Chapter 1

I was pulling weeds in my pathetic little garden early Saturday morning before it got hot. Somewhere between cursing the weeds and the rose thorns, I saw my next door neighbor drive in her driveway. I stood to say "Hi" and as she got out of her car I saw that it was not my neighbor, but her daughter, Rita. I'd known Rita since she was little, and now in her mid-twenties she was the very picture of loveliness, even in a sweatsuit boasting the name of her alma mater.

Even though she was a beautiful girl who was often at my house during the summer months—all the neighborhood kids seemed to migrate from house to house, eating indiscriminately from everyone's pantry—she had never been more to me than the neighbor kid. That is until her senior year in high school. She was a cheerleader and one day the squad was raising money by going door-to-door selling candy bars. She showed up at my front door in a pair of hot pants that showed her cheeks and a tube top about as wide as an elastic bandage wanting to know if I'd like to buy some candy. I realized in a rush that she'd blossomed in the past year and was downright sexy and provocative. I nearly told her I'd like two hands full, but I settled for buying a candy bar and then went inside for a waking wet dream about the fresh bit of candy next door.

In spite of that little episode, I managed to rein in my libido and maintained a pleasant and platonic relationship with my neighbors. Rita left for college, got a good job as an entry-level research scientist, and moved away. But she moved back home this summer to plan her fall wedding with her mother.

I called cheerfully to her as she got out of the car and she smiled and waved back. How's the job going, I asked, and she answered that it was fine. And the wedding plans?

I was not prepared for the sudden outburst and rush at me.

"It's been postponed ... indefinitely," she said and burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry, Rita," I said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She fell on my shoulder crying, tears soaking through my gardening shirt. She had a softness about her that I couldn't help but notice as she pressed into me—a girl in sweats and, if I had to guess, nothing else. I gently led her into the house, grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes as she sank into the living room sofa.

"Let's get you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it," I said and went into the kitchen to set water on the stove to boil.

"It's awful, Doc," she whimpered behind me. "It's like I don't even know him. He's being so mean."

I'm not really a doctor, by the way. Dimitri Rafael Petrovich according to my birth certificate, but I changed the last name to Peters as soon as I turned 16. With the initials D.R., kids had been calling me Doc since grade school. Like the famous Dr. Science, I'm not a real doctor. I have a master's degree ... in art. That's why I make a living selling real estate.

I set the freshly brewed tea on the breakfast bar where she'd moved as soon as I went into the kitchen. It was obvious that she didn't want to be alone, even in the next room. She took a sip of the tea and I waited without prompting her. Her lower lip quivered and she spoke to the teacup and not to me.

"He said I couldn't suck water from a firehose," she whimpered. "He said I just don't turn him on."

No matter what my fantasies, I certainly never expected to be privy to this kind of information. Instead of speaking I just reached over and patted her hand. This wasn't a subject that would benefit from me prying into what she didn't want to say.

"I don't know what he's complaining about. He can't say I don't turn him on. He's hard every time he walks into the room. He shoves it in my mouth then wants to fuck. He finishes and goes to sleep, or jerks off until he's ready to fuck again. How can he say things like that? Aren't I pretty?"

She was steaming. Now it was time to reach in with the reassurance.

"Rita," I said gently. "You are beautiful and sexy. The guy must be an idiot."

"But why would he say I don't turn him on? I do anything he wants me to."

"Hmmm. Well, let's get some things straight," I said. "It's not your problem. It's his. He's a typical mid-twenties asshole. He's got an income, a beautiful girlfriend, and he can't figure out why he's not happy. All he thinks with is his cock." I'd only met the guy once and had an instant dislike for him.

"He's not always like that," she said becoming defensive.

"Of course not," I said. "No one is ever all one thing or another. But there is a development cycle for young men that gets in the way of knowing what they are looking for. Their lower animal functions rule over all the higher level reasoning."

"What do you mean?"

I opened the refrigerator and took out two grapefruits and set them on the counter.

"What do you see?" I asked.