Currency - Ch. 07

Author's Note: A quick note on the category shift for Chapter 7:

If you've been along for Phil's ride through the first six chapters, you may be wondering why this is posted in the Romance category, rather than Erotic Couplings. Don't worry, Phil has not abandoned his favorite hobby. However, Currency has always been a story about how we measure value, and in Chapter 7, Phil is forced to face what happens when intimacy stops being a transaction and starts being a relationship.

I promise, the explicit heat is still here, and while the mechanics are familiar, I like to think that the emotional weight is far greater. This is the final main chapter of the series, and was easily my favorite to write. An epilogue will follow shortly.

Thank you for reading, and happy licking, loving and laughing!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Why in the hell are you calling me? Do you expect me to pin a fucking medal on you? Tell you that you're better than this? Absolve your guilty conscience? Fall over on the floor with my legs spread for you?"

I had Carrie on speakerphone so she wouldn't rupture my eardrum. While she was screaming at me, Dude walked into the room carrying a fresh joint.

"Tongue-fuck all the bridal parties you want! Get paid a million dollars for it! I am not your therapist, not your girlfriend, not your pimp, and it is SURE AS FUCK NOT MY OBFUSCATION TO FIGURE YOUR LIFE OUT FOR YOU!"

"Obligation."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Click. The line went dead.

Yeah, good point. Calling Carrie was a terrible idea. At least I could officially close that chapter of my life.

"You went down on a bridal party?" Dude inquired, pausing with the lighter halfway to his joint.

"Yeah."

"And got paid for it?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you've been acting like a CIA operative for the past week?"

"It's hardly something I wanted to advertise."

Dude blew a thick cloud of smoke in my direction. "Why not?"

"You mean you're not going to scold me?"

"Why would I scold you? You love eating pussy, and you got paid four figures to do it. I see zero problems here. In fact, why not advertise? What, are you afraid of being happy?"

Was I? It had been one of the most intense, ego-inflating experiences of my life. Happiness wasn't the problem, and $5,500 sure wasn't a bad haul for ninety minutes of work.

"You know, Dude... I think happiness is like the weather."

Dude took a massive hit of weed. "Oh boy. Here we go. I'm listening."

"People get all worked up about the weather--they get happy, sad, host a cookout, stay indoors, whatever. And they mistake it for the climate. Climate is what actually matters. It's bigger, it lasts, it sustains us."

"So you're not going to enjoy a sunny day because sea levels are rising?"

"No, it's just... fuck. I want something that isn't fleeting. Something that lasts."

"Life is just a series of fleeting moments, man," Dude replied, letting out another grand puff of smoke.

"And here's another thing. You know Lizzie, right?"

"Of course I know Lizzie."

"Well, say I decide to go pro. Okay, yeah, maybe it's fun. But then I ask myself how I'd feel if Lizzie was getting paid to suck dick. And that feels terrible."

"Why? Do you have some kind of moral issue with sex workers?"

"No, Dude, it's just Lizzie. I can't fathom her doing that."

"Is she?"

"No."

"So you theoretically think that if you do it, then she might do it, and that's too much for you to handle--even if it's what you both wanted?"

"Well... yeah."

"You think way too damn much, Phil. And if she's your excuse, maybe you should actually get her thoughts on the matter instead of making assumptions. From what I gather, there aren't many taboo subjects between you two."

I sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. Good point. I'll call her."

"First, get out of your head." Dude held his joint to my lips, and I took a long, slow drag.

He was right. I needed to quiet my mind and get some rest. I adjusted my posture, and Dude hooked up the lift, transferred me smoothly into bed, gave me one final drag, and pulled the blanket up over my shoulders.

"By the way, I'm not really seeing eye to eye with my landlord right now. Mind if I crash here a few days?"

"Go for it."

Dude had been sleeping in my guest room--probably on my massage table--off and on for about a month. I tried not to dwell on the fact that my caregiver was sleeping on my specialized fuck-table. It had its advantages, though; he was always on time in the morning.

Sunday morning, he got an early start, leaving me alone with my thoughts by 9:30 a. m. I ate a lukewarm bowl of oatmeal and prepared to make good on my promise to call Lizzie.

Our cosmic connection must have been firing on all cylinders, because before I could dial her, my phone buzzed with her caller ID.

"What's shaking, Phil?"

"My head."

"You live up there too much."

"So I've been told."

"Listen, I've got a favor to ask you."

"Shoot."

"I met this guy," she said, her voice dropping into a rare, cautious register. "I think he kind of likes me. And I might, like... be sweet on him. And no, I haven't blown him. I want to go out with him. Like a real date."

"Okay, good. You have my blessing."

"The thing is, I don't trust myself. I haven't been on an actual date in... well, ever. So I was thinking we could make it a double date."

"Ah. Yeah, okay, but I think this four-wheeler is missing a wheel."

