Why does Dad always make a point of reminding Mom that he's the man?  She’s  stronger.  Mom works through her pain, physical and emotional.  Dad crumples when he's uncomfortable.  He's the man, she's the woman.  “Women need men to look after them,” Dad would chuckle.  I hate seeing her look away.

His father was an idiot for thinking that his mother needed emotional protection — no one else was as solid, as tough:  to put up with a father like his she'd need to be.  Still, physical protection was another matter but his mind wasn't delineating a cause for the girl's tears, just the emotions evoked.

For the first time he became curious about this neighbor, the young woman in a wheelchair.  He stepped back slightly, in case she happened to look up, but she seemed trapped inside her obviously disquieting pain, tears streaking down her cheeks.  She called softly to the dog.
 

 Her voice sounds so strong, so detached.  Why do women seem balanced?  Dad would say this is how men are but he's wrong.  Women seem to look at reality, cry, then move on.  Men blow reality off.  I wish I could be strong too.

He wondered why he never thought much about her before.  She wasn't a model but she was kind of cute, except for the puffiness from crying.  Her eyes were green, not an unforgettable green but classy.  Her whole face seemed — proportioned nicely, cheekbones without looking boney, lips that seemed really soft . . . and warm.  He spit off the railing's edge into the darkness, relaxing his hands from knotted fists.  It disturbed him to see her that upset.

         She shut her sliding glass door and closed the lace drapes wondering if anyone would ever love her again.  Another relationship had ended, this time one she really wanted.  Damn, she didn't want to love, not really.  She would rather sit alone, she told herself, than feel this kind of pain.
 

I hate my life.  I preach for inclusion — it shouldn't matter who you are, how you look, what you have.  Everyone is valid.  This afternoon I saw a girl and all I could think was, “I'm not fat like she is.  Yes, I can't walk but at least I'm pretty.”  I hate you, Jonathan, for making me think this way.

For twelve years she lived with the repercussions of a spinal cord injury, and she dreaded the insecurities that this break up bubbled to the surface.  Were things any easier with men before she dove into the community pool, breaking her neck?
 

 No, relationships were a bitch either way but there were so many other factors to consider now . . .

She couldn't marry.  Well, she could if she didn't mind the possibility of losing her Medicaid and various assistance.   Quadriplegia is a pre-existing condition.  Private insurance wouldn't pay for the medications, the doctor's appointments or possible hospital stays associated with her injury.  She was a college student, hoping to someday find a job that would pay enough for her to live on.  What if that job never materialized?  What man would really consider the financial implications?

Then again, marriage never made a relationship.  What about the essentials?  If you can't control your bladder, bowels or the amount of time it takes to sit on your skin before it busts open — well, you had other things to occupy your time than not being able to marry.
 

Sure, whine a little louder about all these hardships . . . you live a damn good life and you know it . . . I know but he makes me angry for emphasizing these physical attributes!  It's not easy but it's not crippling — Jonathan, you've crippled me more than any physical disability ever did.

She knew romantic intimacy was difficult long before she broke her neck.  Always the island, the stoic, she mumbled to the empty room, knowing she would never let the outside world glimpse her pain. The truth was, she always had a stout facade, even before she ended up in a chair.  Her dog sensed her pain, following her movements from the darkened living room, lying patiently.
 

I know now I was conditioned to be silent, if I let my feelings be known I was punished.  Come on, I don't blame you, mom or dad, I'm just stating a fact.  No one ever revealed their emotions in our family — admit it!   I don't know what it would feel like to cry and have someone put their arms around me to give comfort.  I think I'd feel trapped or stupid.

She knew she could fool everyone but herself and the truth was she missed Jonathan, everything seemed to smell like him.

Taking a few deep breaths, she hoped that she would feel at least a semblance of hope that tomorrow would be better.  The feeling didn't come.  She knew she would have to take something to help her sleep again tonight. Yes, she would sleep but then would have that fuzzy, groggy residue in the morning.  What else could she do?

