Sputterpub's Blog

Cindy understood. For the first time in her memory she was most important to someone. She felt almost desperate in happiness. Eager. She had heard versions of the sex talk at school, from her mother, out of the mouths of classmates, and she’d been around farm animals all her life; the only thing about that evening that scared her was her fear that Paco would stop.

He didn’t. In fact he was attentive and gentle and enduring with Cindy until he had to return to his family in Mexico. They had four and a half weeks during which, most evenings, she managed to visit him.

Cindy didn’t get pregnant from her first affair (that happened a bit later, and luckily after she’d left home). But she enjoyed her experience with attention and power. Paco convinced her that with her looks, she need never be lonely. And he wasn’t the last handsome man to lodge in that outbuilding.

By the time Cindy left home at 19, she thought she was pretty good at sex. She was comfortable with men. She loved the power she achieved, when she knew a guy wanted her, as she let him have a little more. She started using her full name. She arrived in the city as Cynthia, and she soon found a secretarial job and a room in a 3-bedroom flat.

The changes were stimulating at first. She even found a friend in one of her flatmates, a hard-partying valley girl from southern California. They had some congenial adventures until Cynthia’s pregnancy, when Sandy threw rigid disapproval at her. As it happened Cynthia miscarried, but Sandy started morning-after critiques of Cynthia’s prior evening choices, and the weight of those critiques soon broke their friendship. Cynthia moved on to another flat, just like she moved on to other jobs and other men.

When I met her, Cynthia was 23 and getting hardened. She had never been with a male her age before. She expected me to come on to her and when I didn’t, she wondered if I was gay. After all, I talked to her about shoes and hair like a woman would, I didn’t use up the air between our faces when we conversed, and I made a point of not looking at her breasts.

We became friends. She got a job through my weird cousin Allie, who never found employment herself except a position in clerical placement, finding jobs for others. Allie sent Cynthia to my office, and she was hired to assist my boss’s partner, so we had adjacent work spaces and projects and meetings to share. Our conversations led to lunches. We had afterwork drinks a few times, but I didn’t enjoy those. Once she started drinking she was hard to stop. After three cocktails she started spilling cleavage and/or secrets. I think I first understood my attraction to her when I noticed how much it bothered me to watch her flirt with old business men. I don’t think I would have heard about her history if booze hadn’t loosened her tongue.

One of the definitions of a friend is someone who will help you move. We did that for each other. And I was there for her when her oldest brother died.

It was a tractor accident on the farm. No one ever determined whether George was inebriated or the machinery misfired. The event was sudden and final. I accompanied Cynthia on her travel home for the funeral and aftermath. And it was there, in the then-unused outbuilding, the night after George was buried, that Cynthia learned I’m not gay. It was good; I think she was sincere; it felt real.

She was so tender then. Looking back now, I’m sure she was grieving as much for her sad childhood as for her dead brother. Being on that farm and around her folks brought it all back for her. That’s when she told me about the pregnancies. She admitted that she’d been caught several times, and the three occasions that didn’t result in miscarriages sent her to the doctor to terminate. The procedure was called a therapeutic abortion. I’m all for choice, but I don’t understand what was therapeutic about them.

I hear it; that sounds bitter. I guess I am. Because I thought we’d have a family. When we decided to marry I thought it would be more than the two of us. Even though the sex was never as sweet after the first time, even though it became so infrequent we almost never did it except in hotels when traveling, Cynthia got pregnant at least once. And told me in no uncertain terms that she would not go through with it. She never wanted to be a parent. She terminated that gestation.

She may have had other abortions, after. I now know how much she stopped telling me. I guess I was her celibate phase. In our quarter century together, we had sex a few times a year. That was okay with me; I’m not the most highly sexed guy. And I trusted her absolutely. I wasn’t looking for trouble; I had no idea about her dalliances. Now I know about her boss and the rich restauranteur client, and the married Colombian guy we hired so often to do odd jobs around the house. I try not to figure how many I don’t know about.

She was born in central California in the middle of the 1950s, in the middle of a family of boys. Her mother was vain and her father was egotistical; they neither noticed each other, really, so it wasn’t too surprising that they didn’t notice their daughter.

