I'm Not Sam

She squints at me. “You’ve got that look, Patrick.”

“Do I?”

“You do. And what I’ve got to do is finish my breakfast and pee, shower and drive forty-five minutes to Tulsa so I can autopsy Stephen Bachmann and decide whether it was pills, scotch, plain old Dutch stupidity or any combination of the three that put him in our drawer. I don’t have time for you.”

“Awww….”

“Don’t, ‘Awww…,’ me, mister.”

“Awww…”

“How’s Samantha coming?”

“She’s about to blow her brains out with a shotgun at the behest of her tormenters. By tomorrow I should have her resurrected. Tomorrow or Saturday.”

She takes a long, man-sized swig of coffee, gulps it down and smiles.

“I’m still not sure whether to be flattered or distrustful of the fact that she’s named after me. You splatter her brains all over the wall for godsakes.”

“Yes, but then she comes back. And I would never splatter you.”

I love it when she arches her right eyebrow that way. She gets up and steps over, leans over and kisses me. It lingers.

After all these years, it lingers.

She breaks it off.

“I know, I know,” I tell her. “Shower, pee, brush your teeth and off to your Dutchman. You want company? In the shower I mean. Not the Dutchman.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe tonight, after work. I’ll reek as usual. What are we doing for dinner?”

“Leftover teriyaki-beef bourguignon. From night before last. You liked it.”

“It was yummy,” she says and disappears around the corner into the bedroom.

I hear her Honda Accord pull out of the driveway a half hour later and think how lucky I am. I’m doing what I want to do, drawing my graphic novels — and making a pretty decent living at it. I’ve got a home I love, a well- loved old cat, and this forensic pathologist person who’s crazy enough to love me.

I’d say I go to work but that would be a lie. I go play.

Play goes well.

When I hear the Honda pull back in again, the bloodsplatter pattern on the wall behind Samantha’s head is complete. I’ll have Sam check it for accuracy but I’ve learned a lot from her already and I think I’ve got it right.

Splash page indeed.

It’s nearly seven o’clock, getting on to dusk, her normal arrival time. I’ve fed the cat and the bourguignon is simmering on low. The garlic bread’s buttered and seasoned and awaiting the caress of the broiler. All I’ve got to do is boil the broad-noodles, pour the wine and dinner’s ready.

I cover the work, get up and stretch and pad barefoot into the living room just as she’s coming through the front door. I realize I haven’t put on a pair of shoes all day. One of the perks of the game.

I walk over and hug her and plant one on her cheek. She really doesn’t reek. She’s already showered at work. She always does. But sometimes, with the really bad ones, it’s a three-or-four-shower evening. Tonight, just a little tang of something in her hair. Just enough to let me wrinkle my nose at her.

“I know,” she says. “It wasn’t the Dutchman.”

“No? What did the guy in?”

“Booze, a Pontiac and an obstinate oak tree. He had a nice dinner before he died, though. Sauerbraten, red cabbage, potato pancakes and about a pint of vanilla raspberry-twirl ice cream. But the scent you detect belongs to somebody else.”

“Who?”

“Gentleman named Jennings. Turkey-farmer.”

“Ah, that lovely ammonia smell.”

“Right. He had all this turkey-shit piled up next to his barn. Looks like he was about to spread it out over his field when he had a heart attack instead. Fell right into the stuff. He was covered with it. We figure he was breathing in it for a good half-hour before he died too. The inside of him almost smelled worse than the outside. Did you say something about a shower this morning?”

“I did.”

“If you wash my hair you’re on.”

“I love to wash your hair.”

“You hungry yet?”

“Not really.”

“Turn off the stove.”

She turns the shower on, letting it warm up and I watch her undress. As always she’s businesslike about it but to me she’s a Vegas stripper. At thirty-eight she looks twenty-eight, everything tight, the bones delicate. We’ve both felt sad from time to time that she’s infertile, that we won’t be having any children. Me a bit more than her I think — I’ve got a brother for what he’s worth and a father and mother while she’s an only and both her parents are dead. So maybe I’m more used to family. But I shudder to think how far south her body might have gone were that not the case. It’s shallow of me I guess but as she is right now, she’s a joy to behold.

She throws the curtain and steps into the tub into the spray of water and I’m right behind her, watching her nipples pucker, watching her glisten. She turns toward me and shuts her eyes. Her long hair’s plastered to her head. I reach for the Aussie Mega and lather her up.

She smiles and makes these little mmmmm sounds as my fingers dig in for a good, firm, gentle massage. Little lava-eddies of shampoo roll over her collarbone, over her breasts and down to her navel.

“I think I could go to sleep like this,” she says.

“Standing up?”

“Cows do it.”

“You are no cow.”

She smiles and tilts her head back to rinse, straightens up and wipes the water from her eyes. Then looks down at me.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, really? Already?”

“I guess so. Turn around, I’ll do your back.”

She does. I wash her back, her ass, her breasts, her stomach. She raises her arms and I wash her armpits, her arms, then her back and ass again, into the crack of her ass, into her cunt. She soaps her own hand and reaches down to me.

She’s got my cock in her hand stroking the shaft and rolling around the glans and my fingers are moving inside her, my other hand clutching her breast and we’re both of us making sounds now. She’s gone baritone.

I know exactly how to touch her. I know exactly what she likes.

And god knows she knows me. What she doesn’t know is that my legs are giving out and I’m coming all over her ass.

“Okay, enough!” I tell her. She gives me this look over her shoulder. “For me I mean.”

“Thank god,” she says. And she comes too, for the first time that night.

The second time she comes we’ve already closed my own deal and I’ve got three fingers inside her. There’s debate about whether the g-spot really exists but she’s living proof there’s something there. She likes this hard, not smooth and easy like in the shower so that’s what I’m giving her. She’s starting to buck and groan and I’m grinning down at her like I’m listening to my favorite rock ’n roll song of all time.

Then she says those magic words.