        He watched her from across the courtyard, resisting an impulse to walk into the leaden black night to knock on her door.  What if she really needed someone to talk to?  No one should cry hysterically without comfort.  He realized this was the first time she seemed real to him, a person with problems.  He wanted to know what was wrong.  His eyes followed the progression of her lights going out one by one.
 

I guess she can undress; I don't see anyone there to help her.   I can't help thinking, how can she continue to live not being able to do things herself?

His eyes closed.  He imagined her shakily hopping from her gray wheelchair onto a hospital bed, using a rickety side rail to pull herself over, then dragging her legs up after her.  He didn't know if this was the actual scene, but this was his conception.  What would she look like naked?  He felt guilty for thinking it, though he couldn't exactly say why.  Yeah, she was in a wheelchair, but — she had on a low-cut shirt, showing cleavage, damn it!  Could he help it if that turned him on?  Was that wrong?
 

I can't help but compare her to other girlfriends even though I don't know her at all  — we've never really spoken . . .The other girls were okay, looks wise, average to pretty, a few with beauty though mostly unspectacular.  Why do I think of her using different criteria because she's in a wheelchair?

He wondered if she could have sex.

        By the time she finished brushing her teeth, she had stopped crying.  Her nose was stuffed up, and she kept breathing the toothpaste fumes in through her mouth.  She flipped the light off and rolled into the bedroom grabbing her transfer board from the foot of the bed.  She had to blow her nose first and for a moment felt better because anger surged up.  This was the same anger that developed when Jonathan told her he couldn't see himself with a girl in a wheelchair. She slammed the board onto the bed as hard as she could.  Life was hard with her, he had said, even getting into the car was hard.  Yes it was, wasn't it?  Like it's my fault, asshole!  She wanted to scream into his face.  Jonathan was boyfriend number three since her injury.
 

We say we want honesty but sometimes I wish you had lied but it would have postponed the inevitable  . . . I hated knowing how you felt about my disability only because who I am is part of the disability . . . you couldn't have loved me, not really . . . I know that now.

He always made things more difficult than they needed to be.
 

Go ahead, over romanticize this crappy relationship — make yourself feel good and miserable . . .. listen to Patsy Cline's “Woe is me ‘cause I wasn't good enough for him” music.  This relationship was dysfunctional from the first day you met . . . you cried at least every other day because you were so unhappy . . . I know, I know it's difficult to break those patterns . . .

Pulling parallel to her waterbed, she crossed her left leg over her right and slid the flat board beneath her legs.  She moved her bottom along the length of the board as if sliding the long way across a seesaw, carefully lifting each leg onto the bed once she had her balance, then lying flat for a moment.  It was always a good feeling to lie down.  Life was hard for everyone, in one way or another, she knew.  She hoped Jonathan found that out the hard way.  He would; he was the one who made life hard.

        He tugged on the string lowering his mini-blinds and wondered what her name was.  She was already living here when he moved in.  He remembered seeing her practically every night wheeling around the paved roadway, and may have even nodded hello once or twice at the mailboxes.  She seemed friendly, though he figured she would be bitter, being in a wheelchair and all.  He never actually spoke to anyone in a wheelchair, but the images he saw showed angry people who cursed the world because of what happened to them, or they walked again by the end of the show.  Movies weren't necessarily reality, he knew, Hollywood renditions could be less than perfect.  How would he feel?

He knew that he couldn't handle it, though it seemed that she was doing okay for herself.  This was a fashionable apartment complex and her furniture seemed decent, what he could see through the window.

He remembered his sister telling him about a girl with an amputated leg in her Sociology class, how she was one of the most popular girls at their college.  He envisioned his neighbor.  This girl did have a nice smile . . . it was a genuine gesture . . . like she wasn't trying to use the pleasing curve, but wanted to share her secret . . . her smile matched her eyes . . . her hair . . . her long hair was some of the prettiest he had ever seen, brown with a touch of gold.  Still, if he were to approach her, what could he say?  In a way he was afraid.  What if she had a disease or something?  No, he knew that was stupid.

