John and Miranda by George Murray

John had reached down Miranda's side and felt where the bandages met the padding of the prosthetic's cradle. He slipped a finger under the fabric and worked it around to the back of her leg. As he nuzzled his face into her neck, he could feel her take a handful of hair at the back of his head, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
He moved down to her breast, freed it from the bra with one hand, cupped it, licked the nipple. Below, he moved his hand up and down the shaft of her leg, trailing it up and over her panties. Her skin was hot under his palms, sweaty in places. He trailed his tongue down her belly to her pelvis, pulled

her panties aside and licked lightly against the sides of her mound. Her back arched slightly to meet him, her leg clicking quietly as the knee joint bent.
     John slipped his hand under the padding of the leg and began to pull at the bandages, but stopped abruptly, and pushed himself up on all fours. Miranda's breath caught in her throat.
     "Do you need help getting it off?" she asked, peering at him through the tossed curls of her hair.
     "No," John said, leaning forward and working her panties off over her legs. He reached under her back and lifted her by the ass to his face. He pushed his tongue between her legs while she wrapped her flesh leg around his neck, her Achilles tendon pressing on his head, driving his mouth against her.
     Without removing his mouth, he picked up the metal leg and put it over his back, felt the knee joint bend into place, the long scoop of it in the depression of this lower back.
     Miranda reached a hand into his hair and pulled him tighter against her, shuddered, throwing her head back against the pillows and arching up high into the air with his body as support. The bed began to creak. Her leg began to creak.

He called Miranda's again. There were three rings before she picked up. Her voice was drawn and tired, like she had been asleep for too long again.
     "Hey, where've you been?" he asked, his voice sounding more concerned than he planned.
     "Baltimore."
     "What the fuck were you doing in Baltimore?"
     "What do you think?"
     "You went all the way to Baltimore? Why? How?"
     "He's some corporate guy. Flew me out for the week."
     John paused, wondering how much a week cost. He thought of his savings, of upcoming paychecks versus rent and food, did some quick math in his head. Wasn't going to happen. "How'd he know about you?"
     "It was a referral."
     "Referral?" Even John could hear the disbelief in his voice.
     "Well, first of all, John, it's none of your fucking business. But yes, a referral. How many of us do you think are out there to satisfy you freaks and your fucking needs?"
     John went quiet and sat very still, trying to press the receiver closer to his ear and mouth. He could hear her light a cigarette and inhale long. She took several more slow puffs before either of them spoke again. They had been on the phone for over fifteen minutes. A new record.

     "I'm sorry," he said, looking down.
     "Yeah, me too."
     There was another extended silence as she finished her cigarette and lit another.
     "I'd never been out of the city before this, much less on a plane," she said. "Not since I was very young."
     "Was it fun?"
     "I guess so. I went to the museum while he was at work. They have a very nice museum there."
     "Do you stay overnight with all your . . . clients?"
     "No."
     "Just me?"
     "No." Her voice was growing calmer, more relaxed.
     "How many clients do you have?"
     "I used to have more. Now I have three. I make enough off three a week."
     "But that's only, what . . . six hundred, right?"
     "No, it isn't. It's well over a thousand . . . And even if it wasn't, how much do you make a week?"
     "A thousand? Oh, you mean . . ."
     "Yeah, you're my oldest," she said sarcastically. "You're still under the old rates. Like rent control."
     John laughed. Looked at the nightstand with the money on it. "So why'd you take this Baltimore thing?"
     "I just wanted to get out of the city for a while."
     John nodded, remembered she couldn't see him, then grunted. He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Are you going again?"
     "Maybe," she said. "I don't think so."
     An hour later he asked, "Can you come over?" When she arrived, she was wearing a black outfit like the one she wore the first night they met. Was it the same one? He wanted it to be the same.
     She limped into the room, sat tiredly on the couch and kicked off her shoes. She looked weary, but perfectly comfortable, as though just returned from a rough day at work. He glanced at her shoes where they?d fallen beside the couch leg. They were virtually indistinguishable, yet, he knew, one was much heavier than the other. He swallowed dryly and moved to the kitchen to prepare her drink.
     What is she thinking right now, he wondered. How does she get ready for something like this? He thought of the money she had left behind more than once, the row of clean twenties. Was she testing him? Trying to tell him something? What would change if she was? He opened the freezer door for ice, the motor kicking in with a cold breeze across his chest, the vibrations running through the machine?s metal and trembling against his hand. He grabbed couple cubes barehanded and dropped them in the glass. On the first night she had spent most of the time on top of him, moving her hips and abdomen in small circles, and every time they had been together since he waited for the sensation of her heat and dark lowering over him.
     Out in the living room the couch creaked as she stood. He could hear the soft step and click of her approach behind him. He turned and moved through the door towards her, producing the money from his pocket of his shirt. In the kitchen behind him the freezer fan died with a whine and the apartment went silent. He handed her the drink and then the money, the green bills still tucked in the envelope she had forgotten.