For Cora, wherever she may be. She taught me to see.

*

I live by myself, in a high rise apartment in Manhattan, which is very cool -- except that I'm on the road for work more often than I'm home. Now, lots of people travel for business -- that, by itself, isn't unusual. It's my work that's unusual.

I do odd jobs for corporations, with the emphasis on "odd." Shards of glass end up in the last production run at your baby food factory? Call me. Russian police shaking down your branch office in Moscow? Call me. One of your employees leaking secrets to a competitor? That kind of thing. I got into it gradually, after handling a couple of unexpected crisis.

As a result, I developed a grab bag of skills -- along with a deep rolodex of people you won't find advertised on web sites: public relations doctors, legal doctors, forensic accountants, investigators, security, and other "technicals."

I do my work quickly and discretely, before the situation blows up in the media and hurts a company's stock price -- before protestors even know there is something to protest. My work tends to be, as they say in business-speak, mission-critical and time-sensitive.

While the work pays well, it is -- by its very nature -- irregular, and solitary. Which, overall, doesn't lend itself to having normal social or personal relationships. That's what my ex-wife said when she left me, and she probably was right, at least about that.

So in the intervals between jobs I read, travel, and enjoy New York. My work almost obligates me to keep a distance from others, to be coolly dispassionate -- and, maybe, after all these years I've just become good at hiding in plain sight, which makes it easy to navigate New York, alone in the crowd.

One night, about five years ago, I was surfing the internet between "consulting assignments." I remember that night because I had just turned 50, and was having one of those reflective moments about life, the reflections aided by an ice-cold vodka martini.

As I jumped aimlessly from site to site I decided to learn more about Comic Con. Do you know Comic Con? It is like a trade show for...comic book fans.

This character convention was coming to New York City that weekend, and the news had been full of stories about cartoon-costumed people walking around, security issues stemming from people wielding make-believe weapons, and the inflow of cash to the city. I popped into a Comic Con chat room to learn more.

It was really weird. I mean, I got the basic concept, but I needed a glossary just to keep up with the names of the characters. Whatever happened to Batman and Superman, the classics? In truth, I had no idea what anyone was chatting about. I sat on the sidelines and lurked as I sipped my drink, the blaring sirens and pounding NYC busses fading outside my window as I tried to concentrate on this odd world.

It didn't take very long for curiosity to turn to boredom. I was about to move on when the Instant Message window opened up, and slowly -- slower than I would have expected -- a message unfurled. "What's your Super Power?"

That was unexpected.

"My Super Power?" I typed back.

Another slow crawl. "Well, duh, you're in a Comic Con room, and you've got a character, right?"

I had to smile. No, I didn't really have a character. "My" character -- in fact, my success, and sometimes very survival -- depended upon my ability to be a chameleon, to be many characters. Changing character, to meet the needs of the moment. That's another thing my ex-wife said. That she never really knew who I was. She may have been right about that, too.

My character. Hmmm.

"I'm Mr. FixIt Man."

There was a pause. "Huh? I haven't read about him."

"That's because he's an unsung hero of the Comic Con world. When things go wrong, like the microphones break, or the ticket machine goes on the fritz, he springs into action, quietly and behind the scenes, so all the other characters can do their super-thing!"

Another pause. "Oh, like my dad used to do around the house. He had some wrenches and pliers and spackle and stuff, and my mom always kept a job jar for him."

Actually, this was kind of fun. The martini helped too, so I poured another. "Yea, except I can fix ANYTHING, not just stuff with a hammer and screwdriver. By the way, how old are you?"

And that's how we met. She was 40, living in Brooklyn, a freelance proofreader and writer who worked from home. Her super power, she told me, came from a pair of magical wands she had that made her invisible.

"That could come in handy" I wrote.

"Well, it could, but like all Super Powers this one is a mixed blessing. I can't turn it off. I'm always invisible."

"I see. Or, I don't see, since you're invisible. Anyway, I thought these things could be controlled?"

"You must be new to this. Think of 'The Hulk' " she wrote. "He just flips out and starts tossing cars. Except in my case, it is always on. My magic wands are always engaged. I'm forever invisible. Totally transparent. You don't get to pick your super power, you know -- it picks you. And sometimes you can't control it."

