Michael Hemmingson - Seven Women - An Erotic Private Investigation

“In the end, Eileen and I became close. Very close. We could have been lovers — there was that tension. David now became upset because he felt distant from this friendship. The balance of power had tipped the other way; his meek wife and former lover were no longer strangers but allies.

“But I soon began to remember who I was. I wasn’t Amnesia after all, I was Amelia. Me. And I was knocked up and I remembered by whom and when one night David yelled at me, yelled at us both really, I decided I had to leave. I had to go. I had to be somewhere alone to have my baby.

“I remembered I had a little money left in the bank so I went to get it and left my new family and went solo to be a family all by myself, with the alien baby in my belly. I thought I could hide. But I knew I couldn’t hide from him. He found me.”

“Who?” Tasha says. “David?”

“No. The Astronaut. He came back for me, when I was ready to give birth. He took me back into his spaceship and there were doctors of his kind there. I had the baby — a girl — and The Astronaut took her from me. I couldn’t believe he was doing this! But he said it was for the best; the child would have special powers and would be very different from other children on this planet, and needed to grow up with her kind. I asked him to take me with him, with them — I didn’t want to be separated from my child, and maybe I was still in love with this spaceman. But The Astronaut told me this wasn’t possible. He said I had to go back to Earth and life my life. ‘How can I live my life,’ I asked, ‘when you’re taking a part of it away?’ ‘You will,’ he said. So I was put back in this world and tried my best to get on with the rest of my life. I told myself no more married men, no more meaningless sex. I went back to school and got my teaching degree and here I am now, trying to live the best way I can.”

Amelia looks out the window and at the sky, and says, “I wonder what she’s doing up there, my daughter. I wonder what life is like for her on that faraway planet. I wonder if she’s ever heard the loud ticking of a clock: tick-tock-tock tick-tock goes the clock.”

“See ya,” Amelia says as she leaves the cab and goes into the building she lives.

“I’m just two blocks away,” Tasha says to the driver, and gives him her address. I turn to look at her. One eye is covered with hair; her other eye glances at me in the darkness of the car. I think I should move into the back with her. It feels right at the moment, but the cab goes — and then it’s too late. It’s a short ride to her home.

“Have you talked to Veronica lately?” Tasha asks.

“No,” I say.

“Really?”

“Things change,” I say. “The balance of power, like your friend said. Sometimes things don’t work out the way you’d like, like your other friend said. You have wise friends these days.” I feel stupid.

“Yes,” Tasha says, “I know.”

Silence.

“When you see or talk to her again,” she says, “tell her I said hi.”

“I will.”

“Tell her — tell her I hope things are okay.”

“Things will never ultimately be okay for her.”

“And you?” she asks.

I don’t know what to say, except “Tasha—” I turn to look at her.

“Yes?” she asks.

The cab stops.

*****

I want to walk her to her door, but she tells me no, she’ll be okay. She won’t look at me. My ex-wife doesn’t even say good night, only, “We’ll talk.” Then she’s gone.

“A looker,” the cabby says.

I give him my address.

He drives. He could drive forever and I wouldn’t care.

“You folks are the nicest I’ve had in the car all night,” the cabby tells me. “I’ve had some wild ones tonight. Dunno what it is. Maybe a full moon? I don’t see none. I guess it’s just one of those nights.”

“Yeah,” I say.

I get my mail and look through it, hoping for a surprise, something to intrigue me; it’s the same crap as always. I go to the fridge, get a beer; when I open it, I think of Amelia. It would be nice, perhaps, to have Amelia here and share a beer with her; she could tell me more of her weird stories.

I need stories. We all need stories. I don’t feel good facing the silence, the lack of human interaction, in the retirement of my small apartment.

There are a couple of messages on the answering machine. One is from someone I haven’t talked to in a while. I wonder why she’s calling. I don’t think I want to call her back. The rest of the messages have to do with possible jobs. I drink my beer and look out the window, seeing a part of the city. It’s such a fucking big place; I’ve never really given it a great deal of thought.

I haven’t given a lot of things much thought, until tonight.

I find Sheila’s card in my pocket. Office number printed, home number handwritten. I can still smell her on me.

I almost stop myself. But I call her.

“Were you asleep?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I was hoping you’d call. I knew you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I feel strange,” I say.

“Why?” Then, “Don’t get the wrong idea. About what happened tonight. That’s not something I do often. Really, that’s like the second time I’ve ever done anything so spontaneous and — dangerous. What can I say? I find you attractive, and at that moment I wanted you. I had to have you. So I took you.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“We’re talking, aren’t we?” she says.

“We are.”

“It’s silly to play little games,” she says. “We’re adults: we know the moves and what needs to be done. Do you get what I mean?” She adds, “I’d like to see you again. If you don’t want to see me, tell me.”

“I’m attracted to you too,” I say, “but—”

“Is it Tasha?”

I don’t know.

“You’re not married to her anymore,” Sheila says.

“No.”

“And I don’t think you two get along all that well.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Tasha’s a big girl. She can handle it. And does anyone have to know?”

“They’ll find out.”

“Do you think I’d tell?”

“Would you?”

She laughs softly, “Well, I just might.”

Pause.

“So,” she says.

“So,” I say.

She says, “Here we are.”

Pause.

“Leonard,” she asks, “do you want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’m lying on my bed right now,” she says, “and I’m naked under my robe. I’m touching myself.”

“I’m touching myself,” she says, “but I’m thinking of you, thinking of your hands touching me. Thinking about this gets me hot.”

“Where are you touching yourself?”

Her voice lowers. “Where do you think, you fool?”

“I can think of several places.”

“My robe is partially opened,” she says. “My legs are open. I’m touching my legs, my upper legs, my thighs. And I’m slowly getting to the gold, the good stuff. You know the good stuff, baby; you had some tonight.”

I can smell it.

“But this could be you touching me,” she says. “This should be you touching me, right here, right now, tonight, this night, this hot night. Your hands or tongue, moving up, making me happy, making me go into a frenzy.” She breathes heavily. “It feels good,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

“Lightly, I’m touching my pussy,” she says. “I’m touching the lips of my pussy and already I’m wet and wanting you.”

“Tell me more.”