"I already asked Beth. She'll be your date. That way I've got my best friend and my sister watching my back."

"I don't know, Two. It's been a really fucked-up week."

"Oh, come on, it can't be that bad. It's only one evening. Saturday. Wait... what did you do?"

"A bridal party."

"Seriously?" I could hear her starting to giggle through the receiver.

"I got paid."

Lizzie started coughing uncontrollably. "Sorry, I laughed so hard coffee shot out of my nose. You really are a changed man!"

"Thanks. Would you ever do something like that?"

She paused, her laughter dying down into a thoughtful hum. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On how things go Saturday."

"So there's a lot riding on this?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just don't overthink it. It'll be good for you. And me. And Beth--she hasn't gone out in a while either. It's a win-win-win."

"Shouldn't there be four wins?"

"No. I fully expect you and Beth to torment my poor guy to death."

"Alright. I'm in."

"Awesome. Beth will be at your place at 6:00 to drive your van. Matthew and I will meet you there. Reservations are for 6:30. Saturday."

"Matthew?"

"Whatever, bridesmaid boy."

The logistics of going out to dinner for a party of four in which two are wheelchair users can prove challenging. Transportation was the biggest hurdle, and had largely been resolved by Beth agreeing to drive me in my van. Lizzie needed to drive her car, as it was equipped to store her wheelchair and of course included hand controls. Lizzie's tastes were as epicurean as my own, and she chose Giovanni's, which necessitated me wearing a tie. Because Dude would have me up and ready by 10, but then needed to attend some stoner rally for the rest of the day, I would either be stuck wearing a tie all day or find alternate means of getting one on. For personal reasons I cannot abide watching college football while in neckwear, so I worked out with Elizabeth the First that she would tie my tie for me while she was there to drop off her car and drive me in my van. She was surprisingly adept at doing so, and she herself cleaned up quite nicely for the occasion. Shoulder-length auburn hair with a kind, soft face which I could see would come in handy when asking the elderly to trust her with liquidating their estate. Her long tan skirt and burgundy blouse made her appear worthy of her regal name.

By all accounts, Beth was a terrible driver. I had not asked her to secure my wheelchair to the floor. Doing so was time-consuming and usually unnecessary, even if adaptive van manufacturers stressed the safety concerns. As Beth drove, I was flung around the interior of my van, bracing myself for every turn or stoplight.

Thankfully, we arrived at the restaurant safely and found Lizzie and her brawny, pale lad, Matthew, waiting in the lobby. As we made our way to the maître d', I immediately felt sorry for him. Clearly, the Giovanni training manual did not cover the demographics of our party. It may have been the rule that patrons in wheelchairs are seated first, then women, then men, but in the event of a man and woman in wheelchairs, with another woman and a lone able-bodied male, all bets were off. Add to the confusion that Lizzie and I could not sit directly across from one another due to the need for our footrests, and throw in a crowded dining room at peak dinner hour, and the evening could be off to a rocky start. Lizzie and I, far more accustomed to such geometrical and social nuances, took charge, and the most grateful maître d' returned to his post hoping never to have to encounter such a situation again. Beth and I occupied one side of the rectangular table, with the slightly confused Matthew directly across from me and Lizzie across from her sister. Menus were explored, and the interrogation began.

"So, Matthew, my sister tells me you met when you felt her up," began Beth.

Lizzie smiled and glared at Beth. "He was a perfect gentleman just doing his job."

Matthew looked validated. "Yeah, I know most of the paralegals pretty well, so when Lizzie came to the courthouse and I had to search her, we got to talking."

Lizzie had started working as a paralegal six months ago, and Matthew was a bit too proud of his job as a security guard.

"Matthew is amazing," Lizzie continued, "nobody has been stabbed at the courthouse in over six months!" There had been a well-publicized incident involving a knife some time ago. "And he's a huge flirt!"

Matthew turned beet red. "Only for the pretty paralegals," he offered, testing the waters.

"Well, I will be sure to tell Mary that she isn't pretty," quipped Beth. Poor Matthew was drowning.

Trying to save himself, he asked Beth, "So, how long have you been together?"

"Five years!" gleefully beamed Beth. "You know, I thought it was just going to be a one-night stand, but Phil here is a pretty amazing guy."

Geez, she was really playing this guy. Matthew nearly choked on his water. Lizzie rolled her eyes.

The waiter came to take our orders. "All on one, or two and two?" the waiter asked, looking to Lizzie and me as if we might be a separate "wheelchair couple" who only dated their own kind. A frequent assumption which genuinely pissed me off.

"Two checks," I instructed, putting my arm tightly around Beth and giving an extra squeeze. "WE are together, and they are together," I nodded across the table. For a fake couple, Beth and I were pretty convincing.

"Right, sorry," muttered the waiter.