        She pulled her jeans off inside out, one leg at a time, peeling them like a banana peel, then throwing them to the floor beside her bed.  Reaching for the Foley drainage bag, she felt a fresh tear form.   Part of Jonathan's reason for leaving her was due to this.  Her bladder was no longer functional so she needed a catheter to drain it.  It was a thin silicone tube held inside her bladder by a small water-inflated balloon.  During the day a leg-bag collected her urine, and the two thousand cc Foley drainage bag did the job at night.  Not exactly romantic in Jonathan's eyes, she thought, but what was the damn big deal?  If it wasn't the catheter, it was the Depend undergarment she wore just in case of an “accident”.

Neither one would look attractive even on a Victoria's Secret model.
 

No one looks like a Victoria's Secret model — even the women themselves . . . air-brushed, computer generated photos . . . it's fake!  It's not real!  Why am I measured next these aesthetic paradigms?  I know there must be men and women in the world who feel this way as well . . . why though?   Who set the standards?  I don't want to play this game anymore.

She accepted the fact that she needed the small tube to drain her bladder.  Why couldn't Jonathan?
 

Isn't there more to me than various orifices?  Why do we base our relationships on physical attributes we know will change yet insist we committed forever then grow dissatisfied?

It wasn't as if she couldn't have sex with it there — they were two separate holes.  He never actually mentioned the catheter specifically, but she bet it was part of it.  All she knew was he got off when they had sex.  Didn't that mean it must not have been that bad for him?
 

There were times when I thought you were getting it, Jonathan — times I actually thought we had a chance . . . remember me trying to get on top and I lost my balance so we bumped our heads?  We laughed because it was funny.  Damn it, Jonathan — it wasn't all bad.

She knew the sex was great for her, and sometimes it seemed that the only time she felt really alive was when she and Jonathan were having sex.
 

We would have sex to avoid arguments . . . sexual denial of reality . . . didn't work, did it?  People assume you can't or don't want to have sex when you have a disability.  Sure, sex is different now; does that mean I can't enjoy it?  I'm human; I've adapted.  My orgasms are real.

It was hard to feel attractive though.  Jonathan hadn't done much for her self-esteem.

        He was lying in bed, trying to get this girl off his mind.  His sheets felt chilly and tacky with crumbs.  What would his friends say if he had a girlfriend in a wheelchair?  Mike would be cool.  He was gay and into tolerance because he knew what discrimination felt like.  Pete and Roy would be jerks; he knew that ahead of time.

They would point out every flaw she had, as they did with every other woman, but he knew her disability would be her biggest flaw in their eyes.
 

How's your gimp girlfriend gonna go dance at the club on Friday?  She can't even crawl up the stairs to get inside.  Even if she could, you'd be looking at all the babes strolling by, tight jeans, miniskirts.  What's wrong with you?

Would that matter to him?  What about the way people would look at them when they were out in public?  Could he handle that?  He wasn't sure.    He mentally surveyed the long list of previous girlfriends and feminine conquests tallied up within his mind.
 

Isn't it funny that I can't remember many of their names?  I can visualize faces, hair styles, lingerie . . . which girl screwed me in the hot tub Homecoming weekend?  Did she have a face — a personality?  It didn't seem so at the time . . . does she remember me?  Wow, of all the women I've been with only a few really caught my attention — and even less I can say I cared about.  Sometimes I get afraid that I don't feel more after some sexual encounters.  I try not to think about it.

Of those he cared about, Tara was definitely neurotic.  Sure, she looked good, but her insecurities and jealousy made her beauty secondary, and not worth the bother . . .
 

I actually feared you, Tara . . . you followed me every time you could just to assure yourself of what I'll never know . . . you were afraid of yourself . . .

