Sally

by Bill Tope

Sally sat before the flickering television in the living room of her small apartment, breathlessly watching the Reverend Mudge rhapsodize about God’s “incredible love and care for us. He is,” said the Reverend, “not distant or disconnected; instead, He is intimately aware of our joys, sorrows and…” Sally blinked at the screen, totally absorbed.

Sally’s cell phone buzzed like an angry hornet. As she descended from the episcopal cloud she’d been on, she checked the caller ID and reached for the instrument. Her mouth fell open. It was the Reverend! Or at least one of God’s children working the telephones at the Kingdom of God’s Archive of Blessedness.

“Yes, yes,” said Sally. “Hello!”

The caller identified herself as Sister Beth, one of God’s children, and said she was returning Sally’s call. The 18-year-old recalled making the call nearly an hour ago, when the TV program began.

“Thank you for getting back to me, Sister,” said Sally. All the worshipers at the Archive of Blessedness, Reverend Mudge’s church, called one another Brother or Sister. The Sister asked Sally how she could help her.

“Ooh,” said Sally, now on a mission from God, “I want to make my monthly donation to the Tabernacle of Adoration,” which was what the Reverend Mudge called his holy TV order.

After Sally had pledged her support, recited her credit card number and made it official, she felt a great rush of relief, a sort of splendid spiritual release.

“Wouldn’t you like to make your donation automatic each month?” asked the Sister kindly. It was so nice of Sister Beth to think of her, thought Sally, and it made perfect sense, of course, but she demurred.

“I’m sorry, Sister,” apologized Sally, “but I never know, from one month to the next, if I’ll have the money available to contribute.”

The Sister suggested that, by making her donation automatically at the beginning of each month, Sally could then adjust her spending habits to comport with that expenditure.

“I’m sorry, Sister,” Sally apologized again, “but I’m a rotten bookkeeper. I might wind up not having enough for my medicine.”

Sister asked if Sally couldn’t forgo her medicine for just a few days. What kind of medicine did Sally take? she wanted to know.

Sally told her she took four daily injections of insulin.

Well, said Sister, couldn’t she get by just as well by injecting only three times per day? After all, look at all that Jesus went through on his way to the cross…

In the end, Sally had to agree that after what Jesus went through, her missing one shot per day was not too much to ask. She agreed to the automatic donation.

Sally checked the time on her cell: 10am. That meant it was time for the television highlight of Sally’s Sunday: “The Theological Determinist.” Yum, she thought, switching channels to the CBS affiliate.

“All events that happen,” intoned Reverend White gravely, “are pre-ordained to happen by God or are destined to occur given God’s omniscience and omnipotence.” After a few minutes, the program went to commercial for a special Bible of some sort. Sally fidgeted edgily, waiting for her program to return. She already had two of the Bibles. The white-haired man popped back on and the Reverend continued.

“We call this theological determinism. It is incompatible with metaphysical libertarian free will,” he went on distastefully.

“Some heathens have likened this to theological fatalism, but this is not correct,” hissed White. “God has absolute control over a person’s actions.” On screen, Mudge stalked behind the dais.

“Desiderius Erasmus in ‘Discourses on the Freedom of the Will’ said that our Holy Father created human beings with so-called free will. He said this in the face of Adam and Eve’s ignominious fall in the Garden of Eden. And Martin Luther, conversely, attacked this idea in ‘On the Bondage of the Will.’ He recognised that the issue of autonomy lay at the heart of religious dissension. He depicted an image of humanity manipulated through sin. Humans, for Luther, know what is morally right but are unable to attain it. He asserted that humans thus must give up aspiring to do good in their fallen state and by their own power, as only by this could salvation be formed. This is reflected in the Reformation doctrine of Sola Fide, which asserts that salvation is by faith alone and not achieved by meritorious good works. Erasmus and Luthor,” said Reverend White cuttingly, “are now roasting on a spit in hell!” Sally’s eyes grew wide as she sat hypnotized by the Reverend’s weighty words.

“The truth,” said White, “is that God decrees the course that all actions take and ensures that everything goes that way. To put it in the parlance of films, God is the all-powerful movie director who writes the script and makes everything follow suit!” The Reverend went on to ask for a “Love Offering” of the “real believers.”