She had a point. I mean, I never was a big comic book person, but it all seemed to follow. "Well, I guess you save a lot on clothes!" By the second martini we were having fun -- playing with the idea of Mr. Super Fixit and Invisible Woman.

We got to know each other over the next week in the chat room, and when Comic Con ended, and the room went dormant we kept the conversation alive, a combination of emails and messages. As the weeks went by I became more intrigued by her, and more curious, until one night I suggested that we get together. She brushed me back quickly and firmly.

"I'm invisible" she said. "It would be a disaster. First of all, you'd wouldn't be able to see me. Second, you'd bump into me, and wouldn't even know where to look. Or what my body language might be conveying. In fact, you're never going to see me, ever. Nobody ever sees me. I'm invisible."

That was very clear. I didn't need a bumper sticker or a hash tag movement to understand that "no" means "no."

That exchange, though, had no effect on our chats. There's a funny thing about online relationships. Some people use the anonymity of the internet to blur the line between reality and fantasy, pretending to be the person they aren't, or the person they want to be.

For me the opposite was true -- the anonymity gave me a chance to take off my suit and tie, as it were, and be myself rather than a chameleon. And she told me about herself -- her work, her neighborhood.

Just like in the physical world, though our chats one thing led to another -- she'd tease me about what she'd be wearing, or not wearing, in the same playful spirit as our other conversations, and every now and then she'd take us further -- telling me she was getting a favorite toy warmed up, or she had a "plumbing project" for Mr. Super FixIt Man. When a sudden assignment took me to Milwaukee for a week, and I was offline the whole time, she urged me to use my Super FixIt powers and hurry back -- something easier said than done.

A couple of months she asked me an odd question in the middle of a chat. "Is there anything that Mr. Super FixIt can't fix?"

I was in a funny mood that night. Fall was coming to an end, and the chilly winds were blowing down from Canada. A cold rain had been falling for almost two days, and the clocks had just been reset, bringing darkness early.

"Just one."

I waited.

And waited a bit more.

She responded with one keystroke. "?"

And as taxis honked far below my apartment window, their taillights twinkling red in the rain, I decided to type it all out.

"Mr. Super FixIt Man was in a car accident twenty years ago, in a little country with bad medical facilities. They confused him with Humpty Dumpty and didn't exactly put all the pieces back the right way. He's got a nasty jagged scar that runs down his stomach, a broken shoulder that never healed, and a matching scar down his back. Well, not exactly matching. That job tore a chunk out of his ass. Literally. The good news: one of his little-known superpowers is that he can tell when it is going to rain, by counting the throbs-per-minute in his broken shoulder!"

I added a cute little smiley face at the end of the paragraph. You know, to tone down the drama a bit. And because it hurt to tell her this. My ex-wife had told me, in a moment of anger, that my scars were horrifying and repulsive, words that cut as effectively as the metal that had torn me up. Without even realizing it, I had become gradually obsessed with hiding my body; in locker rooms, and certainly, from women.

Long pause. "So Mr. Super FixIt Man couldn't fix himself? Doesn't he have other friends with Super Powers?"

"Mr. Super FixIt Man's friend Mr. Plastic Surgeon Man turned out to be not so super. As a result, Mr. Super Fixit Man was forced to give up his dream of being an underwear model, and all the free boxer shorts that would have been his. And, he leans a little to the right when he sits down since he's got less than the usual amount of padding on that side of his ass."

"But," I added, "Maybe you could give me a bit of that invisibility you have and I could make it all disappear -- now THAT'S an idea."

"Sorry, I can't control it. Wish I could! But I DO have one of my invisible toys I can make disappear...and maybe that will distract you. I'm licking it right now..." She was right, it did prove to be a nice distraction. Cybersex isn't a bad substitute. And it certainly helped relieve the tension I felt after our conversation.

The fall dragged on, darker, colder, and deeper, and we carried on, a mixture of the mundane and the silly, the honest and the erotic. And then, one day in early November, she asked another funny question. "So if I have you over for dinner, should I sit on your left, since you lean to the right?"

I had to laugh. "Listen, I don't lean THAT much, and I have a good tailor. He puts a little pad in my jackets, on my right shoulder, and you wouldn't even notice that I lean. But since YOU ARE INVISIBLE I might squash you, by accident. You'd have to tie a bell around your neck or something."