Beth ordered first, going with Osso Buco, a bold move I thought. I ordered Mona Lisa pasta, Lizzie went with Chicken Piccata, and poor Matthew shyly asked for spaghetti and meatballs. I saw Lizzie's face sink.

Beth carried the conversation until our meals arrived. She was clearly enthusiastic about liquidating property of the rich and famous. She told tales of finding expensive artwork that the owners didn't know the value of, of sentimental children who tried to sneak out their favorite items before she could get to them, and of finding hidden sex toys and selling them to novelty shops. Lizzie kept her end of the conversation going, as sisters can talk about everything and nothing with practiced ease.

When our meals arrived, I realized that I had made a tactical error. I had thought the Mona Lisa pasta came with sliced grilled strips of chicken, but instead it included a full chicken breast. The bane of quadriplegic dining--food that requires cutting. Fuck, this was going to be a huge embarrassment in front of spaghetti-and-meatball man. But to my surprise, Beth quietly and effortlessly switched our plates, cut my chicken, and switched them back. It was all so graceful and effortless that I was genuinely touched by her sweetness. Sure, she had a sister that required assistance, but Lizzie had full use of her hands and Beth would never have needed to provide for her in this way. Beth was finely attuned to me, not as a member of a demographic, but as a man who she was sharing a meal with. I turned my head to admire her as she so effortlessly rescued me while preserving my dignity.

With renewed confidence, I returned to the interrogation. "Have you always wanted to be in security?" I asked.

"I have. Three generations of police. I plan to go to the academy after I save up enough money." Matthew tried to twirl his spaghetti in an effort to impress Lizzie, but failed miserably. "What's your line of work, Phil?" I could see in his eyes he assumed that I did not work and just wanted to test me.

"Climate science."

"Ah, so you're a global warming guy, eh?" Oh shit, this was going to be bad. Not only was the little prick challenging my entire field, he had stepped onto a landmine with Lizzie. I kept my politics close to my chest. Climate change wasn't really even debatable anymore, but Lizzie never missed an opportunity to attend a parade, protest, or campaign for the Left.

"There may be some disagreement about how quickly global temperatures will rise, but the science is pretty clear on the direction we're heading," I tried to be firm but non-threatening.

"So if it's all figured out, why even study it?" Was this asshole for real?

"It pays the bills." Okay, Lizzie, I'm trying not to ruin your date.

"Phil is a hard worker," said Lizzie. "I hear he's even thinking about taking up a side job." Hey! I'm trying to do you a favor here.

"Really, honey? You haven't told me about this." Beth and Lizzie were ruthless as a team, but I gathered that this was just to change the direction of the conversation.

"Yes, just experimenting with a little writing." I glared at Lizzie.

"Who's left room for dessert?" Thank God for the waiter.

"Do you have tiramisu?" asked Lizzie.

"We do. Just one? Four plates?"

"Perfect," replied Beth. She then went on to explain what tiramisu was to Matthew before he blundered again.

A large portion of the dessert arrived and sat far from my reach. While the sisters elegantly forked off small pieces and Matthew approached it like a science experiment, I sat quietly. Beth sweetly put a bite right in my mouth. I could not tell if this was to further convince Matthew that we were a couple or because she was genuinely that kind. Either way, the tiramisu was decadent, and Beth once again effortlessly brought me into a situation that might otherwise have been awkward.

The checks came, handed to the able-bodied members of course. I asked Beth to retrieve my credit card, and Matthew manned up and inserted his own. As we made our way to the lobby, I patted Matthew on the back and instructed him to "treat her right" with a wink. Beth politely said goodbye, and the two couples went our separate ways.

On the ride back to my place, while I careened about the van, Beth and I shared laughs about Matthew. "I really don't see Lizzie with that guy," I noted.

"Definitely not. I'm glad she had us to flush him out. But this is a big step for her; let's give them some time together. I'm primed for a rescue text."

The sisters lived together, and Lizzie would certainly invite Matthew in. I just hoped she would be gentle with him. Of course, this meant Beth needed to stay away for at least a little while. I invited her into my house, an invitation which was a bit unnecessary as her keys were on my kitchen table anyway. So I asked if she'd like to sit. Beth and I had never really been alone. We only knew each other through Lizzie, but she was proving to be a fine person in her own right.

"So... writing, huh?" she quizzed me.

"Not really. I was just deflecting. Sparing Matthew a little dignity."

"Sure you were. Honestly, I was kind of impressed. I thought you might go for the full takedown," Beth smiled.

"Tempting. But, you know, as a favor for Lizzie."

Beth settled in on the sofa. She was the kind of person who could look perfectly at ease in any environment.

"You really saved me with the chicken. Thank you for that."

"My pleasure. I saw you get tense."

"You noticed that?"

"Phil, my whole job is noticing subtleties. Things other people miss. It's my sixth sense."

"Should I be worried?"

"Why, are you hiding something?"