Apropos of the film analogy, Sally sat cross-legged before the television, nibbling on popcorn. Finally the program drew to a close, signaling the end of Sunday morning religious programming. Sally glanced at her phone: noon! She had dedicated the past six hours of her life to inculcation. It mattered little that some of the purveyors of liturgical boilerplate differed wildly on what they espoused; Sally believed implicitly in all of them, at least when she was in the moment.

Now Sally was hungry, so she pushed to her feet and made a beeline for the tiny kitchen. Opening the fridge door, she paused. Oops! she thought. I have to keep kosher. The Rabbi Meryl Smith had spoken at length about obeying the dietary restrictions of her faith, at least during religious holidays. Sally consulted her day planner: No, she thought, it was more severe than just keeping kosher.

Dec. 20–today–was Asara B’Tevet, and Sally had to fast from sunup to sundown, she remembered, regretting the popcorn. Hmm, she wondered, did that include Tootsie Roll Pops? She was dying for one. Sally wasn’t certain, but observing Judaism, borrowed two months ago as her for-the-moment faith of choice, was becoming problematic. With a frown, she abandoned the Jewish faith instantly, unwrapped an orange Tootsie Roll Pop and shoved it in her mouth.

She had found a new seasonal experience that she enjoyed: Kwanzaa. Emory, a young man whom she had met in celebration of the Kwanzaa principle of Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics), was coaching her on how to build and maintain African American diaspora stores, shops, and other businesses so that her new people and she could profit from them together. It mattered not at all that Sally was white as a sack of bleached flour; Emory told Sally he was in love with her. Love!

Shopping two days ago with Emory, Sally had purchased her own candle holder with seven candles, called a kinara. She admired it from across her small kitchen. Forgetting about food for the moment, Sally dedicated herself to hand-sewing a simple garment, a boubou, done up in the beautiful colors of the African Pan National Flag. There was a Kwanzaa parade in the city this afternoon, where Sally would meet up with Emory and march. Then, in further celebration of the holiday, they would feast on red beans and rice and chicken and sausage gumbo. She hoped she’d have enough money, after making the donation to the Tabernacle.

_____

As Sally and Emory set out along the parade route, they came upon a youmg, striking, dark-complected girl, whom Emory paused to talk to. Emory introduced her to Sally as Letitia.

“Hi,” said Sally, but the other girl said nothing, just stared sulkily at her. Sally and Emory soon moved on, Letitia now forgotten.

Walking hand in hand through the streets with her new boyfriend–he was her boyfriend now, right?–Sally’s afternoon was a collage of splender. Every color seemed brighter, every aroma more pungent, every touch more arousing. Sally gazed adoringly at Emory, at his smooth, unblemished brown skin, his gently sloping shoulders and erect carriage. Sally felt like she belonged.

“I love your boubou, Sally,” he told her. “I want you to make one for my mother and maybe my baby sister.”

Sally blushed with delight.

The day was marred when mean kids threw handsful of mud at Sally, defacing her kaftan. She turned in anguish to her boyfriend, but Emory was unaffected.

“Come back to my apartment now, Sally,” he said. “We’ll get you out of that soiled frock.”

Emory led the way through the riotous, colorful streets and they arrived at a 4th floor walkup. Sally didn’t mind the climb. She could smell the savory aromas of the dishes native to Emory’s New Orleans. She had thought that she would have to purchase their evening meal, but here Emory had prepared it himself. Her heart warmed. But, she never got the chance to eat. After she disrobed, Emory boldly entered her changing room, and kissed her. The kiss took her breath away. The rest was just a blur.

After they’d had intercourse, Sally fell into a blissful sleep. When she awoke, she was alone. Rising from the futon, she walked to the dresser and found her soiled boubou, still unwashed, and pulled it back on. At loose ends, Sally wandered aimlessly around the apartment, fascinated by the tribal masks and the colorful African garb and the amazing books that Emory read. Suddenly the door opened and in walked Ophelia, introduced to Sally earlier as Emory’s sister.

Ophelia snapped at her, “What’re you still doing here? Emory done outgrown you, girl,” said the woman harshly. “Get on outta here!”

