Does It Get Better?

She called me by my first name, getting my attention.  I knew that anything preceded by my actual birth name meant that the subject was serious.  We had been sipping our wine and talking about the risks and rewards of cooking bacon while nude, which we both were, and which we were doing.  The pan crackled and hissed on the stove, the hood fan on high but a cloud hanging in the kitchen.  She asked again, again with my name:  "Do you think it gets better than this?"

I grabbed her gently by the hips, and I loved the feel of her flesh in my hands, edging her out the door and into the darkness.  While I looked at the sky, I knew that she looked at me.

Our nakedness, male and female and the contact of our bodies under the immense canopy of the universe did not answer her question in any satisfactory sense.  It was, in fact, no answer at all.  I had a habit of distraction rather than confrontation, and it strained our relationship at times.  She worked up to deep and profound questions, and my answers usually included some inane reference to Tim Hortons' doughnuts or a trip to Canadian Tire.

Knowing that our purchase sizzled on the stove, we embraced under the chilly night sky of May, flesh pressed to flesh.  With the limited light of the neighbor's balcony, I marveled at the sight of our bronze and beige flesh pressed together.  I took her hand.  She kissed my lips and nose, standing on her toes.  Spoken:  "Happy Birthday."


As our fingers pressed together, I told her that I had several years ago stood alone, looked at my life before and what may come, and asked aloud:  "Is this all there is?"  Sooner or later, we all do it.  

Is this all there is?

She squeezed my hand more tightly, and lifted a leg onto the seat of a chair outside our door.  Our stance was now decidedly more intimate, her posture more open to me.  I told her that there is no answer, other than the answer we make with whatever gift of life follows.  Who knows?  The question is often enough to shake awake the doubts, regret, and fears of life.  Unsatisfied, she asked again:  "Does it get better, not just more or different?"

Having no answer, and like usual, I pressed myself to her, as if my arousal and her physical readiness was sufficient to resolve the subject.  It never really was, and that's what we most enjoyed about each other.  Nothing was ever resolved.

A thick, dark smoke rose from the pan on the stove, the smoke detector beeping loudly.  ****, whose responsibility was it to move that thing when we cooked?  Mine, of course.  I broke away and let the door close loudly behind me, removing the smoke detector from its place on the wall above the stove, placing in in the basket in the dining room, and lowering the flame on the burner under the pan.  Grease spots were all around the pan and on the earthen-tiled wall behind the stove.

I didn't want to leave her outside alone.  We might never resolve this, but I wanted her to understand that I took the question seriously.  As I stepped outside to rejoin her, and as the door creaked and banged behind me, a train rolled by loudly, its whistle blowing and the clickety-clack of its wheels on the rails.  

Embracing again in the chilled air, there wasn't much more to say.  She asked, "Well, is this all there is?"  My only answer was:  "If it is, if I die this moment, or five minutes from now, or 20 years in the future, this moment was enough, a gift I did nothing to earn or deserve."

She slapped my bare ***, which usually meant she was pleased but wanted me to believe otherwise.  I grabbed her *** with both hands and kissed her deeply on the mouth, our bodies pressing together the way I most liked.  The pan on the stove could wait.  Another train began its assault on our ears.  We braced against the cloud of dust that would follow.  One thing we did have was outdoor furniture, and the stars above, train alongside, and neighbor's lighting invited us to one of the chairs.  The toys, some of which she called her "artillery" were never far out of reach.  Tonight, she told me to go to the kitchen...just go to the kitchen.

I found the bacon fully cooked, looking a bit overdone actually, and turned the burner off.  I reached into the refrigerator, and placed several objects on the counter.  Two more slams of the door, once going outside, and the second time leading her inside, and I bit goodnight to the stars and latched the door from the inside.

To the bed I led her.  The unity of man and woman in pleasure ultimately involving union that could produce offspring was always a messy affair.  It was with her anyway.  It wasn't quiet, or reserved.  There were no towels at the point of contact.  Something or other usually ended up broken, and I remembered that Thai four-handled vessel that had made it all the way to North America in one piece, now glued back together.  The bed had been broken.  There were cracks in the drywall.  Some of her favorite lingerie had been ripped or cut to shreds.  My **** sometimes ended up raw and bleeding just below the glans. 

So the question remained:  "Do you think it gets better than this?"  No, not really, but if fortune isn't the fickle ***** that some claim, we get to enjoy this a bit longer.  That she seemed to accept.  For now, anyway...

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7 Responses May 19, 2012

I love the intimacy between the two of you. But as I read this I can't help but think of the phrase "Be grateful for what you have." Should we ask will it get better or should we be thankful for what we have?

That was so moving...<br />
went right to my heart...<br />
thanks so much for sharing this with me<br />
joyinthejourney, clg

Honestly? I love the story, but I'm not keen on the woman. "Does it get better than this?" What the hell sort of question is that? It's so cliched, so rhetorical. To be expected to answer it is silly. That said, I love the narrator's reply "If it is, if I die this moment, or five minutes from now, or 20 years in the future, this moment was enough, a gift I did nothing to earn or deserve."<br />
<br />
It reminds me of my late father's comment when he learned he was dying. "I have no regrets, and I have done everything I dreamt of doing." Bullshit, of course, as he died far too young, before he saw his grandchildren, whom he wished for so greatly. But a lovely response, nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Well done, as usual, Oscar.

The answer is not silly. It is lovely. To expect an answer is silly. :-D Then again, perhaps I'm just jealous that the lady got to spank your bum.

You just teach me how to dream. And this is another addition to my collections. Thanks for sharing.

Thank you for sharing the intensity of the moment juxtaposed with the awareness of the encompassing surroundings and our place within them. That sort of intimacy is wonderful.

However waiting for them often resembles waiting for Godot.....

Yes it is

Loved it. Intense relationships always offer up more questions then answers...but maybe..just maybe...the BEST answer is that they keep asking the questions. Connections are sooooo complex and messy but they so hold our attention too! :)

aww, I'll be happy to pass around some bacon!! :D I'll be sure to remind folks, that if they get some grease on their fingers....Not to worry! Just let somebody lick it off! Some of the BEST messes are even more fun when they're shared! ;)

Yes, they do hold my attention...
keeps an air of stimulation
joyinthejourney, clg

i love that it's your job to remove the smoke alarm. that pleases me immensely.