And then she surprised me. "Mr. Super Fixit, I've got a project, and it needs to be done this weekend. I'll reward you with dinner if you are brave enough to take it on. Plumbing. Bring a couple of pipe wrenches and plumber's tape. I need to install a washing wand in my bathroom and tap the hot and cold lines. This Saturday. Can you handle all this?"

"You're serious?"

"Yes, I'll wear bells so you don't step on me."

So yeah, it was a little weird, but I felt like I knew her...I was attracted to her...and I actually could do a little plumbing, so I agreed and she emailed me her address.

Her apartment was in a small building in a hip part of Brooklyn, well-appointed with all the "luxuries" that in other places would be considered basics: Modern elevators, parking, a pool. I have to admit I was a bit nervous. I hadn't been sure if I should have brought flowers or batteries, so I bought a couple of expensive bottles of wine, and some of those ridiculously tiny gourmet cupcakes. The doorman checked the guest list, hit the buzzer to let her know I was coming, and sent me up. She was in the penthouse on the top floor.

I rang her doorbell and then, almost silently, the latch clicked open and the door swung inward, on a smooth motorized hinge. I heard her voice from the kitchen -- though it was dark, and the candles made it hard to see.

"C'mon in."

I moved inside and the door closed automatically behind me. I paused to wipe my feet on the mat. Her voice was a bit muffled, and I wondered if she had her head in the fridge or something. "You can hang your coat on the hook by the door and come help me." Direct and to the point. Just like our chats.

I did as instructed, and then took my shoes off, an old habit from when I lived in Japan. I padded across the room, and turned into the kitchen.

She was poised over the oven door, her blonde hair falling down framing her face, about 5' 8", with nice curves -- and she was supported by two arm crutches. Her feet were at odd angles, and her mouth had a slight droop. "Don't just stand there, get the lasagna out of the oven before it burns to a crisp!"

And I did what I do, reflexively -- moved to fix it. I chuckled -- "Potholders! Where are the potholders?" She tossed me a couple of towels, which I folded up into squares to grab the bubbling-hot Pyrex dish, which I set on the stove. "Just in a nick of time -- another Super Power!"

She extended a hand. "Hi, I'm Stacey."

"Hi Stacey, I'm Bill. It is great to finally meet you."

"So look," she said. Her speech was a bit compressed, but I could easily understand her. "I have cerebral palsy. That's what this is." She gestured at herself with one of her crutches. "Mostly my legs and my speech. And these are my magic wands." She waved her crutches, like a lobster waving her claws. "They make me invisible. People look at them and never see past them. If you're not OK with that, let me know now. After all, we're past the hard part. You know, getting the lasagna out of the oven."

I had to smile. "So you invite me over here to do all this hard work and get the lasagna out of the oven, and then try to chase me off? I'm OK with all of this. And you are right. We're past the hard part."

Dinner was delicious. A nice salad, some breadsticks, a side dish of marinated peppers and mushrooms, all washed down by the burgundy I had brought, and then a second bottle. We talked as we ate, about our previous chats, about her apartment, about our lives. She was funny, smart, sharp -- but I knew all that, long before I agreed to come to dinner.

We got up to clean the table. She said she'd wash the dishes if I carried everything to the sink, dried the dishes, and put things away -- "a proper and natural division of labor" as she said.

I wiped dry the last dish as she rinsed the sponge washed the last few scraps of lasagna down the sink disposal.

"Stacey, I didn't get to tell you -- I brought some cupcakes. Those silly tiny ones with crazy flavors. Made by elves. I left them by the door. Maybe cupcakes and coffee?"

She turned to look at me. "No."

"No?"

"That's not what I want." She seemed to be struggling with her words, more than she had been.

"I want Mr. Super Fixit Man to fix me." She almost had blurted it out, as if the words were sticking and had to be forced.

I didn't know what to say. I was paid by corporations to say the right thing, at the right time, and I was speechless. The best thing to do at times like this was to repeat the question. Stall.

"Fix you?"