Ophelia held the door and Sally scooted out.

“Hang wit’ yer own kind, little white girl,” snapped Ophelia, slamming the door.

After Sally exited the apartment, she spotted Emory on the streets. He was with Letitia. Sally drifted back home, the magic of Kwanzaa now just a fading memory.

Next day, Sally had to get ready for her job as a dishwasher at Le Penseur restaurant. She’d worked there for six months. When she first got to the city, after being thrown out by her parents, she had taken a job as a library assistant. She loved the job and the quiet mystery of books. When she wasn’t shelving the volumes, she would often read them. But, she was always hungry and an ex-worker confided to Sally that if she got hired at the restaurant, while the pay was no better, at least she’d eat well. So she was hired.

They wouldn’t feed her, however, but for what she could eat off the plates she scraped clean and then fed into the enormous dishwashing machine. Another acquaintance warned her of catching a disease. But, Sally reckoned at how only rich and healthy diners ate at Le Penseur and anyway, the possibility of contracting a bacterial infection paled next to starving to death.

Sally rushed through the corridor back of the kitchen of the restaurant where she worked, fretting all the way. She was late–again. Mr. Bigg, her handsy supervisor, had told her she would be fired if she was late again. She checked her cell: 10:15am. Almost forgetting to breathe, Sally pushed through the double-hinged door into the employees’ dressing area and threw on her yellow uniform. She emerged into the dishwashing area and confronted the huge VMAC-10 dishwashing machine, it’s red light blinking like a bloodshot eye.

The previous attendant had vanished, leaving piles of dirty dishes and trays and tableware to accumulate willy nilly about the place. Sally removed the cleaned dishes from the trays and began filling the dish racks and silverware caddies and soon has the machine functioning. Suddenly there is a beeping sound.

“Shit,” cursed Sally. She opens the soap container at the top of the machine, leaning far over to gain mechanical advantage. With a grunt, she inserts a soluble pack of detergent.

“Late again, Lister,” rumbled a basso profundo voice.

“Shit,” says Sally again.

She starts to turn around to confront her boss, but the soap drawer won’t close. She struggles with it.

“Here, lemme give you a hand,” says Mr. Bigg in an oily voice. He leans forward into Sally’s backside and begins thrusting in and out. Sally tries to pull away, but Bigg is too, well, big, and strong and he holds her in place, masturbating against her derierre.

“Let me…go!” says Sally, pushing back against her assailant.

“That ‘a girl,” says Bigg, pushing harder now. “Alla’ chicks like to get it from Mr. Bigg,” he says in a syrupy voice.

Desperate now, Sally reaches into the tableware caddy and extracts the first utensil she can reach. It is a steak knife. She violently plunges it back into Bigg’s thigh, Moments later, Mr. Bigg yelps in a high-pitched voice, falls back and lands on his ass. Bigg screams.

After a few seconds, drawn by the clamor, others invade the dishwashing room, to find Bigg bleeding profusely on the concrete floor. A supervisor appears, an ambulance is summoned and Bigg is taken to the ER. Uncertain how to proceed, Sally continues relentlessly clearing trays, adding soap and operating her machine.

It’s not until two hours later, during a scheduled break, that Sally is beckoned to the office of Ms. Purdy, who is the restaurant manager and Bigg’s and her boss.

“Sit,” says Purdy.

Sally takes a seat in front of Purdy’s desk.

“What happened this afternoon?” asks Purdy without preamble.

Sally recounts what transpired.

“Le Penseur has a zero tolerance policy for workplace violence,” says Purdy. “You’re fired.” Purdy then looks back down at her paperwork, but when Sally doesn’t move, Purdy says, “dismissed.”

“What is Le Penseur’s policy with regard to sexual harassment, Ms. Purdy?” inquires Sally, surprising even herself with her boldness. She is still smarting at being used and then rejected by Emory the day before. She feels as if her eyes have been opened.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Bigg assaulted me,” said Sally sharply.

“We have only your word for that,” says Purdy smugly.

Sally stares at her.

“If you choose, we can convene an internal investigative board, Sally,” said Purdy, using her name for the first time. “However, it may take some weeks, even months, to pull together, and you’ll still be fired. You might be better advised to use your energies in finding new employment.”