"You tell me, Miss Subtle Observer."

"I think you hold back a lot."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My sister goes on and on about you. That you are her wise mentor and confidante. Now I don't doubt her sincerity, and I'm grateful that she has you, but I usually just see a cynical and sarcastic Phil. So tell me, who is the real Phil?"

"Damn, you're good. And I'm no wise mentor. Lizzie is just as much my mentor as I am hers."

"I don't believe you. Tell me, you wanted to say more when Matthew was asking you about your job. What did you want to say?"

"That the world is fucked and he should get off of it."

"Okay, I can see that. But I think there's more. Maybe you didn't even want to say it to him. But you aren't that shallow. You love your job; I see it in you. And it's not because you think the climate is fucked. So tell me, what is it that you love but don't say?"

I paused. She was listening, seeing me in a way few others ever did. "You'll think it's cheesy."

"I think it would do you good to show some cheese."

"Are you sure? You won't laugh?"

Beth made the sign of the cross over her chest, then leaned in.

"Okay, you asked for it. My job. 95% of the time it's math. It's modeling scenarios, predicting probabilities, making sense out of chaos. I'm good at it. I like that part."

"That leaves 5%."

"I look at maps. Full maps of the entire world. Maybe once a week I pull back and really see it all. Feel it. The jet streams, currents, depressions, areas of high pressure, big billowy clouds, clear blue skies, dark clouds, areas where I know rainbows can be seen. We all live in it. We all breathe the same air. We're all sustained by this same cosmic force. We see ourselves as separate, autonomous beings, but it's all bullshit. We're part of something so much larger. It's like we're sustained by some benevolent reality, and we usually don't even realize it. That's the 5% of my job that I love. I'm at my best when I'm aware of that. And too often I'm not. I need to remember. We all do."

Beth sat hanging on my every word. I couldn't believe I'd said all of that, but she had a way of making me talk. Her eyes looked deeply into mine and she slowly moved closer.

"Have you ever said that to Lizzie?" she asked.

"I've never said it to anyone."

"Phil," she said softly, meaningfully, "you really should talk more. You... you really make a terrific date."

"Well, Lizzie should ask for favors more often," I said.

She stopped. Her face changed. She breathed in deeply and reassessed the situation. Something was off.

"Phil..." she said.

"Beth?"

Her wide eyes filled with tears. We were inches apart just seconds ago; now she was retreating. She blinked as if re-entering reality, stood, grabbed the keys from my table, turned away to hide her tears, and headed for the door. "I'll let you know if Lizzie needs another favor," and she walked out the door crying as Dude and his smoke cloud entered.

What was it with crying women leaving my house?

"So, another successful date?" jibed Dude, closing the door.

"It wasn't a real date, it was just a favor for Lizzie."

"Somehow I think your favor may have thought otherwise."

"Wait. Do you think?"

"You dumbass. You just broke Elizabeth the First's heart."

"Fuck. I never thought. Shit! Dude! She's fucking perfect. I really blew it. Move, maybe I can catch her before she drives away." Dude opened the door and I put my chair in high gear to chase her down. But instead Beth tripped over me as she came back inside.

"Shut up. I grabbed the wrong keys." She was still crying.

"Beth, wait."

"No."

"Please, I'm an idiot. Let me explain."

She stopped, angry and sad, her eyes boring a hole through me. "Okay, that part I can listen to."

"Beth, I... my view of... the way I think about women. It's totally backwards."

"No shit."

"I just... I haven't even considered the possibility that I could date someone, like a real date, in so long that--"

"You mean like a non-bachelorette-party-style date?"

Fuck. She knew about that. What I thought I had wanted, not what I was beginning to realize I really wanted.

"Yes. Like an actual date with a woman I care about kind of date. I got out of my head for a minute there with you, and then I went right back in. But I missed the big picture! I missed that you were right here! You are right here. Jesus, Beth, you're what I want. I want you to be my date. Now and again. Not a favor for Lizzie or a party favor, but as a woman."

"Are you trying to ask me out?"

"Yes, I totally am."

"Why should I say yes?"

"Because you're like the climate, Beth. You're not a daily weather event. You're the real deal. You bring out the best in me. You make me laugh, you make me talk, you cut my chicken, you hold people's lives in your hands and they trust you. You're the person I want by my side, and you're going to be the person I regret letting down if you walk out that door."

Dude stood quiet as a statue, a small smile masking his stoic face.

"Phil," Beth started, still crying, "you can be a real shithead sometimes." She stopped, stood, waiting for her own response. "But yes. I'll go out with you. You've got one date. And my pants are staying on. And you're planning it. A week from today. I'm not tying your tie, but I'll drive your van. Text me a time and what to wear." She looked deep into my eyes again, and I could feel the fire inside her. She grabbed the correct set of keys, turned, said, "Dude," with a nod, and walked out the door.

