the toilet, amazed at how full her bladder was considering she hadn't had anything to eat or drink—but of course, it must have been from the tube in her arm. �
��Gross,” she said to herself.
“Is everything all right?” came a voice from the other side of the door.
“Yup, just a minute.” She got dressed, careful to keep her head elevated. She stuffed her socks in her pocket and slid on her shoes barefoot.
The nurse knocked on the door again, asking if she needed help.
Nora realized she was in a room with a mirror. She looked at her face. Even with the plaster cast and white bandages, her nose was already smaller than it had been. She gently touched the exposed tip, which felt numb. Tiny stitches ran along the incision between her nostrils, which were ringed with dried blood and stuffed full of white packing.
The nurse knocked impatiently at the door again, so Nora opened it and shuffled out carefully.
“What do you think? Not too scary, right?” the nurse asked. She had an accent, maybe Filipino by the look of her eyes. “Dr. Garrett is very gentle. You don't look too beat up now, but you will have two black eyes by tonight.”
“Cool,” Nora said, giving the nurse a very slow thumbs-up.
When she shuffled her way out to the waiting room, she found her mother a third of the way through reading a thick paperback romance novel.
“Aw, Mom, you were here the whole time?”
“This book just keeps getting better and better.”
The receptionist said, “Take it home with you to finish. You can bring it back when you come to get the packing out.”
“Don't mind if I do.” Nora's mother tucked the book into her purse. “What'll we get you for dinner, then. Chicken soup?”
“No talking. I wanna go home.”
They made their way down to the car, and Nora was grateful they'd parked in the lot and not blocks away, as her mother might have insisted.
They'd made it only a third of the way home when Nora realized she was going to throw up. She grabbed the bucket down by her feet—the one Dr. Garrett had recommended having in the vehicle—and threw up into it. The vomit was almost black, her own blood that had dripped down the back of her throat during the surgery.
She apologized to her mother, over and over, even though her mother assured her it was just fine. “These things happen,” she said. “Just breathe. We'll get you through this.”