“Thank you for your concern, Ms. Purdy,” said Sally politely. “But I’m thinking of taking the case to court–on a charge of sexual harrassment against Mr. Bigg and against you, as his boss, and against Le Penseur as his employer. How do you like them apples?” Sally felt her skin prickle.

This got Purdy’s instant attention. “I wouldn’t advise you to go up against Le Penseur, Sally,” said Purdy. “Our parent company is a Fortune 500 corporation and is well-represented legally.”

“Thanks again, Ms. Purdy,” said Sally. “But, I don’t need or want your advice. I was watching TV the other day and saw that there are big law firms in the city who take cases on the basis of taking money only if they win the case.”

A bead of sweat trailed down Ms. Purdy’s forehead.

“Are you going to pay me for time worked, Ms. Purdy, or should I add that to the charges against you when the time comes?”

Without another word, Purdy consulted the time sheets, scratched out a check and pushed it across the desk to Sally.

Sally took the check and left.

_____

Sally was a week late with her rent and so she was unsurprised when the landlord, Mr. Nuxall, appeared at her door.

“Hi, Mr. Nuxall,” said Sally, pulling wide the door. “Come in.”

Nuxall stepped across the threshold.

“I wanted to discuss your rent, Sally,” began the landlord.

“Yessir, I know I’m late,” said Sally. “I lost my job. I’ll have the money…I’m not sure when, to be honest, but…”

“I have a proposition for you, Sally,” said Nuxall. “I want to invite you to dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?” she repeated. “I’d like that, Mr. Nuxall, but what does that have to do with my rent””

“My son, Noah, is visiting me this weekend,” explained Nuxall, “and I’d love for you to meet him.”

Sally narrowed her eyes at her landlord. Mr. Nuxall was about 60, so how old might his son be? She posed the question to Nuxall.

“He’s a teenager, like you,” said Nuxall with pride.

“And you want me to meet him?” asked Sally, uncertainly.

“I want you to be nice to Noah, Sally,” said Nuxall, but she still didn’t get it.

With a little breath of impatience, he said, “I want for you to sleep with him. Make him a man.”

Sally’s mind was awhirl. When she didn’t say anything, Nuxall said, “I’ll give you your rent for free for one month, and to sweeten the deal, I’ll give you $100 cash. What do you say?” he asked, suddenly all business.

“Does that figure include membership dues?” she asked.

“Eh?”

“For the prostitute’s union,” she said. Where was this attitude coming from? she wondered.

Nuxall drew back in anger, but then softened. “You’ll have your little joke. I know, Sally, this is an unusual proposition, but I am concerned for my son. Noah doesn’t like titty magazines or dirty books or pornography. I’m worried about him. Worried that he’s different from other young men his age, you know? What do you say? At least meet Noah. If you find him too repulsive and decide not to go through with it, at least you had a dinner. And I’ll pay your rent for one month, either way. Just meet him,” he implored

Sally agreed.

Sally was unsure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Noah Nuxall, 15, was a full head shorter than she. He was also a nerd. He even had a pocket protector filled with pens in his shirt pocket. Sally had never seen one of those in real life. He was a personable young man, however, and not in the least repulsive.

At dinner, Sally engaged Noah in a discussion about school and what he studied and what he wanted to do in college.

“Noah scored at 790 on the SAT,” said Mr. Nuxall with pride. “An’ that was only because he had an upset stomach on the day of the test,” he said. “Otherwise,” said Noah’s father, “he woulda’ aced it. He’s on Christmas break from university,” he went on. “He’s a junior.”

“All this seemed surreal to Sally. She could scarcely believe that she was being set up to afford young Noah his first sexual experience. Sally was not what she would call experienced in that regard. Having had a boyfriend for a total of six days, she had been summarily dumped after Emory had his way with her. She still missed his gentle touch. She swallowed and looked across the table at Noah.

“Want to show me your room, Noah?” she asked. She glanced at Mr. Nuxall, who was beaming with approval.

“Sure, c’mon,” agreed Noah, pushing his chair back and then leading the way. When they got to Noah’s room, he shut and locked the door, sat on the bed and turned to regard Sally. “Why did you agree to this, Sally?” he asked. “Did the old man agree to pay your rent for a coupla’ months?”

