chapter nine

For me to take your word, I had to steal it.

-Tori Amos, A Sorta Fairy Tale

S: Will you answer a question for me? Just one?
One thoughtful answer, no follow-ups from me.
Would you?

P: Will you send me the picture I asked you for?

S: No. This isn’t a trade. This is you answering a
question for me simply because you want to do
it for me.

P: Ok
Ask.

S: Do you still love me?

P: Yes. But I think you already knew that.

The house had been full of company that weekend, family and friends coming into town for an annual party centered on a college rivalry. What began many years ago as a casual afternoon with just a few cases of beer and some chips had evolved into a decadent and even gluttonous weekend of food and drink, meticulously planned for months and executed with great care and attention to detail. It was a foodie’s paradise, one meal after another presented like a great feast, everyone contributing a dish, one more delicious than the next.

And it was a sport’s lover’s paradise as well, where the talk centered only on the games and the jokes and the competition.

It was her favorite weekend of the year, and she was especially excited to get to host. Especially excited to throw open the front door and let in all the noise and the laughter and the love. And she pushed away the thoughts of her Pavlov; the thoughts of how he might enjoy sitting on the deck smoking cigars with the uncles, how the girl cousins would fuss over him, making sure his beer was always full and cold, asking him to open jars or to lift something heavy or any of those things southern women do to make their men feel like men. How her brothers would circle around him, pretending to appear intimidating and protective of their baby sister. She tried not to imagine how proud she’d be to show him off to her people, how grounded and safe she would feel watching him be accepted and welcomed into the bustle and the fun.

Instead she slipped back into her role as half of The Fun Couple with her husband, and she decided to savor the break in the silence. To enjoy catching him looking at her as she worked in the kitchen, to thank him with a kiss when he’d bring her a drink, to let herself relax and laugh with him again. She would try to pretend things were the same as they ever were.

Late Saturday evening, after the guests had gone back to their hotels, after the house had been put back together and the dishes were washed and ready for the next morning’s brunch and things had again returned to quiet, she gave in to the nagging feeling just under her heart, the feeling that she could only describe as him, and she picked up her phone and sent him a message. A nothing message like she’d done many times before when they were so connected, just to let him know she was thinking of him. Even though they weren’t together anymore, she was still always thinking of him.

Party’s over. I’m exhausted. Off to bed.

She had enjoyed being with her husband that day. They were lighthearted and happy and surrounded by familiarity. Reliability. Comfort. And even though they had quickly fallen into the habit of not being in their bedroom at the same time, making the end of the day moments less awkward since their decision to sleep in separate beds, that night they walked into the bedroom at the same time. Tentatively, but together.

He went to take out his contacts and she went to plug her phone into the charger. And she was thinking about having sex. With her husband.

She slipped off her jeans and tee shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the bathroom door. Instead of trying to undress in a corner where he couldn’t see her, she sat still on the side of the bed, in just her bra and underwear, trying to decide whether or not she was extending an invitation.

So was he.

And she let the part of her that missed him take over. She unhooked her bra and let it slide from her shoulders, stood up and turned around and looked right into his eyes. And smiled a little.

As he finished brushing his teeth she glanced at her phone and saw the red light blinking, and she knew that it was a message from her Pavlov. She could feel it. She could feel him there in the room with her just as strong and real as if he were the one rinsing his mouth and wiping off his hands.

Her husband flipped off the light and came around to her side of the bed, put his hands on her waist and pulled her close to him. She lifted her lips up to meet his, let her hands drift up his arms and shoulders and finally to his neck. He slid his hands into the back of her panties and squeezed her bottom, and she could feel him sigh. Like he was happy to be home.

As he kissed down the side of her neck to the tops of her shoulders, she pressed up close against him, trying to find that same feeling.

He laid her down, slid off her underwear, spread her knees apart, and began kissing down her thighs. His finger touched her and felt how wet she already was, and he looked up at her with this cute little half smile. Because he assumed he had done that. He assumed she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

And she smiled back.

She stretched her arms up over her head and let out a long, slow, breath, trying not to see the red light blink. She tried to be present in her life, tried to feel what it was her husband wanted her to feel, tried to let his mouth and tongue and fingers take her where he wanted her to go. And when he kissed up her belly, found her breasts, nuzzled her neck, and came back to kiss her lips, she left her eyes open. He was on top of her, entering her, and she looked right at him, right in his eyes, trying to make the connection that he was craving from her. And she could see he was going to come fast, giving her that familiar look – sort of apologetic, sort of seeking permission to keep going – and she smiled at him with all of the tenderness she could communicate. And she quietly said in his ear I want you to fuck me until you come.

