Melanne? Sleep, Sweet you?

I need some help. This is not a free ride. You want to read about what an asshole I have been, and the shambles that has become of my life, then there is a little required work. This is an early version of a work, third copy to be exact. Most stories take me about ten before I start to feel comfortable with them. I have also sent a copy of this to my mentor for feedback. She is smarter and more talented than you are, but everything helps. I am trying to show a progression here, but failing. I need suggestions. I also think the ending is a cop out. Help me. I will value any and all criticism. I don't want to just hear about the good points, need to hear what isn't working. If you have nothing but negativity, then fuck you. Go fuck yourself and write something of your own since you are so great. Post your worst, darkest moments for anyone to see. Pussy.

Yet to be titled

We are at Melanne's house. We are in bed. Melanne is on top of me. Her hands are on my stomach, and her head is thrown back, eyes closed, mouth closed, deep breaths through her nostrils. The ceiling fan above her looks like a flower rotating against the blackness of the universe, and Melanne looks like a meditating diva. I picture Shiva and Vishnu over her shoulders, Brahma supervising from the dark corner of the room. Mango trees. Lotuses. Elephants.

Melanne picks up the tempo. She gets a little carried away, twists and pops the wrong way, and I am in pain. My peaceful vision disappears. I close my eyes and the once friendly stars burst into supernovae. Melanne is instantly kissing and apologizing. Her mouth is everywhere it hurts. I open my eyes to find her looking up at me. “ I'm so sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?”

It hurt badly when it happened, but the pain went away quickly. I tell her I am okay.

She comes back to eye level. “You sure?” She says. “Poor baby.”

“I'm Sure.”

“Ready to finish?”

“More than anything,” I say.

We re-position for the finish, and when we're done we pant until we catch our breath.

“I've never heard the name Melanne before,” I say.

Melanne tells me she had to change her name in an attempt to throw off a jilted lover. “I was Melissa Anne,” she says. “So I changed it to Melanne and went back to my maiden name. Honestly, not the the most creative disguise, but I didn't think it was so serious. I just wanted him to leave me alone. It didn't work. The police ended up getting involved. By then I was used to Melanne.”

She tells me more about this guy. She started dating him shortly after her divorce. Shortly after that he started pushing her around, then hitting her, even when her son was around. She doesn't say his name, only he and him, and I don't ask. She tells me about the cops finding him hiding in her bushes with a butcher knife in his hand. “One of the neighbors saw him and called the cops,” she says. “I would have walked right up on him if they hadn't. The worst part is that the knife was from my kitchen, and to this day I have no idea how he got it.”

“What a dick,” I say. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.

“Seriously,” She says. “He made me wish I had stayed with my ex. I mean, if this was what being single was I didn't want it.”

I roll onto my side. Melanne curls into me, pets my head. “Sleep sweet you,” she says. She says this every time we sleep together and the nights we don't I imagine her whispering it to me.

Melanne and I work together. It took two months of watching and waiting and flirting for the ice to break. She would come in before her shift and order a grilled salmon salad, and I would give her the eight ounce dinner portion instead instead of the three ounce salad salmon. She says she has some type of deficiency and feels weak when she is low on protein. She says she can tell when her body is low on protein. I bit my tongue at first.

We were at work the night the ice finally broke. Melanne said something I can't remember, but I remember all the other details. She had a good table, a wedding rehearsal dinner—Gorgonzola crusted fillets, strip steaks topped with crispy-fried onion and garlic butter, lots of red wine. She was debating on whether or not to add the 15% gratuity or roll the dice and hope for a good tip. It could go either way. She peeked under the heat lamp. Her hair is that honey color that is red and brown and yellow all at the same time. She brushed it back from her eyes, stuck a stray lock into her polka-dotted headband. She said the thing I can't remember, and I said, “Melanne, you can get away with whatever you want. I have very little defense against beautiful women, and none at all against tall, beautiful women.”

I had been waiting weeks to use that line. I had practiced it.

“I'll have to remember that,” she said. She smiled a smile that had infinite realities behind it. Hidden dimensions waiting for exploration.

She left before me that night and I found her number on the employee phone list. I sent her a message telling her I missed her already. Awkward fifth grade shit. I put LOL, like it was a joke, but, really, I was pretty serious. She wrote back that she was just thinking we should hang out, and she knew that was a good idea because she only has good ideas. She wondered if tomorrow night was good for me. I said it was perfect.

Melanne still has her waitressing clothes on—white shirt, black skirt, black hose. She ditched the heels as soon as we got into the car, rubbed her feet, purred. She's on the other side of the counter, which serves as the dividing line between her kitchen and living room. I'm on the couch drinking a glass of wine. Melanne is on the tips of her toes, looking through cabinets, shuffling cans around, searching for coconut milk. She wants to make me chicken curry. She can't believe I haven't eaten since noon.

Melanne likes me more than she should. Sometimes I hate it for her, but I'm not so worried that I am going to discourage her.

“You don't need to do that, babe,” I say. “You just ran your butt off for eight hours. Come sit on the couch and relax.” I pat the cushion next to me, and invitation I know she won't accept.