I exhaled at last. Dude gave me a drag and said, "Now that was a speech."

"Do you think I'm on thin ice?"

"Phil, man, I think you've met your mate."

I couldn't wait any longer to get some intel on Beth. Lizzie was sitting on it, and although she'd see right through my stated intent of inquiring about her dud of a date, I needed to talk to her. Tuesday evening I called her.

"You're holding out on me. How did things end up with Matthew?"

"Let's just say that I'm glad that I had my support team with me."

"He didn't seem like a great match for you."

"Yeah, that's for sure. I got to practice my skills of gently letting a guy down. It's not as fun as I thought it would be. But... I'm assuming that's not the real reason you're calling."

"Hey, I care about your possible future with a guy who orders spaghetti and meatballs at Giovanni's. But, yeah. How's Beth?"

"More emotional than usual. Sunday was a lot of brooding, and I thought I might have to come over and disable your motors. But by Monday she seemed, well, hopeful. I didn't get the whole story, and I don't know exactly what you said or did, but it's pretty clear that she really cares for you."

"We had a really wonderful time together, so much so that I didn't even realize how much I actually like her. I just hope I didn't blow it."

"You didn't. But Saturday... Phil, she's my sister, not your next conquest. Please don't do anything stupid."

"Easier said than done. But she's definitely not just another conquest, I'll promise you that."

"If I tell you to just be yourself, can you make sure it's the self that I know? Not the version of yourself you tend to hide behind."

"For the Elizabeths, I can do that."

"If she comes home in tears, I'm coming after you."

I laughed. "Noted. And thanks."

"That's what friends are for."

"Death threats?"

"Honesty."

I spent the rest of the week laying the groundwork for my date. I scouted locations, measured rolling paths, tipped off the appropriate store owners, and tried to imagine every possible roadblock which could derail my plans. On Friday I sent a short text to Beth: Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. If you can, be at my place at 6:00. No need to dress up--I'll be in jeans and a polo.

Her response was swift and lukewarm: got it. See you then.

Elizabeth arrived at my house at 6:04. She had the air of someone who was comfortable in every situation, which kept me from reading anything into her demeanor. She wore loose-fitting jeans and a cream-colored blouse, her auburn hair loosely framing her face. To me she looked beautiful, but I was in no position to be objective.

"Hi, Phil." A smile that still gave nothing away.

"Beth, you look wonderful."

"Thank you." She entered and placed her keys on my table. "So, I assume I'm driving your van?"

"At the moment I value my life too much for that." Too early for such a joke? She gave a quiet laugh. Safe. "Let's be pedestrians. It's a nice evening."

"Let me guess, you planned the weather?" She smirked.

"I prayed a lot. And watched the forecast."

I led her outside, asking her to close the door behind her, which automatically locked. As usual, I rolled in the street and she walked on the sidewalk.

"You have a nice neighborhood." This was questionable. It was a distinctly average neighborhood, about a block from a more commercial area, which was our destination.

"Thank you. It's just quiet enough to feel like home, but close enough to the beaten path to make it workable." We had one somewhat busy street to cross, and we waited patiently for the "Walk" sign. Once across the street, I led us to the sidewalk of a somewhat neglected strip mall.

"Okay, stop number one for the evening." I turned and looked at the door of "El Milagro," a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant frequented almost solely by its native people and with no signs in English. "After you."

Beth looked unimpressed, though slightly curious, as she opened the door. She held it for me and I rolled directly to the small Mexican woman behind the counter. "Dos, and dos," I said, motioning at myself and Beth. I knew no Spanish, but had done my homework, and pre-arranged with the cashier that I would be coming with a friend and ordering two tacos for each of us. She nodded, and I led Beth to a table.

El Milagro was not exactly a sit-down restaurant. It was primarily a Mexican grocery store with a working kitchen attached and a few tables scattered throughout an open area. Beth took in the surroundings: Catholic candles with red hearts protruding from the savior's chest, occasional piñatas, cans of beans and chiles--not exactly a place to bring a date.

"Is my driving that bad?" This may have been the one place in which Beth looked out of place.

"It could maybe use some work," I smiled. "But that's not why I brought you here."

"O... kay." She was curious and a bit worried. "Do tell."

The old woman brought our tacos as well as a bottle of orange-flavored Jarritos for each of us. She set an extra-large pile of napkins on the table, patted my shoulder, and walked away.

I smiled. "First, try a taco," I instructed Beth. She picked up the soft-shell, meat-filled taco and tried to take a dainty bite.

"Oh my God. These are the most incredible tacos I have ever tasted!" Her face beamed with happiness and a slight bit of grease.

"They are, right?"

"I've passed by this place a million times and never noticed it. And you live a block away. Okay, this is my new favorite taco place."

"That's half the reason I brought you here."

"What could top these tacos? Are we going to smash a piñata full of chocolate?"