"I am tired of being invisible. Men never look at me. They see a cripple on crutches, not a woman. Fix that, tonight, right now. And I'll fix you. I'll make your scars invisible. They will go away. My super power."

She dropped her crutch and reached for me, and half falling, came into my arms, and with her muffled words said, plain and simple, "kiss me." Her mouth was wet and warm, and I was hungrier than I realized, even though my stomach was full. Hers was a different kiss -- her mouth had a different shape, and I could feel a stiffness underneath the softness -- a thought that ran off as soon as I felt her tongue reaching for mine.

"Down the hall, behind you, on the right." I wrapped my arm around her, and we turned to shuffle down the hall to her bedroom.

She had a queen bed, with swing-away railings that were down. I stood by her as she sat on the bed. "You'll have to undo your own buttons. My fingers hate buttons."

I looked at her. "How about your buttons?"

"They're fake. Velcro." She reached up, and with one motion pulled at the top of her shirt. Like a false front on a tuxedo shirt, it opened with that distinctive ripping sound that only Velcro makes, as if she were tearing opening a long wrapped package. Her shirt hung open, and I could see the delicate lace of a beautiful bra.

"Your turn."

"I'll turn the lights off."

"NO!" She was almost ferocious. "I want you to see me. All of me." And as she said that she tossed her crutches on the floor, and shucked off her shirt. "No more invisible wants. And I want to see you."

I swallowed hard, undid the buttons on my shirt cuffs, and then started on the buttons down the front of my shirt, my hands shaking slightly.

"Take it off."

I let my shirt fall back off my shoulders, to the floor. She reached up to touch the scar down my stomach, jagged and angry, a clean path through the light fur, shiny and a fading pink. "You see this...?"

I nodded, and said "Yes" softly.

"No, you don't see it, and I don't either. It's gone. But I'm here." As she looked in my eyes she undid the front clasp and pulled her bra off of her shoulders. Her nipples were hard, and I drew my breath in rapidly.

"Take my pants off." It was a command, a request, a direction. She laid back on the bed, and I picked up her legs, one by one, and took off her pants. Her panties matched her bra, silky skin-toned fabric with yellow lace and trim. "And now yours."

I had been dreading this; I unbuckled my belt, let my pants fall, and stepped out of them. She simply said "And?"

I pushed down my boxer shorts. She directed me again. "Now turn around."

Underwear model, indeed. I turned in a circle. "And now all that is invisible. I've seen it. And made it disappear. Now convince me that you can see me."

With some slight difficulty she spread her legs, pulling on her thigh with her two hands to move, and then she patted her stomach. "My panties." I could tell you that it was almost a shame to take her panties off, they were so pretty -- but that wouldn't be true. I wanted to take off her panties; I wanted her. I could see a small, dark wet spot on the delicate fabric, and without any reservations pulled them down, down past the curve of her ass, over her knees, and then dropped them on the floor.

I kissed her calf as I knelt between her thighs on the floor, and she sighed, almost an exclamation. I stopped immediately, and looked up. "Is that OK?"

"Yes. More. Don't let me disappear."

"No."

I kissed up her leg, the inside. Her muscles were stiff, and she wasn't flexible, but that didn't matter -- her voice told me everything.

She moaned as I kissed her, and then her moans blended together, and when I licked her -- a long, soft stroke of my tongue, from the bottom to the top -- her moans became a wail, and she grabbed my head and pushed my face against her lips in a sharp jagged movement. I burrowed into her, licking and probing between her swollen lips, and she came in a series of spasms, her legs slapping together against my head and ears. I looked up and she was panting, her chest was red, her nipples hard and reaching out to be touched.

And then I felt her pulling my hair. "I want you in me. I want your body in mine. Now. Inside me."

I rose up, my cock so hard it ached, and came up over her. I reached down to rub the head of my cock along her lips, but she was so wet and open she didn't need anything else. I pushed into her, all the way at one, smooth and steady, until we were tucked into each other like two puzzle pieces. She kept murmuring "yes," and seemed to be whimpering with desire.

I pulled out, and then gently pushed back into her -- watching her face intently, trying to sense her feelings -- and then she reached down to touch my scarred stomach. It was almost too much -- I hadn't been touched there in years. My skin was a stitched up terrain of strange sensations -- the numbness of scar tissue, the sensitivity of barely touched skin, the distant memory of long ago, the ambush, the car accident, and I recoiled from her touch.