Some folks would argue that Cindy was lucky that way. Her brothers received rough discipline from their father whenever they misbehaved. Cindy managed to avoid the belt. But she would contend that even violent attention is better than none at all. Cindy can’t remember an occasion when either parent hugged her.

It really wasn’t fair. She was a beautiful baby and a gentle toddler. She was short and plump and had thick blonde hair that went where it should even though no one took the time to style it. She was sweet-tempered and bright enough to amuse the ambient adults. But the adults were busy raising boys and livestock and avocados and apricots during the day, and pursuing their own interests during the short evenings. They figured a daughter didn’t need much from them.

Cindy’s father read political philosophy when he had time. He would have liked an academic career but his rural family didn’t even let him go to the free community college; he was expected to take over the running of the farm and he did. But he spent his spare time cozying up to socialism and dreaming of the utopia he would design.

Cindy’s mother came from a whiter collar family. Her dad had been a veterinary doctor and her mother worked as a nurse before marriage. Cindy’s mother always felt she’d stepped down by marrying her father, and by the time Cindy was old enough to understand her parents’ arguments, her mother wasn’t letting her father forget the social gap between them. Her mother spent her free time reading society magazines and sneaking vodka.

Cindy spent time alone. Her brothers rough-housed with one another when they weren’t doing chores or attending school. Her father was outside during the day and in his small study most evenings. Her mother put her to regular work at domestic duties, but didn’t provide any companionship. The family lived too far away from congenial neighbors for her to find any friends near home.

She attended school of course, but she didn’t find friends there either. She was not bright or funny or coordinated enough to impress anyone there; she was too shy and quiet to be noticed. If she’d been a victim of teasing she might have acquired a defender or co-sufferer, but it was Cindy’s lot to go unnoticed. When she moved from the valley she left behind no close friends.

She came to the coast and the city. She brought with her substantial experience at cooking and cleaning and ironing and gardening. She knew her way around a sewing machine but disdained that skill. She had taken typing and shorthand in high school, so she aimed above au pair or housekeeper; she planned to acquire secretarial work.

She didn’t bring much luggage with her, but she toted a load of baggage. She had secrets.

She was the farmer’s daughter. She was a peach of a young lady: early maturing and luscious. Full grown she wasn’t over 5’2″ and her skin was fine-pored pink and white. She had sun blonde hair and sky blue eyes, and she produced impressive breasts by the time she was 14.

Her goods might have remained unsampled but for her father’s politics. He was so supportive of farmworker causes that he sometimes allowed a migrant or two to camp in the outbuilding behind the barn. Cindy’s first affair took place in that building, and it wasn’t her last.

His name was Paco. He was 32, tall and strong, darkly handsome. From the first time he encountered Cindy, he was gentle, friendly, and interested in her. Then he noticed that no one was noticing. He told Cindy how much he enjoyed her company. He said he wished they could talk more often. He explained that he had to work all day or he’d lose his place. He said he wished they were able to visit after work.

“I could sneak out,” Cindy suggested the next time they spoke. Paco said he didn’t want to get her in trouble. “No, I can do it,” she insisted. “Daddy never minds me; he’ll be reading in his study. And Mama has a cocktail while we clean up after dinner, and then she goes to her room and doesn’t come out. I could even bring some of her vodka.”

“No need,” said Paco (actually he said, no es necesario, but that makes this too hard to read).

Cindy showed up at the outbuilding around 9:30 that night. Paco had improved the room with a blanketed nest in one corner. He sat her down there. He asked her questions. She talked. He listened. Then he talked. He told her how beautiful she was. He looked into her blue eyes with his of chocolate brown, and he said that he loved her. Then he put one arm around her shoulders and stroked her face with his other hand. He kept looking in her eyes as he brought his mouth to hers. At first he gave her kisses like feathers. She didn’t pull back. Then he planted his lips around hers and gently pushed hers open with his tongue. At the same time he let his stroking hand explore one breast and he moaned into her mouth.

In your early middle years you cherished hopes for your children and disdain for your spouse. But by the time you neared 60, you’d gone beyond disappointed with your kids and you began to view your husband with favor.

It’s true. You’d gotten so tired of his jokes and stories that they almost seemed new again. You had to admit that he didn’t look as bad as many other husbands. At least he had the sense to buzz off his thinning hair. At least he still had an ass.

You don’t want to win by default, but it’s starting to look like you two will go the distance and maybe even appreciate one another. Who’d have thought?