She knew that would do it. That her whispering would take him over the edge.

And when he finished, he laid down next to her, both of them looking up at the ceiling, him feeling loved and close, and her feeling happy but unfinished. She was glad she could make him feel so good. Glad she hadn’t sabotaged the evening after such a wonderful day. Glad that she had helped him to not feel so lonely and sad.

But the red light was still blinking. She still needed to read Pavlov’s message.

She got up and went into the bathroom, slipping into her robe and trying not to look at herself in the mirror. Because she didn’t want to see what cheating looked like.

She told her husband she wanted to go write and being that he was already almost asleep, he simply said okay. Don’t stay up too late.

She picked her phone up from the nightstand and dropped it in her pocket, crept out of their room and closed the door behind her. It took every bit of restraint she had to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, to grab the computer, to set herself up like she was actually going to work. Just in case he peeked out at her.

And she got settled, still naked under her robe, beneath a thick fleece blanket, pulled her phone from her pocket, and saw two messages from him. An email and a chat.

The email was just one word.

Alone?

He was thinking the same thing she was thinking. And within seconds she found him, and within seconds she read his please call my mobile, and within seconds she was hearing his breath in her ear. She heard him quietly moan for her, and in confident whispers she described what she wanted to be doing to him. What she wanted him to do to her. She was leading this time, ready to take what she needed, anxious to be with the one man who would to give it to her. And in her mind she straddled him, put him inside of her, grinding her hips against his, trying to get as close as possible. She listened to his hushed sounds in her ear and she told him she needed his fingers on her, she needed him to keep going, not to stop. She told him how wet she was. How close. She heard him exclaim his orgasm and she was not far behind. She needed him to hear her say his name.

Then there was rustling in her ear, and his voice disappeared. He hung up. He was gone.

And she was alone, huddled on her couch, one hand still holding her phone, one hand still deep between her legs, wondering what just happened.

She didn’t know what to do except sit still. Moving would break the spell, and allow the shame and the humiliation to set in. She would be forced to feel whatever it is one feels when your lover disappears at that moment when you need him the most. She waited to see if he was going to reach out first. To explain away the sudden disappearance. To be sorry that it seemed like he’d just finished, hung up, and left.

She wasn’t done yet. Not just with their game, not just with her orgasm, but with him. Late that night while their spouses were absent, she wanted time that belonged to her. One completed, uninterrupted, intimate connection. Something they shared together. One thing that belonged to both of them, that proved this was as real to him as it had become to her. She could not accept it ending that way, a hangup in her ear, and a return to the daily wondering when or if she’d hear from him again.

She needed him to hear her say his name. She needed him to have that memory, that secret in his pocket to pull out and remember some night when he was feeling lonely, too. That time would come for him, and even though they were all weird and broken and the rules had changed and he was far away from her now, she knew that no matter how thin the thread, they were still somehow connected. And she needed to be the memory that would help him through his own lonely nights.

She didn’t care that she had to steal this moment from somebody else, because stolen moments were all she would ever get. She didn’t care that she had to sneak and whisper. She didn’t care that she could still smell her husband on her body. All she wanted was one full minute of him loving her and her loving him. Just a moment where nothing else mattered. Just a moment where she was the most important thing. Where they were the most important thing.

She was sick of walking around feeling unfinished.

Finally she summoned the courage, and typed what happened? And he came back to her. Like he always did, at just the moment she was sure he wouldn’t, he reappeared and was apologetic that he had to hang up so quickly. Appropriately sheepish at leaving her all by herself. Gentlemanly in his concern that her needs were not met. So he took the time to type the things she needed to read so she could finally get her release. So she could let go of all that had built up inside her not once, but twice that night. But their connection had changed; he wasn’t there to listen. He didn’t hear her sweet voice whisper his name. Unfinished.

