Post-Mortem

“You look like shit. Put on your coat; we’re getting your hair cut.”

May dropped her suitcases and opened a shopping bag. “Here, put this on,” she said, tossing me a blue fleece. I slipped it over my head.

She looked me over, and then ripped the tag off the fleece. “That blue is perfect for your eyes. And look, only ten dollars on sale! Am I good or what?”

It’s been a month or so since May broke up with me via instant message, and over two months since we have seen one another.

She is heading to California soon to begin her new life. She had left a few loose ends in New York—including me—so we agreed to spend a couple of days together.

Although we didn’t say as much, it was clear that we wanted to be sure there were no bad feelings between us once a continent divided us. The relationship we had was over. But it had been a pretty good thing for both of us, and so it didn’t make sense to end it on a sour note.

So for a couple of days, I submitted to the things that had been best about it.

When May first came back into my life, so many years after we were nodding acquaintances in college, I was one month out of my marriage. After establishing that the sex was good—and it was very good—she set to the next task; queer eying me.

May’s a total fag hag, and about the closest you will get to a gay man and still have Tampex in your medicine cabinet.

She went through my closet and threw out anything flannel or ill fitting. I was not allowed to keep socks with holes in them. My bathroom was stocked with moisturizers, conditioners and liquid soaps. I was given a special device to scrub my feet. I had my first manicures and pedicures.

“I’m sure someone else will benefit from all I am doing,” she would fret as she plucked my nose hairs. “I just hope he appreciates it.”

She had shopping to do for the Chinese New Year—her family is Chinese by way of Thailand—so we spent a lot of time in Chinatown, eating Dim Sum, buying fresh seafood, looking for cheap knick knacks.

We did domestic things around my apartment. She installed a dimmer switch in my dining area. I found wood to shore up the bed that had been broken by the recent all male gangbang.

We were both on best behavior, so this would be a good visit, without drama.

This meant that I put aside my objections to a few things.

When we watched Shaun of the Dead and she preferred looking at me to looking at the movie—for about an hour, she just looked at me—I did not object.

When she woke me at four in the morning for sex, I fucked her.

When she woke me again at seven, I fucked her again.

At nine, once again.

When we first started seeing one another, I thought it was pretty hot that she wanted sex all night.

Then, it was like all night, every time.

I’ve got kids! I want to sleep in on weekends! So I put a stop to it. The rule was: no sex until I wake up.

This time, I let her have her way.

The first time we had sex on this visit, tears welled to her eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said.

“I know,” I smiled, wiping away a tear. “It’s been a long time.” I pretended to believe she was sad about the time we had been apart, rather than about our future apart.

We parted with vague assurances that we would see each other when we could after she moved.