“A couple of months?” asked Sally. “He said one.”

Noah shook his head. “Look, you don’t have to do anything tonight.”

Sally immediately thought that meant there was something lacking in her. Noah put her mind at ease.

“I’m not into chicks…girls…uh, women,” he said.

“You mean you’re gay, Noah?”

“I prefer the term homosexual,” he said. “And no, at least I don’t think so. I don’t care about sex at all, with anyone.”

Sally had heard of such people, but had never met one personally. She was fascinated.

“Have you ever–been kissed?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Noah. “By girls and boys, but the result was the same. Zero on the sexual Richter Scale. You know, my dad is scared shitless that his only son is going to turn out to be homosexual. I heard him talking to my mom on the phone the other day. He said he’d cut his wrists if I turned out to be a faggot.” Noah laughed without mirth.

Peering closely, Sally could see Noah’s eyes glisten with tears. “So how do you want to handle this–tonight–Noah?”

“I could use a massage,” he replied. “I have all kinds of terrible tension, due to family stuff and school and peer pressure and all that. Could you give me a massage? Then you could tell my dad that you saw me naked…tell him about the mole on my shoulder.”

“Sure,” agreed Sally.

“If you want,” said Noah, “next month I can talk Dad into making the same deal with you again, maybe get another month’s free rent.”

It was agreed, and a special friendship developed, which was to last for a long, long  time.”

One year later

 Sally sat before another broad desk, this one in the Registrar’s office of the college at which she was anxious to enroll. She had been told that, in light of her lack of a high school diploma, she would have to see Ms. Pilgrim, the undergrad counselor. Sally sat and observed Pilgrim as she fussed and fidgeted with the items strewn upon her desk.

“You completed your junior year of high school,” said the counselor.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Sally.

“Why didn’t you matriculate?” asked Pilgrim next.

“Do you mean graduate?” asked Sally.

Pilgrim solemnly nodded her large head.

“My parents…my mother, actually, kicked me out of the house and I had no place to stay, so…”

“Why did she kick you out?” asked Pilgrim, in search of a juicy story.

Sally could see her salivating. “Is…is that relevant, Ms. Pilgrim?” she asked.

“Students come to me seeking dispensations, credit for what they’ve learned in life, outside the classroom,” explained the older woman. “I want to know why you were kicked out. Was it a sexual incident?” she demanded libidinously.

“Sally frowned. “I don’t want to answer that question,” she said bluntly. She had never talked about it with anybody.

“If you want help from this office,” began Pilgrim.

“All I want is to find out what I have to do to get admitted to this school without having gotten my diploma,” said Sally. “I don’t want anything from you, Ms. Pilgrim, beyond information. I was told I could take tests to obtain advanced standing in place of having graduated high school.”

“You need to learn to be more cooperative, young woman,” scolded Pilgrim. “I’ve told you what I want to know; now, either tell me, in detail, why you got kicked out of your parents’ home some three years ago, or let yourself out.”

“Fine,” said Sally. “I’ll go.” She stood, then looked down, where Ms. Pilgrim was fussing and fidgeting with the bric-a-brac atop her desk once more. “May I ask a question,” Sally asked.

“Make it brief.” Pilgrim sniffed.

“Who is your boss? I mean, who is your departmental chairman or supervisor?” When Pilgrim stared at her, Sally added, “You see, this is not over. I intend to go over your head, as far as I need to, for as long as it takes, until I get what I want. Understand, I’ve nothing to lose.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” said Pilgrim anxiously. “Please don’t go.”

_____

For the first time since her brief affair with Emory, two years before, and since the assault by Donald Bigg at the restaurant, at around the same time, Sally had a date. She felt happy. She had begun to feel that she wasn’t attractive to men except for the users like Emory and the predator creeps like Bigg. She dressed casual–all she had were casual clothes, so there was no question of “dressing up.” Sally and her date, Steve, also a student at the college, had decided to meet at the Student Union on campus. She wasn’t sure she wanted him in her home, the sanctum sanctorum of her existence. Sally wasn’t contemplating sex; she was just so terribly lonely and looking for validation.