I laughed. "No. Because of this." My clumsy hands tried to find purchase around one of my tacos. For a quadriplegic, picking up a taco was no easy task. But I eventually managed, holding it on one palm as it hung sideways with meat dripping out, and hastily taking a bite before more damage was done. My face and hands were covered in grease and taco sauce. Beth sat patiently without judgment or assistance.

"Understand?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Beth, I am a messy guy. I know that's not a secret. And any quadriplegic would be out of his mind to bring a date to a taco place. But I want you to see all of me, even the side that massacres tacos." I wolfed down the rest of taco one. "And also the side of me that knew to ask for extra napkins."

Beth laughed. "Point taken. I don't care about the fact that you can be messy. Hell, in our own way, we all can be. I know sometimes it's a lot. And besides, you look kind of adorable in taco grease."

I smiled, and for the first time this evening we shared a silent moment of warmth. I made quicker but no prettier work of my second taco as Beth savored hers. I drank my Jarritos through a straw and watched as Elizabeth the First slightly damaged her tacos.

"Do you come here a lot?"

"I do. But I usually get my tacos to go."

She looked around. "Do you think we're the only gringos that know about this place?"

I chuckled, "We may very well be."

"Then let's keep it that way. It will be our little secret."

I didn't hide my smile, but did use several napkins to wipe my face and hands. Beth gave a minor assist with a remaining bit of sauce on my chin. Part one of our date seemed to be a hit.

Beth chugged her Jarritos and stood. "Okay, messy guy, what's next?"

We exited El Milagro and I turned to go further down the dilapidated strip mall. Beth's confusion returned; there was little promise in this building.

I turned and motioned with my hand to the entrance to Cronshaw's. "Now, destination two for the evening will require your knowledge as an estate liquidator. By the time we leave, I hope you'll render a verdict: failing bar or hidden gem with a story."

"Okay, fair enough. I'll try to keep an open mind." She held the door open for me and followed me in.

I nodded to the bartender. "Two lagers, one with a straw. Bring them to my table if you don't mind."

Beth looked around Cronshaw's. There was no denying that it was a dive bar. But I could see Beth looking deeper.

"On its surface, I'd say they don't know what they have here. It's a vintage mahogany bar, the jukebox is pure nostalgia, and that poorly kept Turkish rug on the wall? That's authentic Heriz weave. Do they even know what they have going on here?"

"I think they might." The bartender brought our beers as we sat in front of the rug.

Beth stared at me. "So... what's the story?"

I smiled. "The story is Cronshaw himself. Can Miss Elizabeth the First tell me who Cronshaw was?"

She paused, looked around. "An old man who died in arrears and left his pub to his indigent children?"

"Ha! Good guess. But, no. After my accident, after rehab, I had a lot of time on my hands. I did a lot of reading. One book I read made a huge impact on me. Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham. Heard of it?"

"I have not. But I bet I'm about to hear about it. Please tell me that it isn't about BDSM."

I smiled again. "Far from it. The main character is named Philip, and he meets this guy Cronshaw, a loud, brash, cynical poet, and he tells Philip that life is essentially meaningless."

"Very romantic."

"But Cronshaw then points to a large Persian rug. He asks Philip what he thinks of it, and Philip basically tells the old drunk that it looks like a chaotic mess. And that is Cronshaw's point--when you just look at a small piece of the carpet, it seems haphazard, but when you see the whole thing, it's like looking at life. You see the interconnectedness of all of life's events--the heartbreaks, the joyful moments, the physical imperfections, the terrible mistakes, the mundane routines--and together they form this glorious tapestry."

Beth leaned in, wanting to hear more.

"Philip spent his life analyzing and overthinking every decision he made; he constantly beat himself up. But he carried a small swath of the rug that Cronshaw gave him throughout his life. Eventually he got the message."

"Which was?"

"That true joy is found in living one's life. Much of it is out of our control, and we just have to make it through the storms. Hopefully, when you reach your end, you can see how it all fit together, not because you forced it to, but because you participated in it. And hopefully, there's some beauty in the wildly chaotic, often fucked-up life." I nodded to the rug on the wall.

"Now I don't know who owns this shitty bar or if they've ever read the book. But the name and the rug are a hell of a coincidence. Sometimes when I feel lost, I'll come here and sit and drink a beer and hope for some Cronshaw-like wisdom."

"Do you ever get any?"

I thought of when I met Daphne here. It was only a few weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime. I had thought she was what I wanted--or rather that she was what the universe provided, a cheap, meaningless hookup. God, being here with Beth was like being in a different universe. "Sometimes I think I do. Usually I just come away with more questions."

"So why come back?"

"I like questions."

"Even ones without answers? Ones that suggest your life is meaningless and similar to a dusty old rug?"

I had to think for a moment. Beth was not just some starry-eyed admirer. "Especially those. Wouldn't life be boring if we knew all of its answers?"

