“What do you want, muchacho?”She’d seen me watching her. She’d tossed me an ambiguous look that had emboldened me.I moved a hand toward her and inadvertently, or at least without premeditation, touched her blouse. I pulled my hand back. She stopped and stared. I made a second attempt. The tips of my fingers landed around her waist, just a little below the navel. I was on fire. I stroked what was undoubtedly her flat stomach, longing to reach below her layers of clothes. She didn’t move. I was on the right track.My hand moved down, down but wandering without a compass. If her torso had been the Mississippi River, my hand would have been roaming around St. Louis instead of the Delta. She said nothing as she let me continue my silly caresses of her lower stomach. She seemed like she might let me go further.Finally, she reacted.“What do you have there?” she said defiantly, her eyes pinned to my tenting crotch.She opened my fly and reached in.“You know what to do with this?” she. She was my friend, my fiance', my lover...the mother of our only child. Our time together had been precious. Less than a month ago, she was buried in her final resting place; I was still very bitter. In my head, I screamed at the unfairness of it all...that such a beautiful person should be taken from me. I turned to face the wall...my back was facing the empty space in my bed, where my wife should have been. Instead of getting up to face the day, I wished myself to sleep. Sleep provided me with a means of escape...a refuge from the pain. Not even a month had passed...already, I knew what it felt like, to walk into an empty house. Little by little, my home began to feel like a prison...already, I was fighting the ghost of my memories.My daughter, or better yet, our daughter, had witnessed my wife's terrible disease to the bitter end. Three months prior, our daughter Amanda had walked down the aisle; she was a newlywed. It had been a blessing; my wife had been able to see her.
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