She walked into the Union’s basement-level bowling alley, looking for Steve. He had asked her out not after, but during their creative writing class, passing her a note like kids used to do in junior high. Reading the note, she nodded happily, surprising even herself. Finally spotting Steve on the third lane from the wall, she watched him carefully roll the ball down the lane. It was a strike!

“Yay!” she cheered, surprising Steve and causing him to blush. “Ooh, sorry,” she apologized. “I guess I don’t know much about bowling etiquette or something.”

Steve assured her that was alright, and gently touched her arm. She felt such a chill up her arm that she flinched. Steve appeared not to notice.

“Go back to the counter and get some shoes,” he told her, “and then select a ball.”

Sally did so.

When she stood, ball in arms, surveying the alley, Steve asked her, “What’s your average, Sally?”

“4.6,” she replied, thinking he meant her GPA. When she realized her mistake, she blushed. “Sorry, Steve, I’ve never been bowling before, so I guess I don’t have an average.” She peered closely at him, but couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or not.

“Lemme show you how it’s done, then,” Steve said, and moved up to within a few feet of the foul line with Sally, and told her to draw her arm back and let the ball go. She did so. The ball bounced high off the wooden alley and promptly found the gutter. It went halfway down the alley and then stopped. Steve had to press the reset button and summon an attendant, who retrieved the ball.

“Huh!” said the attendant. “I never seen nothing like that before.”

Sally shrugged and looked at Steve. He smiled.

They bowled three games before Steve kindheartedly drew an end to Sally’s suffering. Of all the balls she slung down the lane, they all reliably found the gutter. Except for the last one.

“Really let ‘er rip, Sally,” urged Steve. “Last frame.”

Sally sighed. Without even looking at the pins, she tossed the ball down the alley and turned away. An instant later, Steve was shouting.

“Strike!” he bellowed happily.

He grabbed Sally around the middle and swung her about. Sally felt like she was going to die. Part panic attack, part chilling fear, she pulled away and sat trembling in one of the plastic chairs encircling the bowling area.

“I’m sorry, Sally,” said Steve, approaching her but carefully keeping back. While Steve packed up his custom bowling ball and shoes, Sally returned her equipment back where she’d gotten it. When she returned to the lane, Steve was nowhere in sight.

_____

After nearly three years, Sally had many, many dinners with the Nuxalls under her belt. She would stay the evening in Noah’s room, cuddled up with him and giving his massages or receiving one from him. They talked long into the night, about almost everything. The second Friday of the month became the highlight of Sally’s month. One night she arrived and was surprised to find that Noah was not there this evening. Sally looked questioningly at Elliott.

“Noah had some special studying to do tonight, Sally. But, I wanted to talk to you. After the housekeeper served dinner, she was dismissed for the evening and Nuxall got down to brass tacks.

“Noah told me that he has not been intimate with you, Sally,” said Nuxall softly. “Not once.”

“Elliott,” began Sally, “there is nothing wrong with Noah.”

Nuxall nodded. “I know that, now. My son is an asexual man. He is a man, regardless of his sexual legacy. He is simply not sexually attracted to women…or men, thank God.”

“But Elliott, if he were attracted to men, then at least he wouldn’t spend his life alone.”

“He’s not spending his life alone, Sally. He has one friend who is very important to him.”

“Who?” asked Sally.

“You,” he replied. “You have been there when I couldn’t be. Because Noah felt he could not trust me, his own father. Here I was, ham-handedly trying to set him up with a cute girl, to draw him out of his shell, out of his books, and he knew who he was and what he wanted.”

“I guess that Noah and I played sort of a dirty trick on you, Elliott. You’ve been paying my rent for the last three years,” she said contritely.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Nuxall, brushing it away.

“But, the expense…”

“Sally, I own this building, and six others. I’m not hurting for money.”

“But I don’t want to charge you for being Noah’s friend,” she protested.

“It is not a problem,” he said. “Because my son loves you, I love you too. Consider this your family home, Sally.”

The dinners continued as before.