Authority? POV? No problem. The speaker is an oddball. In terms of reasoning and confidence, I became an adult before I was 6. I have no affect. Ads and symbols don’t work on me. I don’t detect or react to attitude, so I rarely encounter it. I approach every mammal with respect and I haven’t yet been bitten.

As far back as you can remember you’ve been looking at the other kids and trying to assess who’s happier, and why. Your first recollection of a peer crowd was from kindergarten; even now you can summon that sense of children who weren’t your siblings or cousins or neighbors, sitting next to you on either side and behind you too, children in class with synchronized movements fingerpainting, sipping juice, resting, looking around at one another. You remember being aware of them and puzzling if they were happier than you, more or less frustrated than you with the teacher commands. You wondered then if they were really as excited and compliant as they seemed or if it was an act, and I wonder if you still wonder.

What were they seeking? Did they achieve it?

Your husband is a good soul, even if he isn’t strong. Or pretty. It’s too bad the way men get to smell as they age. It’s unfortunate how most seem to give up and let the chest waste. Sure that’s all physical but then we do have to go there. We’re going to have to mention sex.

Maybe a mention is all it deserves. For all the talk there never was that much of it.

Sure I remember it. I learned the pleasure my body could provide before I was 5. My mother caught me at it, but she doesn’t recall that. I taught my friends but I don’t know if that’s how they remember it. I talked about sex to anyone who would respond, so I knew early that everyone was insecure, and I knew always that folks enjoyed the anticipation and recollection more than the act.

So you’re turning back to love him. It feels like you’ve done what you signed on for – you stayed married no matter what – and now you can reap benefits. Now you will have that companionship. But in fact you’ve been reaping all along. You know how much you traded in order to have the silent cultural approval… Don’t argue! Listen… Every time you two went anywhere, you know what was assumed: that you were a proper heterosexual couple; that you were a natural woman, like other women, and he was an understandable male.

But he smells bad in the morning. He takes up most of the bed. He snores. He’s comfortable with you, which you treasured when you two were new, but now it means you see his hatefulness. Though he’s a good soul.

Really.

And that’s never enough.

Everyone you know has a good soul. Your kids have great souls, and look how disappointed you are in them. And it’s not like I didn’t warn you…

But then, I only warned because I knew you would disregard me. Back when I was in high school I emerged as everyone’s advisor; then my counsel was earnest and willful. Then I expected to be influential. And then I would have felt responsible if my advice had been followed and unsuccessful. So now I am comforted to know my words won’t be effective. Now I can safely speak.

Sure: you did everything that was recommended. Those family vacations covered all the national parks, and the college tours visited most of the name campuses. I should have known what was coming when you joined a church; that’s something no one would have predicted who knew you in college.

I should have known what was coming, but I’ll admit I was shocked. Shock means bad surprise, but still – like all surprise it’s rare, and so a little special, a little cherished. You shocked me every time you subordinated your will or opinion to Ned’s. I knew that was an approved method of achieving the compromise so crucial for a long marriage, but I just couldn’t figure out how you did it. How could you watch him scamming insurance companies and not despise him? Or maybe you did despise – maybe that’s the reason you sometimes filtered information for him; I always thought it wasn’t the act of a friend to withhold news about what might be a better job or weekend. Then again, I’m kind of a idiot-child about the meannesses of adult relationships.

I remember being astounded (that’s more positive than shocked) when you observed how much happier my children are – able to leap tall stories and stronger than an automaton – even though (in your actual words) they are products of divorce, whereas you and Ned stayed together. As if one- or two-parent homes were the actual issue! I looked at you then, to see if there was irony in your grin. No.

I tried everything I could to get you to remember. I reminded you of our young selves and you scoffed affectionately about my memory. I urged you to reread the notes and letters I’d kept in the old footlocker, and you steadfastly refused. WTF? The only reason not to read your old words is from fear of embarrassment, and child-me still doesn’t get how anyone would let that stand in their way. So I watched you romanticize your kids’ infancies and early childhoods and then fear them when they hit adolescence. Borrowing money to plant a lawn for them to play on, when we all played very well on dirt and gravel and in fact awoke maternal wrath when we came home with grass stains on our knees. Suspecting your teenagers of activities totally inconsistent with their personalities or your experience…

I have to tell you something. Jen called me the night before last. She wanted to know if she and her boyfriend could spend the night at my place this Friday. She said something funny had happened. She’s pregnant. She said that wasn’t the funny part: no. What’s “funny” is she’s way farther along than she thought. The local services won’t help her terminate it. And she’s decided that termination is the only way to go. So she has to come here. She’s wondering if she can crash at my place. She’s wondering if she can bring her dog.