Melanne is forty-one, five years older than I am, but has the body of a twenty year old athlete. She is six feet tall without the heels she always wears, and has the most incredible ass I have ever seen. She maneuvers around the small kitchen. She spins and twirls. Steam erupts. Stainless steel flashes. “Shush,” she says. “I can't believe you haven't eaten sine lunch. Seriously?” Seriously is one of her favorite words. “It's midnight.”

“I'm a cook. I'm surrounded by food all day. It's my fault if I don't eat Besides, I had a big lunch,” I say, a lawyer pleading a case he hopes to lose.

She turns, holding a couple cans with Asian writing on them and a jar of something red. “Spicy's good, yes?” She says.

“Spicy's good,” I say. “Yes.”

Melanne takes a break from the curry to refill her wine glass. “More wine?” She says, holding up the bottle.

“I can get it,” I say, but she is halfway across the living room before I can stand up. “You need to stop spoiling me,” I say, though I don't mean it. No one ever does.

“Somebody has to take care of you,” she says. “Honestly,” honestly is another of her favorite words, “you look a little skinny. If you're not going to eat on your own, I'll just have to force you.”

I am in my bosses office. It is a tiny, crowded room. He has a bookshelf filled with cookbooks and a small desk with a computer on it. Plaques, awards, and certifications are on every part of the wall that is not a window or a bookshelf. A few framed newspaper clippings. My boss sits in his chair-- high back, padding, real leather, appropriate for the position in life he has worked his way up to. He has on a crispy, white chef's coat and a pair of black and white, checked pants. Also appropriate. He doesn't smoke anymore, so he acquired every nervous tick known to man, except for chewing gum, which he says is disgusting. He cracks his knuckles, looks around, presses his pants legs flat. “So,” he says. “How's everything going?”

“Good,” I say, which isn't the biggest lie.

“Good. Good. How about Melanne? Everything alright there?”

“Pretty good. Her son seems to like me.”

“I like you two together. I think it's positive.”

“I like hanging out with her. I don't know where it's going, but I'm having a good time,” I say. I'm not sure where all this is heading, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with Melanne.

“The main thing is that you enjoy yourself. Worry about all that other stuff later.” He stops fidgeting. He is going to get to the point. “I just wanted to touch base and see how you are doing. We've been pretty busy lately. Still going to meetings?”

“Yeah. A few a week,” I say. A total lie.

“I don't have a whole lot of experience in that area, but I'm here if you need someone to talk to. You get to know a lot of people in these situations when you own a restaurant. Comes with the territory, I guess. Most people say the meetings help.”

It's good to have people who can relate to what you're going through,” I say. I don't want to be having this conversation. I stopped by work to grab a quick, free cup of coffee.

“What about wine?” He says. “You can still drink a glass of wine, can't you?”

“They say you're not supposed to, but I do.”

“I think you should still be able to have a little wine,” he says. “A glass or two as long as you stay away from the other stuff.”

“Too bad you don't go to meetings. You would be a great sponsor.”

The talk mellows. The words don't taste quite so bad. He tells me how proud he is f me, how I have my head on right. He says it has helped out having me back these past few months, how it is almost like I never left, how I am like a son to him. I sit there and nod and thank you until he has to go to a meeting with a salesman. I tell him I have a bill to go pay before my shift starts.

I missed two messages while I was talking with my boss. I text my daughter back, telling her I had to come into work early. I text Melanne back and tell her I am with my daughter and will see her at work.

It is not the sun through the window or Melanne's gentle snores that wake me. I have an inner alarm clock that goes off.

Melanne looks like she is laid out for a photo shoot. The sheet cuts her in half lengthwise, exposes one small breast and one long leg, leaving the other half of her body hidden. It is easy to see someone having a hard time letting go of her, easy to see her acquiring a stalker.

I slide off the bed and look around for my clothes. It's 6:52. I take a leak, stopping to take a look at myself in the mirror. Melanne is right, I am getting skinny.

I put my clothes on and lay down next to her. “Sweetie,” I say.

Melanne wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and rolls over.

“Sweetie,” I say again, adding a little nudge.

“Mmmmmm,” she says and stretches to the length of he bed. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

She reaches around my neck, pulls to me to her lips. “Come back to bed,” she says.

I tell her that I have an errand to run. I ask to borrow her car. I tell her I won't be gone long.

“Hurry back so I can make breakfast,” she says.

She is snoring again, before I can find the keys and walk out the door.

Melanne is upset. Extremely upset, judging by this note she left. She is working a double, and left early this morning, so I can't ask her. The note says that things have been getting progressively worse over the past two weeks. She thought it was something that would blow over, which is why she didn't stress it at first. I am not acting like the guy she came to care for. I don't act interested. I come over, have sex with her, and then go play poker on the computer, leaving her to fall asleep alone. She understands it can't be all snuggles and sunshine, there are times when people need their space. But every night? Seriously? She needs more. She needs affection. She feels like the fat kid who has a swimming pool and everyone wants to hang out with him until the summer is over.

I am confused. I wasn't trying t hurt her. And I think she used a swimming pool as a metaphor for her vagina.

