Ah, Melissa. That’s a name that brings back fond memories of a time of passion and illicit romance.
Even now, I can taste the hint of cinnamon on her lips and sense the subtle fragrance of an obscure
flower that was the essence of the perfume she wore.
Melissa and her husband, a stoic and foolish man whose unpronounceable name I have chosen to
forget, lived in the same apartment complex as I. Even so, she might never have come to my
attention if not for the fact that we did our laundry at the same time of the morning.
For many weeks we would pass by one another, nodding and wearing that friendly smile that one
puts on around a stranger. I had, of course, noticed that she was an attractive woman. Being the man
that I am, I never failed to let my eye be turned by a pretty face. Her petite figure and the delightfully
graceful bounce in her step were a joy to behold. Having made note of her wedding ring though, I
more or less considered her out of bounds as a possible playmate.
Truthfully, that was more because of the actual proximity of her husband rather than any real
personal ethic against adultery. To be completely honest, had I met her at a place farther from home,
I might not have been quite so reluctant to become something more than just ‘that guy she met down
at the laundry.’
Melissa, as I said, was a very attractive woman. She was about thirty as I recall, a bit younger than I
was at the time. She was small, standing no more than five feet two inches tall and if she weighed
one hundred and ten pounds I would have been surprised. Her beautifully thick, raven hair cascaded
down over her shoulders and her rich and smooth skin was a full shade darker than a deep tan would
have been on an Anglo.
Her body was athletic and toned, and her breasts appeared firm under the tight fitting tops she
preferred. Melissa was gifted with strong facial features that might have put some men off, but I am
not most men. To me, her exotic looks were as stunningly beautiful as they were difficult to place. It
was only later that I learned she was of Lebanese descent.
As with any new friendship, there came the day when those impersonal smiles became something
more. On that day, I was sitting in the laundry, reading ‘Conspiracy in Death’ by J.D. Robb, and yes I
am aware that it’s a pseudonym of Nora Roberts. Hell, everyone knows that, don’t they?
I was about twenty minutes into my first load when Melissa came in with her daily basket. We gave
each other that friendly, plastic smile, and then she saw my book.
“Oh my gosh, I love that series! I just finished ‘Holiday In Death’ last week! You’ve got to let me
borrow it when you’re finished!”
She was actually bubbling with glee over it and I couldn’t help but laugh at her excitement. I mean,
the stories are pretty good, but I never imagined I’d meet anyone who would actually become giddy
over the prospect of yet another hastily written drama featuring the hard but sexy Eve Dallas and her
idolizing sidekick Delia Peabody. Well, anyone but me anyway, I’ve read most of them.
“Sure, it would be my pleasure,” I responded as I flipped through the remaining pages. “‘Tell you
what, I’m about halfway through it now. By tomorrow I should be done. Why don’t I bring it by your
apartment? You can make me a cup of coffee.”
Her brow furrowed slightly at my offer and for a brief moment, the enchanting sparkle in her eye
seemed to dim. It lasted but a single heartbeat, but in that time I could see the hesitation and
uncertainty she felt at my perhaps overly zealous attempt to be a gentleman. “Hmm, I would like to, I
really would, but my husband might not understand…”
Realizing that I had overstepped her boundaries, I raised my hand, smiling in friendly defeat. “I
understand completely,” I replied, hoping I could save the moment from becoming even more
awkward than it already was. I closed the book in surrender and held it out to her. “Why don’t you just
take it now? I’ve got a copy of ‘Special Delivery’ I’ve been looking forward to. I can wait to finish
‘Conspiracy’ until you are done.”
Melissa smiled brightly and laughed as she took the book from my hand. “Seriously? You read
Danielle Steel? You’ve got to be kidding!”
The previous awkwardness gone, I grinned and softly laughed. “Does that really surprise you? She
really does write some very steamy prose, you know.”
Melissa actually blushed slightly and said “I know,” while giggling in agreement. Then her smile
widened as she went on. “It’s a good thing my husband doesn’t. If he did, he’d never let me read
them! He thinks they’re just sappy romance novels. He’d be absolutely scandalized if he knew what
those books were really like!” Her laughter was as pleasantly lyrical as it was flirtatious and I couldn’t
resist laughing with her.
“Scandalized? Really?” I replied, raising my eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s a shame. It sounds
to me like the poor guy doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.” I smiled playfully as she unraveled
my thinly veiled double entendre and after the briefest of moments her eyes lit up again. When she
tried to suppress her growing smile by biting her lower lip, I was struck by how incredibly cute she
was.
Over the next few months, Melissa and I struck up a friendship that I would never have believed
possible before that day. We shared our books and our love of the written word in a way that bound
us together. Before the summer ended, we had become better friends than I would have thought
possible without the uncomfortable presence of overt sexual attraction encroaching into our
relationship.
I say overt because sex was an almost ever present part of our conversation. This we hid behind the
thin veil of fictions that were the romance novels we shared. Through them, we could share our more
illicit thoughts and desires without having to admit openly that we were actually desiring each other.
Over time, I found myself craving her company and the steamy if innocent dialogues I shared with
her.
As the weather cooled and the winters rains began to make the complex’s sparse laundry less than
comfortable, moving our wash day get-together to the small kitchenette in my apartment seemed as
sensible to me as it was unthreatening to her. It was at that time I learned of her taste for cinnamon in
her coffee and its acridly sweet scent still reminds me of her to this day.