I was beyond shocked. It was like hearing instead of seeing a “How Many Things Can You Find Wrong With This Picture.” What a cascade of bad choices! And every indication of zero enlightenment.

I started to ask about you. I think I pronounced “What does you mother – ” before she screeched “Don’t tell her! You can’t tell mom. She’ll just hold it against me.” I’m thinking huh? Hold it against her? Jen’s almost 30 …

You’re scowling. You’re aiming your disapproval face wherever your eyes peer and now directly toward me. You say it’s Jen’s life and her decision to make. It’s clear that you are not going to speak to her about this. “Stop being judgmental,” you state. “You’re being judgmental.” Uh huh. Like a judge. Or a teacher. Or a parent. And even as you say that, I know you’re not going to tell Ned.

“Good grief, she’s huge,” came as expected, before the door even shut. “She must weigh a hundred pounds more than she did when I saw her last.” Sheila’s mother came around the bed and sat in the large depression Gwen left in the seat of the brown chair.

“Come on, Mom. I still weigh over 300, and Gwen’s no bigger than me. Those words don’t help anyone.”

“Well, but you’re going to get better now. As soon as you’re out of here, we can go back to Dr. Miller, and start shaping you up.”

“You mean shaping me down. And it’s not happening.”

“Now honey. Don’t be impatient with me. Maybe Gwen can go with you this time. She doesn’t need her parents’ permission now. We can work out a way to help her pay for it.”

“Mom, Gwen does okay. I mean, she’s not wealthy or anything, but she can afford what she needs. So can I. We’re not going back to Dr. Miller.”

“We shouldn’t talk about this right now. I can see that you’re tired.” Sheila’s mother tried to adjust the pillow for her. She pulled the sheet-wrapped blanket higher on Sheila’s chest. “You rest now, honey, and we’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll come by right after work.”

Her mother left but Sheila didn’t rest. She used that night to cry. The last surgical drain had been removed that day, and for the first time since her birthday, when she awoke to excruciating pain and her medical crisis commenced, Sheila knew that she would live. Up till then she’d been busy paying attention to the progress of her condition, contending with the pain and with her mother. But that night, she knew she’d live and leave the hospital.

She tried to think about what she wanted to do. She got nowhere. She thought instead about what she didn’t want to do. She didn’t want to go to her parents’ home. She wouldn’t return to her old condo. She may not get any smaller, but she didn’t want to gain back to her old weight. She wanted to be able to move around.

She slept some. She watched a hospital video about prostate procedures. She thought some more. Tears continued to leak from the outer corners of her eyes.

She was upright and fresh when Gwen showed up at 12:30. The nurse had gotten her out of bed that morning and she’d walked for almost ten minutes, pushing her IV rig ahead of her as she shuffled down the corridor in her slippers. She noticed chart racks on the walls beside room doors, and a courtyard outside the windows. She imagined walking outdoors.

Gwen brought flowers and real estate ads.

“Hi, Gwen,” Sheila almost sang. “Want to diet?”

“Hi yourself. And ‘no.’ But I want to look for a place with privacy, a pool, some open space. I’ve thought about it and want to use a chunk of my winnings for a down payment. I can carry the mortgage on my salary, and I can save the rest of my windfall.” She arranged the flowers in a green vase and set them on the windowsill. “I could use a housemate and investor.”

“You’re on. Thank Mom for making me realize what I don’t want.”

“You thank Mom. I’d rather look at real estate ads.” Gwen moved back around the bed to her chair and unfolded the newspaper. Several sections slipped to the floor, but she left them there as she read. “Here’s a two bedroom, two bath, with a pool, a couple of miles out of town. Look: the price is right.” She passed the section to Sheila.

“We’d need a car to get around.”

“I can swing that and still have money to save. We can buy bicycles too. When the weather’s good, we can get around on them. Maybe. For now we’ll use a car.”

