Indulgence

When Placida awoke, sunlight slipping in through the blinds next to the bed in her studio apartment, she saw that Ted had disappeared, just as he thought Rudy’s Pub had disappeared when he first searched for it. Maybe Ted, too, had simply moved a few blocks over, and in fact, he probably had, since Sunlight Solar Company was not far away. It had been a remarkable encounter, one for the books. She wasn’t writing a book, though, only poems. She was vaguely wistful, but satisfied— more than that— changed. They’d not talked about his family or his destination, but she knew, she knew. He was Edwina’s brother-in-law. Goddamn.

She had put her awareness of that possibility aside as soon as he'd introduced himself. She had been attracted— for her a rare feeling to have about a man. Thinking about his connection to her client would have stopped her momentum, and yet maybe it had also ignited a spark. Should rare feelings always be indulged? Yes, when the time is right. And how had kindness and caring become so sexy? They had both felt that. He’d clocked her “gender” upon entering her place, but never asked her to take off the beard (though she’d done that after the first go-‘round, which involved her strap-on). Somehow, with Ted, she’d felt a protectiveness toward him during that act, a willingness to serve rather than aggression.

Later, when he was indulging her wishes, she’d felt such total gratitude, but more important, worthiness. Here was a man who enjoyed every bit of what he was doing, and what he was doing was fantastic. Yet it wasn’t wild, it was the tamest and most natural of bonobo bliss-fests. Ted’s ways made her feel deserving, even “normal.” It was the best of therapies, and she knew she’d been overdue for that.

How to avoid the possible uprising of yearning? The wanting more? That was something she’d grappled with all her life. So many hours spent helping others! Connecting, yes, but lately, not even in “in the flesh.” She sometimes felt she knew all of humanity after so many years in this enterprise, but she only knew a certain segment— those who had the luxury to believe that their problems warranted attention and the money to pay for it. With one or two exceptions, no one she’d ever talked to as a counselor had violated laws in a way that had invited legal punishment. No one had had to be forcibly restrained from harming themselves. Her clients were, in a way, invisible-in-their-own-lives tragic figures whose damages became apparent as they talked, as they “opened up.” Her entire enterprise existed on a level way beyond mere survival. She had no means to feed a starving mother and baby in Yemen. No way to assist an old man in Brazil whose thrown-together shelter had vanished into the detritus of a mudslide. No path to save all those migrants from drowning as their inadequate boats capsized in stormy seas. But she could help someone like Edwina Campion accept her own feelings and release impossible dreams.

Sometimes, well, often, that wasn’t enough, and Placida needed intense experiences to distract her. These had been difficult to come by without alcohol. She’d relapsed a few times over the years, but not last night. No, last night had been special. But what now? What now? At least she might be able to channel all these feelings into a performance at her favorite poetry open mic that evening. And some of those poems might need tweaking to incorporate the “vibes” of her recent experience. That was a good reason to get out of bed, she thought. As always.

— Macoff