With Reckless Abandon
By
Steven Hunley
She was running the water as hard as she could. She poured in more scented soap to make the bubbles grow. She wanted mountains of bubbles, an Everest of Effervescence to surround her. Her hair was up and her eye was on the clock. Yellow Rubber Ducky had been left out of her plan and sat forlorn on the corner of the tub. She placed a towel on the windowsill just out of reach, unlocked the front door, and pulled two small curls from the back of her hair where they’d already been pinned up, placed them on her neck, then stuck first her toe, then her leg, then the rest of herself in the tub, being careful not to disturb the bubbles. She was ready to be free.
She was married at eighteen because she was knocked up. Her parents were Catholics, and so were his. Between the two of them they decided it was the proper thing to do; between the parents not the kids. But now she’d popped the puppy out and her duty to him, to the child, to God and Country was over. He and the parents would do the suffering now, the child later, but not her anymore. She was through with it. If she could have pinned a medal to her naked breast she would have.
“I earned it,” she said to herself, “Now I’ve earned this too.”
She’d tried to put up with him, but in fact she couldn’t help it when her shiny new old man turned out to be a rusty old young boy, and had somehow managed it by the ripe old age of nineteen. Everything about him she had already figured out. She was at the end of her patience, he at the end of his rope. So she filled out a few papers, shed a few tears, and got a divorce. That’s just how it was. Now a new young man, a college man, was courting her, one she knew little about. Whatever mystery this man held she was determined to find out. She would be Sherlock Holmes of the heart. So there she was, laying a bubbly trap. She would find out about all men from this one particular man, and make him tell all their secrets. She’d pump him for information, and if she couldn’t get that, then she’d pump him for something else. She was, as they say, bound and determined. Hence the fragrant trap of bubbling bubbles.
She piled up the bubbles strategically and waited for his knock.
It came.
“Come in,” she said, “I’m here.”
The bathroom was just past the door and off to the right. The living room had a Murphy bed, which was down, and her actual bedroom was on the left through some French doors, which is where her dresser was, and the baby’s crib. Grandma had the baby tonight. He strode right in thinking she was probably at the mirror. But there she was in the tub.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said all nervous and polite like.
She could see from his face he was embarrassed, and she liked that just fine.
“I didn’t know the time,” she said, “Can you hand me a towel?”
She motioned him to the window. The light was just right, just where she’d placed it, and she knew, though he was facing away, that he could see her stand up in reflection. He must have, ‘cause he handed her the towel, the soft fluffy white towel, with his face turned away. He was well mannered. And she liked that too.
“Thank you sir,” she said.
When he knew she was wrapped he stepped back into the living room and started to look at a dictionary left open on the table.
“Probably been trying to better herself,” he thought.
It didn’t matter what it said, or what page it was on, he wasn’t going to read it anyway. He grabbed it only hoping its weight would steady his nerves. She walked in and should have made straight for her bedroom to the dresser, as girls often do. But she didn’t. She stretched across the Murphy bed to grab her cigarettes, and popped one from the pack. She tamped it like cigarette smokers do, but instead of putting it in her mouth and lighting it up, she put it in the groove of the ashtray, placing it at the ready. He was too busy looking at her contents in the towel to notice.
“How was Winchell’s, Donut Girl?” asked with innocence.
“It was busy, but I think I got all the powdered sugar out of my hair this time. Check, won’t you?”
But she didn’t sit up, her position stayed the same. She’d let down her hair by this time. He’d have to climb next to her if he were to check. He wasn’t opposed to doing it.
He stretched beside her and she lifted her hair with her hand, pulling it up away from the nape of her neck.
“See?” she said.
He put his nose up close till it touched. He inhaled.
“It’s OK isn’t it?”
She needed to read his face for an answer so she turned over, her face just a breath away. She ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip from left to right.
“Isn’t it?” she whispered.
He swallowed… then confessed, “You don’t smell like sugar at all.”
He smelled not powdered sugar. He smelled her all fresh instead. She liked that best of all, hearing him inhale and knowing her scent was in his breath. She knew he must know something because he went to school. She knew she couldn’t find out everything by using her sex alone, it was what came afterwards that she craved. It was pillow talk during aftermath she wanted. That’s when the secrets come out. The secrets come out after the barriers come down.
She faced him face to face. So she told him the truth.
“I don’t like to follow directions or plan things out,” she said, “So when you take me, make sure it’s with reckless abandon.”
He was stunned by the news. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. He tried to appear cool so he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Reckless abandon?” He said back, “What the hell is reckless abandon?”
“Reckless means utterly unconcerned about the consequences; without caution; careless; rash, heedless, negligent, imprudent. Abandon means for one to yield oneself utterly to one’s emotions or one’s impulse.”
It sounded alright to him, but he was still dubious.
“Oh yeah? Sounds like a good deal. Which one’s emotions and impulses get yielded to, yours or mine?”
“Either one of us, we’ll take turns if you like.”
“Hmmm…” he considered a while, but not too long of a while, and then said, “Sounds fair to me. I’ll do my best. But next time, leave the dictionary at the library. I’m tempted to throw it in the trash.”
He was lying. The only real temptation he had ever had was her and she knew it.
“Girls like you only get confused by book learnin.”
“You’re the scholar,” she thought to herself, “you ought to know.”
“O.K. professor,” she said, carefully removing his glasses and gently placing them on the night stand next to the ashtray holding her yet-to-be-touched cigarette, “whatever you say.”
The funny thing is that although she meant to learn something from him, on that particular night, he learned something from her too, although propriety won’t allow me to say exactly what it was. I don’t mean to sound flippant or discount bad behavior. You couldn’t blame them; they were under the influence at the time, under the influence of a song. It was Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane.
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