“For now, we’ll use our feet. Let’s take a walk.” Sheila grabbed the triangle above the bed and began the long process of moving her legs off the side.

“Now?”

“Why not? It’s a beginning.”

Gwen rose to help her. Together they got Sheila off the bed and began their first post-operative, post-lottery walk. Together again, the same and ever different, the two young women started down the long corridor.

Gwen was late the next evening. Sheila expected to see her restored friend by six, and was hard-wondering by 6:20. She told herself she was sure Gwen would come. She thumbed the button on the patient-administered analgesia machine, giving herself a bolus of morphine as her internal pain signaled the need. Gwen wasn’t rubbernecking, she thought as she tried to shift her position on the hospital bed. Sheila was certain that theirs was a real renewal. But she couldn’t imagine what was delaying her friend.

It was nearly seven when the door opened inward and Gwen appeared behind it. She looked pale. She walked halfway to the bed, stopped, met Sheila’s eyes, and uttered, “I won the lottery.”

Sheila could tell she wasn’t referring to a Scratcher.

“No, no: it’s not like I’m going to have hundreds of thousands a year for decades. I don’t think I have to worry about the press beating a path to my door.” Gwen came the rest of the way into the room and sat down. “But I just won $100,000.”

“Oh, Gwennie. That’s wonderful!” Sheila’s response was automatic and genuine. “I didn’t even know you played. What will you do with it?”

“There won’t be that much ‘it,’ after I pay the taxes. Can I?” Gwen indicated her desire for water by inclining her head and moving her left hand toward Sheila’s glass. Sheila nodded and murmured “help yourself,” as Gwen continued. “I’m not going to quit my job. I have some interesting projects going now; I don’t even think I’ll take time off. It could be most of a condo…”

“Or use some of it for a down payment, and invest the rest? I’m going to move, you know. They had to wreck my condo a little to get me out. Between that and other things, I don’t want to go back there. I’m putting it on the market.”

Gwen had been wondering. “What do you think about us going in on a place? Together we could get a house. Maybe a pool. Alone we’re pretty much limited.”

“I think it’s a great idea. I hate the condo scene; it isn’t private enough. And I like the idea of spending time with you again.”

At that the door opened, pushed this time by Sheila’s mother. She breezed into the room talking about her day at work, and it wasn’t until she was at Sheila’s bedside that she noticed Gwen occupying the chair. She spent a second and a half recognizing.

“Is that Gwen?” she then asked. “How are you, dear? You look wonderful. You haven’t aged a bit since I saw you last, but I don’t expect you’ll age poorly.” She fluttered about Sheila making nurse-like noises while Gwen hosted sour thoughts. At 26, Gwen wasn’t worried about aging, poorly or otherwise, and knew the comment was a cheap dig at her size.

If Gwen hated anyone, it was Sheila’s mother. She blamed her for damaging Sheila, and she blamed her for the breakup of their friendship. If Sheila’s mother hadn’t thought losing weight so important, she wouldn’t have sent Sheila to the doctor who put her on that barbaric liquid diet where of course she lost, but where she never stood a chance against regaining. It was that weight loss that created the distance between Sheila and Gwen, which came at such a crucial and determinative time. And she didn’t have proof of it, but she thought it was the weight loss that set the stage for the growth of the cyst. Now here she was again, cooing and planning to take Sheila back into her home and onto her agenda.

“I have to go now,” Gwen said as she stood. She saw the look of dismay on Sheila’s face and added, “Tomorrow’s a holiday for county employees. I’ll come by in the early afternoon.”

Sheila looked for a moment as if she’d protest, but the friends’ eyes met over the processed curls of Sheila’s attendant mother, and they mutely agreed. Gwen left.

Word about Sheila’s operation got around fast. Phenomenal medical stories do. “Did you hear about Sheila Ehrman?” one old classmate asked another in the aisles of Safeway. “You remember her: the fat blonde who hung around with Gwen Strybulski? Ginny was working in the ER when they brought Sheila in for what turned out to be removal of an ovarian cyst. Dig this: the thing was over two hundred pounds! Can you believe it?”

“Whoa! What a way to lose weight” came the response.

“It’s a gross way to do anything. I hear she’s huge afterward anyway.”

“Is she still in the hospital? Should we visit her?”