I am also nervous. I can't help but think this is my last shot. Every relationship I have ever had with a woman has ended in a train wreck, and I doubt I will ever get another woman like Melanne if I mess this up. How many women make you chicken curry at midnight after working a busy shift and still have the energy to screw your brains out before going to sleep?

We're in Melanne's kitchen. Melanne is cooking pork chops with some kind of chutney on them. I am sitting on the counter drinking a glass of wine.

Melanne left the eye-opening note yesterday. By the time I got to work I was ready to kiss her feet and beg her forgiveness. I felt like shit for making her feel like the fat kid with the pool. Then I get to work and she has her best skirt on, the one that makes her ass look so good I feel like I got kick in the stomach every time she turns around. I was ready to surrender. She took it easy on me. I told her I was sorry and she meant so much to me and she shouldn't wait two weeks to tell me when I am making her upset. I asked her for another chance and she smiled and said, “One more.” She had to pick her son up from her ex's, so she gave me a ride home from work. We pulled into the parking lot of my building and sat in her car. We made out for a few minutes and agreed tonight would be a fresh start.

“Is that your son?” There is a picture of a toddler carrying an umbrella, wearing nothing but a pair of bright-yellow, rubber boots, stuck to the fridge.

“Isn't he adorable?” She says.

“Don't you think it's time to put that picture up? Poor kid.”

“He's my baby.”

“He's ten, for Christ's sake.”

“He wanted to play in the rain, so I let him. And then I took a picture. I tell him I'm going to show it to all his girlfriends.”

“He won't have any if you keep doing shit like that,” I say.

She peels the picture from the front of the freezer. She walks over, pushes my legs apart, and nuzzles her way into me. “Look at my sweet baby,” she says.

“What are you going to do when he's too old to be your baby?”

“Have another one,” she says. I get the idea she is watching for my reaction. “Don't worry. I'm not pregnant.”

“If you ever have a son with me you're going to have to put things like that away before he is old enough to be traumatized by them,” I say.

Melanne sticks the picture back to the fridge. She stops to kiss me on her way back to the stove.

I call him three times, but he doesn't answer. I let it ring until it goes to voice mail. The third time I leave a somewhat rude message, but not so rude that he won't answer at all. Then I stop by the coffee shop for a go cup, and drive to the park t sit on a bench and wait.

Little kids chase each other up and down the slides and across the bridge of the wooden, castle looking thing. They play in the sand. The sun gets cranking and sweatshirts change to tee shirts. A boy pushes a girl down and she starts to cry and mothers come running.

I try his number again. This time he answers. “Sorry,” he says. “I over slept.”

“It's okay,” I say. I don't want to say this, but I don't want to piss him off.

He asks me where I am, and I tell him. “Meet me at the gas station in ten minutes,” he says.

I hang up and check the clock on my phone. It's quarter to eight. The gas station is five minutes away. If I leave by eight I should get there the same time as him. You can usually count on double the time quoted to you in these situations.

By 7:50 I my anxiety gets the better of me and I walk to the car.

I sit in front of the gas station for twenty minutes. I start to worry the cashier is going to think I'm staking the place out and call the police.

He shows up at quarter after eight and all is forgiven.

We are at work. It's between lunch and dinner, and the dinning room is empty of customers. Melanne is setting silverware wrapped in cloth napkins in front of each chair and checking the levels of the salt and pepper shakers. She is not happy with the conversation we are having, but is being surprisingly calm and reasonable. “I knew something was up, the way you were acting,” she says.

“I'm sorry. I just didn't want to keep it from you,” I say, though that is exactly what I have been doing.

Melanne unscrews a salt shaker and inserts a funnel into it.

“I didn't want to lie to you,” I say.

She the salt and the tray of silverware rolls and moves to the next table. “You were doing so good,” she says. “What happened?”

“I ran into an old friend and he gave me some pills,” I say. I have led her to believe I have been swallowing Oxycontin pills instead of shooting heroin, because it is an easier scenario for the average person to stomach, even if there isn't much of a difference.

“So what do you do now?” She says.

“Kill myself.”

“Seriously,” she says. “What do we do? I want to help, but you're the expert here. I'm a bit lost.”

I tell her that it hasn't been too long. I tell her I can get some pills and wean myself down. It sounds so convincing that I almost believe it myself.

“Okay. So what can I do? You need money?”

“A little.”

“How much is a little?”

“Forty dollars.”

“I probably shouldn't say this,” she says. “But I was expecting something worse.”

Melanne and I are in bed. She is curled up next to me. Her naked body presses against mine. It is a wonderful feeling. Five minutes ago she said, “Sleep sweet you,” and then she closed her eyes.

Nothing has changed. After work tonight, we drove back to Melanne's house, drank some wine, Melanne cooked me dinner, and I went to the bathroom to shoot the last of my dope. Then we took a shower, had sex, and went to bed. She believes I have been clean for almost a week.

I want to tell her, and I know I should. I should tell to not be so caring, to not cook for me, to not talk about having children with me. I should tell her there are worse things a guy can do than hide in your bushes with a knife.