By January, our comfort and trust had grown to the point where we were sharing more than the
passing erotic fantasies found in the shallow pages of dime store novels. Melissa confided in me her
deeper desires and I, in turn, revealed my own sordid history of past sexual dalliances. Even then, I
could not say there was a promise of anything between us more than the satisfying honesty of having
someone with whom we could share such intimate thoughts. Deep in my heart though I could no
longer deny how much I had come to want her.
From the beginning, it was painfully obvious that Melissa was happy in her marriage and I came to
silently despair that our conversations would remain nothing more than pure fantasy. The truth of it
haunted me, because while it was equally obvious that as gentle a lover her husband was, there was
a fire within her that he could not begin to comprehend. It was there though, hot and alive in her
breast, and every time she spoke of raw passion I could see that longing, that emptiness, slowly
eating away at her.
It was a time that was as wonderful for me as it was frustrating. I thought of her constantly, not out of
love because I didn’t feel that for her. Nor, I was certain, did she feel it for me. No, it was the
chemistry we shared to which I was addicted. For three wonderful days each week I would sit across
my table from her, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette while I lost myself in my never-to-befulfilled
desire for a happily married woman. It was as glorious as it was maddening.
It was on a cold but sunny February morning that everything changed. I could see from the moment
she appeared that there was something on her mind. The normally breezy ease she shared with me
had been replaced by an anxiety that I couldn’t quite explain. I knew something was off, and it was
with a sense of foreboding that I poured that first cup of coffee.
Watching silently as she swirled her cinnamon stick into the steaming cup, I finally built up the nerve
to take her hand in mine. “Melissa, is there something wrong? If there is, you know you can tell me.
I’m your friend and if there’s anything I can do…”
Melissa smiled sadly and shook her head. “No David, I’m sorry but there’s nothing you can do. My
husband and I are moving away at the end of the month. I… I should have told you sooner, but I just
couldn’t bring myself to say it until I was sure.”
“Moving? Oh gosh, I’m really sorry to hear that.” I sat back in my chair and brushed my dark hair
back over my head, trying hard to keep my thoughts focused on her, and not to allow the moment to
become about my own loss.
Finally, I swallowed my shock along with my pride, and managed to say something that wouldn’t
immediately come off as self serving. “Well, I can’t say I blame you for wanting to get out of this
dump. So, what happened? Where are you moving to?”
Melissa smiled sadly. “Colorado. My husband got a promotion at his firm, but it means moving to the
Denver office.”
What could I do? I just sat there, gripping my cup as I struggled to contain my sadness. Eventually I
forced a smile that must have appeared as sad as the one she wore. “I suppose congratulations are
in order, Melissa. I’m really happy for you both. Although, I really am going to miss our mornings.”
The words felt hollow and lame even as I spoke them. Sitting there and telling her I how happy I was
that things were going so well for them may have been the right thing to do, but deep inside my heart,
I felt my dislike for her husband turn into a seething hatred. It was a shallow and selfish reaction but I
felt it nonetheless.
What hurt even more was seeing how sorry she was to have to tell me. That thought, the realization
that she cared so much for our friendship, touched me deeply. I knew I should have been honored by
her feelings but they only served to make the loss of her friendship that much harder to take.
Oh, I tried to deny it, and what followed was an optimistic flurry of attempts to show her how gallantly
I could support their decision. All the while though, and through my crocodile smile, I cursed the fate
that had stolen her from my life.
Our time together that morning was short and before long Melissa made her goodbye, promising she
would drop by again in a few days. Before she left, she pulled a thick and tattered book from her
purse and almost reluctantly set it on the table. “This is my favorite book David. You should read it
right away. It’s… well, you’ll see.”
Watching her walk out the door that morning left me feeling empty and alone. When the door closed
and silence filled the room, I gazed down at the dog-eared and well read copy of ‘Sweet Savage
Love’ she’d left behind.
That night I poured my customary glass of brandy and sat in my chair as I studied the worn cover of
the book. It was a typical Harlequin romance, or so it seemed. It was written by Rosemary Rodgers
back in the 1970’s and honestly, I didn’t expect much from it. Oh, how wrong I was.
It was the story of a young woman from the American Antebellum South named Virginia Brandon
who, after being raised in Paris, was summoned home during the Civil War by her father. Once there,
she quickly found herself in the forced company of a half-breed gunfighter and army spy by the name
of Steve Morgan.
Being part Native American myself, I couldn’t help but feel an immediate connection with this man
and soon began to find I was being drawn deeply into the story. That however, was only the
beginning of what turned out to be an even larger surprise.
With but a kiss at first, and then later in explicit and erotic detail, he seduced and took the young
virgin in a way that was almost as forceful as it was passionate. In the beginning he had no love for
her, and she less for him, but he found her impossible to resist, and she had no will to resist him at
all.
On and on through the first half of the book, the story unfolded of a strong man who took in graphic
detail what he wanted and a young woman who failed in her feeble attempts to resist him.
Late into the night I poured over the pages and I could not help but wonder why Melissa would have
given me this book of all things as our last story to share. As dawn rose, I fell asleep, wondering what
message she was trying to send. Despite the obvious answer, I couldn’t quite believe she intended
me to take it as the hint it so clearly seemed to be.
The next few days darkened as a storm moved in and with it so too did my thoughts.