"Sometimes I think I'd like to know those answers."

"Me too. But isn't it worth it to discover something unexpected?"

"Like a great taco?"

"Or someone you've known for years but never appreciated?"

Beth blushed. "Maybe that too." A small hint of a closely held smile.

"So you really believe that your life has no purpose?" she asked.

"I don't know. It might. It's not over yet."

"But you haven't found it?"

"I have not."

Beth smiled, "That might not be a terrible thing."

"What, you're glad I haven't found my purpose?"

"Given where I hear you've been looking, yeah, I am."

"Fair point." I attempted a self-deprecating laugh and finished my beer.

"The sun is starting to set. Destination three would be good in the sunset."

I led her back outside, pushing the door open with my footrests.

"Still want my liquidator's verdict?"

"I do."

"A hidden gold mine."

Two for two.

I led Beth behind the strip mall, across a bumpy patch of grass, and to a somewhat obscurely paved path that led through thick branches and eventually to a clearing where a large pond with a paved walking trail all around it sat. I allowed myself to get scraped and slapped by branches, and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep them from hitting Beth. She appreciated the effort, but needed to spit out several pine needles.

"Destination three. A stroll around a pond at sunset."

"I'm starting to notice that you have a habit of finding things that other people don't notice."

"Isn't that your job?" We started making our way around the pond. "Finding unexpected things in other people's stuff?"

"It is."

"I would imagine that can be pretty difficult. I mean, the high-value items I'm sure you've got a well-trained eye for. But dealing with a lifetime of accumulated stuff... how do you go about it?"

"Yeah, that's the hard part." She took my hand. "I've got hundreds, sometimes thousands of trinkets and doodads, and I know that I'm not going to get any money for them. The average person just looks at them and sees junk. Honestly, most probably are. Sometimes one of their kids will find something they want. Or a sibling or friend. I usually just let them take it. Sometimes I ask them to tell me the story behind it, and they usually do. It's very cathartic."

"I bet. You're a great listener."

"But I'm still left with tons of scattered items. Sometimes I'll find one item--usually something that's not with other things like it, or maybe with some imperfection--and I'll make up a story about it."

"Tell me about one of the stories you made up," I asked.

"Okay, it's silly, so don't laugh. But yesterday I was going through this old couple's table settings. Not like fine china or anything, just cheap plates for ordinary family meals. And there was this one plate with a broken edge. I just stood there staring at it. I kept wondering how many family dinners were eaten off of that plate. How many stupid arguments. How much one of the grown kids would give to be sitting at a table eating dinner with their parents and answering annoying questions about school. And how did it break? Did someone drop it? Were they angry? Had they just learned that they had become a grandparent? Just all of these questions that lead to made-up stories in alternate universes. All over some silly plate that nobody probably ever even gave a thought about."

"And you say I find hidden gems. So what did you do with the plate?"

"After all that, I couldn't just leave it. I'm not supposed to, but I kept it. I've got like a whole room full of knick-knacks that I've kept. They may not have monetary value to anyone, but I value them."

"I once told a friend that not all currency is money." God, Carrie--several lifetimes ago. I was so young and foolish.

"You know, I think the only real currency that matters is the value we give to something."

I stopped, turned to face her. I think she had just made sense of my entire life. "I really want to kiss you right now."

She leaned into me and pressed her lips against mine. No passionate makeout session--just the sweetest lips that I could imagine pressed against mine.

She didn't linger; she just stood back up, looking deeply into my eyes, and we shared another silent moment at the far end of the pond.

"So, your life is like a rug and mine is like a broken plate. Is that a match?"

"Sometimes I think my life is more like a book," I offered. We began strolling again.

"Is every chapter a different woman that we never meet again?"

Busted. I should have seen that coming. "Lately, unfortunately, that seems to be the case."

"Why unfortunately? There were probably some sizzling sex scenes. I mean, a bachelorette party? You don't want more chapters like that?"

"They were fun while they lasted. I like to think my writing style is evolving."

"Am I in your book?"

"I think your character is making a very solid case for coming on strong at the end."

"I don't want to be just the next chapter in some long series."

"You won't be."

"How do I know that?"

"Because we'll write together."

She stopped, looking right through me. "How long am I in it for?"

"I hope a very long time."

"You're not going to give me some 'and they lived happily ever after' line?"

"No, I'm not. I don't know the ending."

She breathed in and took note of her surroundings. We were almost back at the entrance to the pond. "Do I get a steamy sex scene?"

"I wouldn't do anything that would ruin a perfect date."

Her face screwed up like someone trying to explain basic math to a grown man who just couldn't get it. "Phil, has it ever occurred to you that sex might actually enhance a relationship rather than prevent one from happening?"

Wow. If my life really was a book, every previous chapter had been covered in a fog that Beth was now lifting.

"I seem to remember hearing that somewhere."