Then there was Heather . . . he would have given her the world if she hadn't —
 

Heather was beautiful but she knew it.  She was artful at the ways she would twist her beauty around you like a noose to drag you along with her.  I loved everything about you except you baby.

He never slept with another woman while with Heather.  The stereotypes proliferated in society regarding men and their promiscuity really annoyed him.   He knew what betrayal felt like, even though they hit the party scene pretty hard.
 

I know I've changed.  My priority isn't laying a new woman while drinking trendy micro-brews.  I'm older and, damn it, I'm bored.  I want someone to talk to, a positive woman who has a sharp opinion she believes enough to stab you with it.  The days of lusting after empty-headed beauty queens and bar sluts are fading, yes, but who will fill their void?  Is the void fillable?

His thoughts returned to his neighbor.  She was extremely thin, and her hands were kind of crooked or curled up, hard to look at in a way.  Well, not that they were disgusting, just different.  Would appearances matter to him that much?  What if she was great to talk to?  He wondered what it would feel like to be touched by her hands.

        Pulling the covers up over her head, she made sure the pillow was propped behind her back, keeping her on her side.  She couldn't help wondering if there was a guy out there for her.
 

Doesn't a Prince always come to the rescue?  I remember toddling around clutching story books with happy endings . . . is it a wonder my expectations are skewed?

Damn it, she wasn't going to settle for just anybody.  She would rather be alone . . . was there a guy who wouldn't bitch and pressure her about her inability to do the things “normal” people could do?

She knew plenty of people jogging through their lives who weren't as active as she was.

The thought of “breaking in” someone new depressed her.
 

Do I really miss you, Jonathan, or do I dread the explanations and expectations of  someone new?  In any relationship there's a first time you see each other naked, but I need to prepare a guy for the differences . . . discuss positions and how to hold my legs . . . after the first time it's okay but I can't help but feel as if I'm a virgin before every new sexual relationship . . .

Who wanted to hear those age-old clichés, “You can't slow dance,” or “You can't go for a walk on the beach.”  Those things didn't keep a relationship together . . . besides, she could slow dance, only she did it sitting, and beach walking was overrated.  Plus, they lived hundreds of miles from a beach so it may be a stroll in the park instead.  There were always alternatives if one had an open mind —  always.
 

People are so judgmental  . . . “You must feel crippled by your disability,” their eyes say . . . don't these fools realize my life is as good as theirs?  Quality of life is personal . . . I never walked on a beach — even when I could have . . .

She opened Morris’ The Naked Ape, attempting to read for a few minutes, all the while thinking she was intellectual, honest and loving —  attributes she was proud of because she cultivated them.
 

Whenever a new class started I would always look around to see whose eyes would  lock with mine, searching for interest and kindness . . . as a semester progressed we all became familiar with each other, how we looked, what we might say . . . Jonathan, if only I had looked away.

She could still have fun and was even adventuresome at times.  She rode motorcycles with her feet tied onto the foot pegs with bandannas!  Hadn't she done as much and as many things as she could to still feel “normal”, and maybe in the process broken a few stereotypes?
 

Normal . . . define normal . . .  Had to prove you were still cool, still willing to sit on the edge of the abyss . . . so, do you feel whole now?  Did the danger heal you or prolong your denial?

The pill began to work.  Her eyes drooped so she closed the book and clicked the light off.  Life always seemed better in the morning, she told herself, and she meant it.  She reached out to her dog, feeling her soft blond ear, hearing the comfortable thump of her tail.

She arranged her hair out from under her neck,  promptly falling asleep.

        He was getting tired.

Maybe he would knock on her door in the morning, ask if he could borrow something; he wasn't sure what . . . or, he could go jogging and casually talk to her in the evening when she usually went out to wheel around . . . you could see the muscles were built up in her arms . . .ahh, maybe he wouldn't.

He hoped she had stopped crying.  The light was easily within his reach, he flooded his room in darkness and went to sleep.