Page 22 of Retrofit Analysis

“We need to go get you lingerie,” Lisa says, matter of factly. “I’m taking Jake overnight next weekend and you’re wearing black lace panties and doing all kinds of things in and out of them.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to the mall again,” I tell her, and then wonder if I can maybe order a few things online. It can’t hurt to try, right?

“Also? Don’t be upset because I didn’t use names, although I’m sure he knew who I was talking about. Anyway! I was talking to Ashish about sex.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“No, I mean I was talking to him about ladies having sex after menopause. Which gave him quite a start, because I’m not quite at that phase yet.”

“Quit rubbing it in how young you are.”

“I have an old soul,” she says. It’s true. I’ve never felt like she was an entire decade younger than me when we have so much in common otherwise. “So. Ashish says the physical therapists at work talk about this all the time. They actually see a ton of women for pelvic floor therapy.”

I sit back up in bed. “You know I had that for a long time after my hysterectomy. After Jake’s birth.” It was the only contact another human made with my nether regions since his conception.

“I remember.” She makes a sound of compassion. “And anyway apparently women of a certain age who have gone a long time without visiting pound-town get, like, thin vagina walls.”

“Thin walls?” It’s hard for me to quantify if this should feel as scary as it sounds.

“Thin walls. Basically, your pussy is like a muscle? And you need to work up to inviting his sausage into your bun.”

I snort-cough. She’s so crass when her kids aren’t around. I love how open she is, how open I feel when I’m around that freedom of expression. “Oh my god, Lisa. You’re killing me.”

“I’m serious. This is a real thing. You should also call your OB because there’s a cream you can use to help things along.”

I groan. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to another human being face-to-face about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. But then I remember the feel of Kellen’s erection near my fingertips when I shoved the burrito money in his pants pocket. I remember the hard length of his body pressed against me on my doorstep after our date.

I definitely want to explore this type of behavior with Kellen, and it sounds like I need to do some homework to get my body ready for that. I look down at my secret ivy tattoo and remember: I persevere.

I hang up with Lisa and promise to call my doctor about the cream. But first I grab my laptop and order some lingerie online. Just a few things. Just a few dozen pairs of lace panties in different styles because I have no idea what will feel comfortable or what Kellen will like.

Looking around, as if someone could see what I’m doing, I pull up the search engine and start looking into the estrogen cream Lisa mentioned. The results make me cringe, referring to a woman’s “intimate area” and “the change of life.” But the overall message is clear: I need to approach this slowly and use some sort of product or else my best case scenario is a raging yeast infection.

“Well that’s a sexy conversation to have,” I mutter, trying to imagine sitting Kellen down and explaining that, due to my old crone situation, my honey pot has literally dried up and might rip if we try anything physical too soon.

I toss the laptop across the bed, wondering what comes next. I felt how eagerly he was touching me tonight, how he was yearning for more. How can I tell him we need to go slow? I take a deep breath and try to remember that it’s been awhile for him, too. “He hasn’t been with anyone since his wife,” I remind myself. “This is new for him, too.”

I toss and turn for awhile, fretting. I can’t stop my thoughts from churning out mean ideas. Like I brought this all on myself by not doing something about my sex life a decade a go. My cruel inner voice tells me I drove Todd into the arms of all those women he apparently was sleeping with for years. And then my rational mind sets in again and I remember how hard I was focused on other things, how many other amazing things I did, like helping Jake navigate a world that’s not quite ready for him, or forging this fantastic friendship with Lisa.

“You got out when you were able,” I mumble, quoting the therapist I visited when I was starting the divorce proceedings with Todd. “I’m like the explorer moon,” I repeat and touch the healed tattoo. In the grand scheme of things, telling a man we need to go slow and use lube shouldn’t be nearly as hard as, say, getting an autistic child to agree to his flu shot.

So why does this feel so much scarier?

Eighteen

Kellen

In the morning, I want to call Elizabeth. I want to walk over to her house and kiss her again, to see if last night was a fluke or if I really am feeling this alive. I wake up, peel off my night splint, cursing the ligaments in my old foot, and decide there’s no reason to sit alone in my house when she’s right there, across the street, likely drinking coffee while her son plays more video games.

I brew an extra cup and head across the street carrying two steaming mugs, tapping on the glass of her storm door carefully so I don’t spill. This is unlike me, an uncalculated, unplanned move. What if she’s not up yet. What if she is in her robe. A million terrifying thoughts circulate as I wait on the porch until I hear the snick of the deadbolt being opened.

I grit my teeth until I see her face light up. “Kellen,” she whispers. She opens the door further. “Jake’s still in bed.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that,” I admit, staring down at the coffee. “I just…would you want to drink a cup of coffee with me?”

She sets a mug of coffee down on the table inside the door. Of course she had already made her own. I’m feeling ashamed of my rash choices, questioning my sanity, but she tugs my elbow. “I’d love that. Mine’s gone cold, anyway,” she says, taking one of the mugs from me. We make our way to the dining room, her thumping in the walking cast and me stepping gingerly on the gel inserts I’ve had to put in all my shoes.

I hadn’t considered my day past this moment, apart from kissing her again, so I sip my drink nervously, waiting to see if she’ll say something. Her cheeks bloom with a beautiful pink, and I wonder if it’s the heat radiating from the drink or something more. “I had a really nice time last night, Kellen,” she says.