Beth paused, holding my gaze, and I could see her thinking through an important issue.

"Well, I think it's time you put your tongue to work and enhanced our relationship," she smiled.

"I thought there was a 'pants stay on' rule. And, what? We're in a relationship?"

"Oh, fuck the rules. And yes, we're in a relationship. Now let's get back to your place before I combust."

"You know, you're a terrible driver."

"Is that a requirement?"

"No. But so am I." I hooked my arm around her, pulled her onto my lap, kissed her neck, put my chair in high gear, and sped us back to my place with Beth sitting sideways across my lap in order to balance us and holding onto my neck for dear life.

I did prove to be a worse driver than Beth, and we nearly tipped over several times and were honked at crossing the busy street. Still, we made it to my door. She hopped off, I punched in my security code knowing she'd see it, and we went inside.

"Lizzie tells me you have quite a setup."

I blushed. I couldn't bear to think of it as my fuck-table now. "Well, yeah. You know good access is important and can be challenging."

"Just show me."

I led her to the guest room. She stepped inside, glanced around, and assessed her surroundings.

"Well, despite what this may have been used for in the past, I have to say, it's pretty impressive."

"Voice control: lights to 50%. Stereo: play Tapestry by Carole King."

Beth gave a little laugh, then sat on the edge of the table. I rolled to her, and our lips met and parted. We kissed throughout the whole song, tenderly running our hands over each other, Beth occasionally asking if I could feel where she was touching me and adjusting so that I felt as much of her as possible.

She then stood, holding my gaze as she took off her blouse and jeans, as well as her socks. Then, unexpectedly, she removed my shirt from me as well, exposing my pale, underdeveloped chest. Then she undid her bra, revealing her waiting breasts, and took my hands to help her slide down her panties. She stood before me naked and in complete silence.

"You're beautiful," I said. She was. A blind man could have ascertained that. She was unashamed, even of the scar where she must have had her appendix removed. There were tan lines and skin pores and little skin imperfections, and I loved them all. She sat on the table and we kissed again, feeling for the first time my bare chest against another's.

I kissed her neck, her breasts, her belly button, her appendix scar, and she spread her legs for me. I admired the woman that I was falling for, and lowered my face between her legs. Softly, with sweet kisses and gentle strokes of my tongue, I expressed my feelings for her. I breathed in her scent, not as an aphrodisiac, but as a way to fully experience her. Then I made love to her with my mouth. There were no tricks, no rehearsed mechanics, perhaps not even any skill. I communicated how I felt for her in ways words could not express. Every delicate fold, drop of moisture, shiver, or spasm was our love language. My only goal was to please her, and I could tell that I was doing so.

She didn't scream, buck, or violently jerk. She didn't grab my head. She rubbed my back with her feet and moaned my name. As I felt her body tense, I increased my speed, wanting her to feel my own desire as hers overtook her. It did, and with a tense arch of her back and a loud, "Oh, Phil!" she eventually lay limp. I was in heaven. She fully felt every sensation, every ounce of my being expressed through my mouth, and she loved it.

She sat up and kissed me, holding my head and pressing her chest against mine.

"I think we make good co-authors," she said between kisses.

"I agree."

"I need some water. Can I bring you any?"

"No, thank you. Just help yourself."

She walked naked into my kitchen, and I turned to watch. Her bottom half was blocked from view by the counter, but I watched her pour her water.

Just then Dude entered unannounced, high as always and surrounded by smoke, his eyes landing directly on Beth's breasts.

"There is a shortage of perfect breasts in this world."

"Dude! Stop!"

Beth laughed hysterically. "It's okay, I love The Princess Bride. My all-time favorite. What's the line Westley says to Buttercup because he can't really say 'I love you'?"

"As you wish," said Dude and I in unison. And we all laughed while Dude turned away so Beth could get dressed.

"Want me to come back later?" asked Dude.

Beth and I exchanged glances. "Am I staying over?" asked Beth.

"I would like that."

"And can I observe Dude getting you in bed? You know, in case I ever..."

This was a big step for me. I had always said no in the past. Catheters, urine bags, malformed legs. "Yes. I'd like that."

And so I got in position. Dude gave me a huge smile, as if he were a proud father, and got the sling underneath me, allowing Beth to see the full routine. He hoisted me in the lift, landed me in bed, repositioned my catheter and hooked up a night bag, and purposefully left a little extra room on one side of me.

Beth watched it all, not flinching or looking away, just making mental notes.

"I will bid you two adieu," said Dude. "9:00 in the morning?"

I glanced at Beth. "Yes. We have a full day."

Dude exited.

Beth crawled in bed next to me, planting a kiss on my shoulder. "Can you operate your TV with your voice?"

"TV, play The Princess Bride."

And we cuddled until nearly asleep, and just before completely dozing off, Beth whispered in my ear, "As you wish."