“You wish. I don’t think that would be too cool – not after eight years of silence. I doubt she sees anyone other than her mom.”

In fact, Sheila’s obese father left the house to visit her. It was a cumbersome trip, and Sheila’s mother tried to avoid the attendant inconvenience by telling him that Sheila would be coming back home to recuperate and he’d see plenty of her there. But Sheila wasn’t due to be released immediately, and her father felt a strange rare urge to see her. His hug was awkward but wonderful.

The other surprise visitor was Gwen. The eight year gap didn’t stop her, and Sheila’s private room saw a sweet reunion between the former best and only friends. After the first ice-breaking teary afternoon, Sheila and Gwen got down.

“Okay, you’ve got to give me some details about this operation,” Gwen began. She sat heavily in the armchair by Sheila’s bed, ran her fingers back through her glossy brown hair, and settled her crossed arms above her bosom. “How could the surgery take 18 hours?”

Sheila pushed the button that raised the head of her bed. She pulled on the suspended triangle to lift her upper body, and settled back after Gwen adjusted the pillow behind her neck. “From what I’m learning, 18 hours is nothing. The remarkable fact about my operation is the size of the cyst, but even that isn’t a record breaker.”

“Get out of here! You told me the thing weighed 257 pounds.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you about Gertrude Levandowski’s; at 308 pounds, her cyst gets the prize.”

Gwen goggled. Her brows lifted into semi-circles as she rounded her hazel eyes.

“I don’t have all the details, but apparently Mrs. Levandowski weighed 616 before her surgery. She was from Burnips, Michigan, and the operation was performed in Chicago. Get this: her surgery spanned 96 hours! That was back in 1951.”

Gwen’s face grew pensive as she cast her eyes down for a moment. “How do they remove a cyst of that size? In pieces?”

Sheila reached for her glass of water. Gwen leaned forward and helped. “This is really gross,” Sheila said after a sip, “but most of a cyst is the fluid with which it’s filled. There usually has to be a lot of pumping.”

They made gagging motions. Then they giggled like girls. The nurse came in to check Sheila’s blood pressure and other vital signs. Sheila and Gwen composed themselves during the interruption. They were calm when they continued the conversation after the nurse left.

“Eighteen hours is an incredibly long time,” Gwen commented, “but I guess I’ve heard about longer operations. Seriously, though, how can any surgery take 96 hours? I mean, just imagine: twice 48 hours! Four complete days … I don’t care how big the body is: what can they possibly do for four days?”

“I had the same question. I asked some nurses and doctors around here, and I’m starting to understand the answer.” Sheila explained that they didn’t have the cautery equipment and micro-devices in 1951 that are available now. They removed 308 pounds of a 616-pound person, and that meant a lot of excision. Each time they cut through a blood supply, they had to suction, close, pack and stabilize the area. They wouldn’t have been working every minute of the 96 hours, but the patient would remain in the operating room and the procedures would continue for that period of time. “They didn’t remove as much of me,” she concluded. “I’m still 56% as large as I was. But they cut through enough that it took 18 hours to do the job even now, in 1996, with all their miracle machinery.”

“You lost 44% of you, in less than one day. That’s awesome.”

“I must admit, I’m looking forward to experiencing it. They haven’t let me out of bed yet. And the trauma from the surgery has me retaining fluid; they say I’ll drop weight fast when I ‘ambulate.’ I still need to lose over a hundred pounds.”

“Who doesn’t? Now that we’re speaking to each other again, we can try diets together. No, I don’t mean it. That never worked.” Gwen looked at her watch as if she were about to stand.

“The doctors have recommended some sort of counseling for me. I think my insurance will pay for it. Maybe you can come too? It can’t be worse than diet tricks.”

Gwen’s job at the county probation office paid enough for rent, food, and commute but not much more. She wasn’t sure she could swing it. “Do you think they’d let us go together?”

“Come on, Gwennie. We’re both 26, and I’m ‘in crisis.’ Sure they’ll let us. I don’t know how they’d stop us.” The voice came over the PA system, announcing the end of visiting hours till ten next morning. “Promise to come back tomorrow.”

“I will. After work.” Gwen brushed a kiss on Sheila’s brow, picked up her purse, and lumbered out of the room. Her brown hair looked shining and lovely, bouncing around her shoulders. Her back looked as monstrous as a manatee’s.