H is for Healing

Dear diary,

Let me remind you where we left off. It's midnight, and at our tiny hotel that means quiet. I was sitting at the bar, right across from the new espresso machine, lapping and chomping on my affogato like a stray cat that's been miraculously offered a hearty meal. I could feel his sideway glances burning my left cheek. Him being the English dude with a Cuban and almost empty gin and tonic, at the almost empty bar. Don't ask me how I knew that he was English, without even hearing him speak. One of my special talents, I guess, and travelling all around the world might have contributed to it as well.

I leaped off the bar stool and reached over the counter to grab the tub of my beloved vanilla ice cream which Diego left on the counter, knowing that I will go later for another scoop. My sundress rode up revealing my thighs and possibly butt, a deadly sin according to Aldous, but I could care less, I was wearing shorts.

It's been fifteen years since I stopped dancing and got off the steady salads and yogurts diet and gained a good thirty pounds. At first, it was all Aldous, feeding me like a goose before Christmas. After a while, when I realized what a pleasure food can be, and how much of that pleasure I've been missing my whole life, there was no stopping me. But eating ice cream straight from the tub was, of course, an ultimate fuck-you to the goddess of all diets.

The English dude cleared his throat, which sounded awfully close to my ear. Indeed, he moved over to the stool one over from mine. Diego has been ignoring his tapping on the empty glass, more concerned about my wellbeing. I gave him a reassuring nod, please, I'm a big girl, and Diego begrudgingly refilled the guy's G&T.

“I'm Arlen,” the guy introduced himself without offering his hand. “But I've been called Uncle Ar most of my adult life.”

“Lots of nephews and nieces?” I inquired without offering him my own name in return.

“Mostly nieces. And not related by blood,” he winked.

Now, that was creepy. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to ice cream.

“A proper young lady shall never roll her eyes.” His wide smile contradicted the stern tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?” I hid behind the familiar English phrase that at this moment meant, are you fucking with me. Crap, how did he deduce, am I marked or something?

“I've been teaching proper manners to many young ladies.” Arlen emphasized the words ‘proper’ and ‘young ladies’, a deadly combination, coming from an English gentleman of a certain age. 

Like a code phrase it left no doubt that he knew.

I blinked. 

He finished his drink and added. “Sometimes they just need to learn their lesson.”

“How?” Dumbfounded, I couldn't think of a better response.

“I think you know how.” He winked again.

“How did you know?” I pressed on.

“Oh that. Your garments, my dear. Well, undergarments.” He nodded towards the hem of my sundress that rode up high enough to reveal the edge of my pink shorts. My Azotarme Duro shorts. If anyone is too lazy to Google translate, that's Spank me hard in Spanish. I've never blushed so hard in my entire life. Thank God, Diego stepped out to the restroom and did not witness this most embarrassing conversation.

“No need to be embarrassed, my dear. I understand you better than you will ever imagine.” Arlen covered my hand with his. 

And for the first time since forever, I trusted him. I believed him and trusted him. It sounds absurd, how can someone trust a total stranger you met at the bar and only exchanged a few words with. Even more absurd, my encounter with Nick started exactly the same way, and in the same spot. When I felt that overwhelming urge to confide, to open up, to let go. Except with Nick I knew who he was.

“I picked the wrong shorts in the dark. I never wear them in public,” I mumbled.

“No one owns a piece of garment as such with no intention of showing it to someone, my dear. At some point.”

“Stop calling me my dear,” I snapped and pulled my hand away. 

“Very well. Firstly, you didn't volunteer your name. And, secondly, you will not tell me what to do. Especially not in that rude manner. Your name, please?” His curt tone didn't leave any room for an argument.

“Elizabeth.” He raised an eyebrow. “Elizabeth Ball.” That's the name I used in Ibiza.

“Well, Miss Ball, I gather you and I will need to talk, preferably in private. I suggest my room as one more adequately equipped for such discussion.”

“What do you mean?” I blurted out and blushed again, quickly realizing what he meant.

“You will finish the sentence with sir or Uncle Ar.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I repeated without a fault.

“If you must know, I have a small collection of certain instruments that could be useful in expediting the learning.”

“Or healing. Sir.” Whatever he had stashed in his room, nothing could scare me off after Aldous and his collection. I was ready. I looked up at him, hoping that my pleading eyes would convey enough. It was humiliating enough to ask for it, but to explain why was even worse. Uncle Ar, as I already called him in my head, seemed to be wise enough not to ask.

“I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to sound puzzled. Wise but puzzled.

“I've been through the learning my lesson part.” That was the only explanation I gave. “I need healing.”