_____

Shortly after the incident with Bigg at the restaurant some three years before, Sally had enlisted the legal services of a firm whose ads were all over the tube. They had accepted her as a client on a contingency basis. If they lost the case, she would owe nothing. If they were successful, however, then she would pay through the nose. They insisted on 45% of any damages she recovered. The incident had occurred around Christmas and Sally had not seen a courtroom for almost a full year. “Slow but sure,” Sally was told by her lawyer. The trial, when it finally happened, lasted one week.

The judgement was a sizable one: $1 million. The defendant appealed, of course, and a mistrial was declared twice. The upshot of this tedious process was that, after three years, a new jury awarded Sally not $1 million, but $2 million.”

Ecstatic, Sally went to Noah’s apartment and they celebrated. They got a little drunk and as an experiment, Sally kissed him. After a second, Noah kissed her back.

“Do you want to make love, Sally?” asked Noah.

“But,” said Sally, “I thought you couldn’t…”

“I’m fully functional,” he said. “Most times I don’t feel like I want to have sex.”

“Most times?” asked Sally.

“Okay,” admitted Noah. “Never. But tonight, I feel something different. I know that you’re…normal about sex, and I want to please you. Will you let me?”

Sally took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m not certain I am normal, Noah,” she said.

“You said there was this boy you liked, Emory,” recalled Noah. “That was real for you, wasn’t it? I mean, he fulfilled a desire in you?”

“Yes, in a way. But, it wasn’t a sexual desire, really. It was a desire to belong, to be a part of something. To be loved. It’s the same reason I went from one religious faith to another. We all want to be loved, Noah.”

“I love you, Sally,” said Noah. I think you know that. I’ve told you countless times, maybe not with words, but with expressions of love, in my own way.”

“I love you too, Noah, but I thought there was never any future for us.”

“Because of my being asexual,” suggested Noah.

“And my…fear of sex. I’ve been that way since…before I got kicked out of my parents’ home.”

“You never talk about your home and your childhood. Your family.”

“I never have. With anyone,” said Sally.

“Tell me?” he asked

She did.

_____

Six months later, Sally received a summons from her attorney for a final conference. She had been looking through catalogs and on the web, planning how to spend her money. Her lawyer told her that the judgement, once more on appeal, had finally been settled. The verdict stands, the lawyer said, but the judgement had been “reduced somewhat.”

“To how much?” asked Sally.

“To $1,” he replied.

Since the attorney seemed to have other fish to fry, Sally paid him his fee–45 cents–and departed. Sally, too, had other fish to fry.

Another year later

Sally graduated from college on the same day that Noah received his PhD. This time, they celebrated in Elliot’s luxurious apartment. He was on a date with Noah’s mother and Eliot’s ex-wife. Noah and Sally were dogsitting for Elliot. They discussed Noah’s employment prospects and Sally’s plans for the future. Sally was fixing dinner while Noah opened the second bottle of wine. They were having a discussion of long standing.

“If you really want children, Sally, I explained that I am a functional male. It would make me very happy to create a child–or more–with you.”

“One of the reasons I love you, Noah, is that our relationship, while based on romantic love and affection, is not based on sex.”

Noah stared at her.

“But isn’t there some way I can express my love for you, Sally? Most people use sex to do that.”

“You and I are not most people,” she argued. “It wouldn’t be an expression of the love I feel for you. It would be mechanical; I don’t know how to explain it.”

Noah nodded. “I understand.”

“I’m not rejecting you, Noah,” she said. “Since I was 11, sex has been…”

“I understand,” said Noah again. “But you’ve said you love children.”

“We can adopt, or do IVF, or…”

Noah nodded.

“With in vitro fertilization, we could use our genes and hire a surrogate mother,” she said excitedly, the idea growing on her.

“There’s one thing we’ve yet to do,” murmured Noah.

“What?”

Noah slipped to his knee, pulled out a ring box and asked, “Sally, will you marry me?”

“Noah,” said Sally playfully, “do you mean you want to take me away from all this?” She spread wide her arms to take in the posh apartment.

Suddenly, Hannah, Elliot’s cocker spaniel, began barking.

Noah smiled and nodded..

“I dunno,” said Sally. “If life is doing laundry and picking up dog poop, then I’m already living large.”

Noah laughed aloud. “Don’t worry, Sally, I’ll buy you a dog.”