Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

At first, I thought the most frustrating part of the evening would be that I couldn’t tell the lady about the satellite photos I’d seen, about why I was there. No one was more deserving than Amelia to know there was a slim chance that Grace, Janet, and Michael might still be alive.

Wrong. There was an entirely unexpected source of frustration. When the relationship between a man and a woman changes, or there is a potential for change, there begins a multilevel variety of communication that is unmistakable but not easily pinpointed. Because there is a risk of embarrassment, the form of communication requires that one meaning must necessarily be concealed by another, more innocent meaning. Some of the exchange is verbal, some physical.

At the Bridge Tender, we sat at a table overlooking the bay. The moon was high and bright, and the lady looked very attractive indeed. Once, she used her index finger to tap the back of my hand before she said to me, “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been dating a couple of different people off and on, and just this week, I made the decision, no more, that’s the end of it. Nice guys, but the attraction isn’t there, and I found myself feeling lonelier when we were together than when I was off by myself. Life’s too short to waste it pretending.”

A little later, she said, “Something happened to me those nights when I was stranded. After being on the tower, I don’t even have patience for my own lies. I’m a healthy, physical woman. I’ve finally admitted that to myself, too-not easy for a single Catholic girl.”

Was there a hidden message there?

At the restaurant, she told the waiter she wanted a half-dozen oysters, but the waiter didn’t hear.

“A dozen, miss?” he asked.

Amelia was looking at me when she replied, “No, a half dozen. I just want sex. I mean… six. ” Laughing at herself as the waiter walked away, her eyes averted now, blushing, too-maybe the first time I’d ever seen an attorney blush-as she dabbed at her face with a napkin and said to me, “My God, talk about Freudian. I’ve got to start getting more exercise, go for a long run. Something. ”

It set up a fun, unspoken sexual tension. When she’d finished her wine, we walked out onto the Bradenton Pier. It seemed the most natural thing in the world when she slipped her arm through mine and then, later, when I placed my hand on her waist as we walked. I could feel the pivot of her hips, the sharp blade of her pelvic bone. There were men fishing, lovers tangled together in the shadows.

Near the end of the pier, we stopped, me looking down into the water, fish moving through the circles of light, her with her head pillowed against my arm. It surprised me when she said, “I don’t want to be obvious here, but there’s something we’ve never talked about.”

I said, “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s your social status. There used to be little symbols. Wedding bands, bracelets… tattoos.” She chuckled. “Who belongs to who. But now you have to ask. So I’m asking: Do you belong to anyone, Dr. Ford?”

“Nope. Never been married, never been engaged. I have a long list of female friends who are just that-friends. Nothing serious going on right now.”

“Does that include JoAnn and Rhonda from Dinkin’s Bay? I got the impression there was something special between you and… well, frankly, both of them.”

An insightful, perceptive lady. But I said, “No, we’re all three buddies, that’s all.”

“Ah, the independent type, the male rogue.”

I turned to look at her, smiling. “I used to tell myself that, and for a time I believed it. Like you, the thing you said about lying to yourself? I don’t have much patience for my own lies anymore, either. I’ve come to the conclusion that I live alone because I am, at the core, an essentially selfish person. It’s taken a while for me to admit it. My lab, the work I’m doing, it always comes first. All loving, devoted relationships require compromise in terms of how time is shared, and I’m too self-interested to compromise. No woman’s going to put up with that for long, and I don’t blame ’em.”

“My God, and you’re honest, too.”

I thought about the lie I told her, explaining why I happened to be in the Sarasota area-research at Bell Fish Company-and replied, “Just because I’ve lost patience for my own lies doesn’t mean I don’t tell them to others. Nope, I’m not particularly honest, either.”

That seemed to touch her on some deeper level. “I can relate to that, my new friend. One thing I’ve learned is, you can’t pray a lie, which maybe, in a way, makes sinners of us all. So, from one sinner to another, how about I walk you back to your cottage?”

In the darkness of banyan shadow near the motel, Amelia stopped, and I turned her toward me, looking down into her face. Then I kissed her softly, feeling her lips move against mine, feeling her rib cage pressing washboard-like against my stomach. As her hands moved up my sides, her mouth opened, tongue searching, my hands began to move, too.

Open-palmed, exploring with fingertips, I felt body heat radiating through the sheer material of her dress, felt the stricture of latissimus cordage beneath her arms, swimmer’s muscles. Then felt her mouth open very wide, heard her moan softly as my fingers found eraser-hard nipples, her breasts flat over bony sternum. Felt her pull away long enough to whisper, “I hope you don’t like the busty type. If you do, you’re in for a disappointment.”

I found the self-deprecation touching, almost sad. If we men were required to wear sized penis stockings outside our pants, our discussions of women’s breasts would be markedly less frequent and our preferences more vaguely defined.

I wrapped my arms around her hips and lifted her chest high as I whispered my reply: “The way your body feels, I like just fine. There’s less distance between my lips and your heart.” Then I kissed her neck, and each nipple, feeling her swell and arch beneath the black dress, breathing heavier now, making soft sounds.

“Doc… we have a perfectly nice cottage right there. If you keep doing what you’re doing, I’m going to rip those shorts off you. Indecent exposure-the cops’ll arrest us both. Me, an officer of the court.”

Which is when it finally dawned on me that I couldn’t allow this to go any further. I do so many stupid things so often, it should no longer surprise me. Sometime that night, way after midnight, I had to go a’calling on Dex Money’s shrimp boat, the Nan-Shan. If Amelia went upstairs to my bed, there was a good chance she’d stay over. How would I explain a lengthy disappearance?

I lowered her to the ground, held her away from me. “You are one spectacular woman,” I said.

Her voice had an unmistakable huskiness. “I can barely hear you, my heart’s pounding so loud.”

She took my hand and pulled me out of the shadows, into a circle of streetlight, toward the cottage. I hated the way her expression changed when I stopped, refusing to follow her, and I said, “Amelia, let’s… let’s not do this. Not tonight, anyway. Let’s give it some time, date for a while, see what happens. Why risk the friendship?”

She said very slowly, “Give it… some time? You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

I badly wanted to tell her just that, but couldn’t. “I’m trying to look down the road, anticipate what’s best for the both of us.” Then added lamely, “We really don’t know each other that well, when you think about it,” and I hated myself for sounding so prudish and insipid.

“Uhh-h-h, excuse me.” She laughed, an attempt to mask embarrassment. “I’m looking at you, not believing what I’m hearing, but you do mean it. You really don’t want me to come up to your room. Sorry, Amelia, request for service denied, Amelia. That’s what you’re telling me.”