Touches

TOUCHES She came upstairs one morning, clutching a pack of Marlboro Reds and her giant mug reeking of hazelnut coffee. Some fellow whose name escapes me had visited the night before and messed her up. He arrived at the hour of the ambivalent dude-11 p.m.-ish-and slunk out around four, by which time Mary was deeply disoriented and the cats were glaring at him. He was a married ambivalent dude, but lost control of his hands when he got near her. If you saw her you'd see why.

"I ought to beat you with a broom," I said, hugging her, as she burrowed her head into my neck.

"Sweetie, I am so punished," she said quietly. "Do you have any Advil?"

"What's that nonsense in your coffee?" I asked. "It smells horrible."

I was in my pajamas too. And my life was too much of a mess to even describe.

"So what'd you do? Tell me everything," I said, trying to sound stern.

"Well we didn't? Oh god, my head hurts. We just fooled around."

I lifted my eyebrows and said nothing while she poured milk into her cup and sat down on the sofa.

"Let me guess," I said. "He doesn't really know how he feels."

She was wearing a Knicks sweatshirt and a pair of pink flannel Mr. Bubble pajama pants. "You know how I feel about this stuff," I said, "but it's also very hard to be mad at you when you're wearing those pants." She laughed.

We've been friends since we were seven. I left the country at the age of 11 and then didn't see Mary for more than a decade. When I saw her again, I almost ducked behind a plant because her beauty was so intimidating.

Despite this beauty, Mary is exactly the same as when we were kids-pure love. A swirl of benevolent light. Always trusting, and always loving bravely, without caprice. When it came time to cry over a man, she cried with abandon, sometimes in my arms, and it seemed she was holding the very universe in place by crying.

"Okay, so, this fiddler- what's his name again?"

I didn't like anything about this guy, including his name, but I sat down and listened because she was really cut up. And that's when she said the thing that stuck in my mind.

The sun was streaming through the dusty windows, and the traffic outside was cacophonous. She lit a cigarette.

"Honey, you won't believe what he did," she said, rubbing her temples. She was right-I couldn't believe he did anything. He did something? What the hell did he do?

I assumed the worst immediately, and waited for her to continue. Something he did. Images of doom came immediately to mind: Handcuffs. Chains? Rubber chickens. Unnatural acts.

"What?" I yelled.

Tears in her eyes, she heaved a sigh.

"He pushed the hair out of my face. Very tenderly."

We both got quiet, and finally I said:

"He did?"