"You see this?" she said as she clumsily traced the jagged pink line?
I nodded.

"Now you see it...now you don't." She put her hand under my chin, and tilted my head up. "And I don't either. See me instead." And she pushed my face down into her breast, soft, full round, her nipple begging to be sucked, and when I put my lips on her and pulled gently she mashed my face against her chest and just said "harder" until I was tugging and nipping her.

I pulled my hips back, and then pushed into her slowly, and then again. I felt her all around me, a perfect, tight velvet grip, heaven's vise. She growled at me. "Harder. I want to feel you." It was what I wanted to hear, and I started moving more quickly, in and out of her, driving her down into the mattress, and I heard her grunt each time I thrust in her, as if I were driving the air from her lungs.

She reached up and put her hands on my hips, and then, when I was deep in her, moved her hands to my ass, her left hand falling into that concave cratered scar on my right butt cheek, again startling me. She must have felt me jump, my fear. "That's invisible too. There's nothing there. Don't stop." So I didn't.

I wanted her passion to rise with mine and I paced myself, even as I desperately wanted to just pump in and out of her until I exploded. I watched the flush rise on her chest, up her neck, and felt her grabbing at me as I moved in and out of her swollen wet folds -- and then she cried out, all of a sudden -- "Stop!"

"Stop, stop, I want to be on top!"

We rolled and twisted. The hand rails on her bed came up easily and helped, like Cupid's Jungle Gym. We tucked her leg one way, then another, and there she was, sitting on top of me, my cock buried inside of her, her breasts shimmering with heat. "Move...move for me."

And I did. I rose up off the bed, lifted her on top of me, and then back down, and then she leaned forward, her breasts dangling inches from my face, her clit grinding against me, and using her arms and the hand rails she writhed, pushing against me, not really a rhythm but a syncopated, random percussion, making the anticipation of our orgasm even more delicious, a maddening tease, and when I heard her start to cum, and watched her knuckles grow white on the rails I let myself go, arching my back, lifting her up until she was off the bed with me, impaled on my cock as I poured myself into her.

We rolled in the sheets almost all night. We ate the cupcakes in bed, and she smeared chocolate frosting on one of my scars. I fed her another glass of red wine, and we laughed when I over-tilted the glass and it ran down her face, her chin and onto her breasts, which I happily slurped off of her.

It was about four am, and we were laying quietly, sticky in the messy sheets, and she said softy "you have to go now."

"Right now?"

"Yes. The sun will be up in a couple of hours, and I become invisible again."

I was a puzzled -- confused, really, and a little hurt, but I did as she asked -- I put my clothes on, as sticky as I was. She pulled on an old bathrobe -- one of those comfy things -- picked up her crutches, and walked me to the door.

I didn't know quite what to say, so I went with the practical. "Listen, I never got to fix the plumbing."

"Well, leave your tools here - you can do that next time. You fixed the more urgent problem, my invisibility problem." She tasted like red velvet cake when I kissed her good bye, the last of the tiny cupcakes we had shared.

I left her apartment in a daze. It was still dark, and the neighborhood was nearly still except for some drunken hipsters and a few muggers and junkies. It had started to rain again, but I didn't have an umbrella. The rain speckled my eyeglasses as I tucked against a building, turned up my collar, and set off for the subway.

I emailed her the next day, and it bounced back. She had dumped the email address.

I sent her a snail mail letter, but it came back with a scrawled "RETURN" on the cover. I could have gone back -- I knew where she lived. I could have made up some excuse that I needed my tools back, and nagged her about them -- but she had what she needed.

Sometimes we just want to be who we really are, scars and all. And if we are lucky, sometimes we get to actually be who we are, if only for a few hours.

I could tell you that there's more to this story -- indeed, life is a story with many chapters, each related to the other. For a while my life returned to normal, living alone, until one day - wait -- sorry, my phone is vibrating in my pocket; ah, one of my clients. I've got to take this call -- it probably is urgent.

But let me know if you get to New York any time soon - I'll buy you a drink, and tell you the next chapter. You can find me in my cozy apartment, alone but not lonely -- most of the time.