When they were both done, so was their conversation. No pillow talk, no afterglow. Just back to real life. And for a second she felt like she was sixteen again, losing her virginity in somebody’s basement on a hard laundry room floor. Even though that boy had laid her on a pile of clean clothes still warm from the dryer, she still felt the cold cement underneath; there was no disguising it. And when the boy was done and she watched him hop up and get dressed, trying to escape as quickly as he could, her mind raced with things she could say to get him to stay, just for a minute. Just long enough to make her feel like she hadn’t just given herself to someone who didn’t consider her to be a gift.

When Pavlov gave her a quick sleep well, she was again laying on something cold and hard, briefly disguised as something warm and loving. And her mind raced the same way it did all those years ago, trying to find the thing to say that would make him want to be with her for just a minute or two more. Like he used to. So she asked his permission, Baby? Can I say it?

No. Not yet. Please.

Then, once again, he was gone.

She picked up her laptop and stared at the screen, waiting for the emotions to rise and begin to propel her fingers across the keys, but nothing happened. Nothing came. No tears or anger or sadness. No calm. Just nothing. For months he had been her muse, her material, her inspiration and her confidence, but at that moment she’d made the decision; no longer would she look to another person to complete her. Never again would she hand over the credit for what she was able to accomplish. It was time for her to move forward on her own, without looking back to see who was still there, because she couldn't control what other people did. She could only control her reaction.

chapter eight

You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings.

-Nine Inch Nails, Closer

S: Those are awfully possessive words coming from the
silent guy who told me to go away.

Space, for S and her husband, was this strange mix of passing the children back and forth, passing each other in the mornings when she’d clear out of the bedroom so he could get ready for work, passing at the front door when she’d head out for a walk or to run errands when he came home for lunch, passing in the driveway when she’d head inside to start dinner once he got home in the evenings. Passing each other at bedtime, when she’d slip into their room and he’d remain out on the couch doing homework. Passing the laptop back and forth, so he’d have time to work and she’d have time to write.

It was polite. And quiet. But empty. Lonely. S slowly began to realize how much company they provided for each other. How, even though most of it was really about nothing, they did talk a lot. They did laugh. They did share. There were things about their life together that she missed once they were gone.

Space, for S and P, was different. Instead of being like a wave, where life still sort of flowed between them, it was more of an abrupt jolt. Like being thrown overboard and left behind, so all one could hear was the sound of thrashing and grasping in the water.

From time to time P would reach out, checking on her, or commenting on something she had written. He would use their old language and stir up her old feelings, but just seconds after it would feel good to hear from him, the ache would set back in.

And from time to time S would reach out to P, wanting to know if he was missing her too. P never told her their game was over forever; he only asked for time. A break. And like everything else he ever said, she believed him. She believed that the morning would come when she would hear the familiar chirp of his message, and they would start over. But when S did the reaching, P said she was pushing, and their correspondence would end in icy words, his filled with irritation and something just shy of contempt, hers full of misunderstanding and something just shy of desperation.

With her real life relationship uncertain, and her fantasy relationship disappearing, she did the only thing she knew how to do when life was messy. She moved forward. She made the decisions she wanted so badly for her husband to support. Either he’d come around, and be happy she wanted to go back to a career, or he’d leave, and she’d have no other choice. She got the information together for the nursing program she wanted to start, and began figuring out a way to make it happen.

And all of the emotions that were twisting up inside her chest went into her writing. She buried herself deep into her file of unfinished stories, and she let her fingers go wild creating new ones. She brought her notebooks out of hiding, and stopped caring about the look that would appear in her husband’s eyes when he’d see her scribbling away.

She also kept up with her blog. It was where she rediscovered her voice, where she could practice being brave, or find comfort when she stumbled. And something began to happen there. More people were reading and commenting. More people were emailing her. There, her words mattered. There, she could affect people.

Sometimes she’d hear from a reader who wanted to flirt, and it occurred to her that whatever it was that happened with Pavlov probably wasn’t all that unique. The world is full of lonely people looking to make a connection. On the one hand it made her laugh, seeing the obvious way some men used to try to get her attention. None were as smooth and charming and challenging as P had been.

But on the other hand it made her sad, leaving her to wonder if her connection with him had been as extraordinary as she believed it to be when it was happening. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just make-believe. Maybe she didn’t really matter to him at all.

One reader began emailing her often, his notes more like dialogue than just a statement about her daily post. He responded to her answers quickly, like a conversation, and while she didn’t really interpret him as being flirtatious, he was certainly attentive and complimentary. It was enjoyable to have a distraction, and to know somebody who regarded her as a writer.

And after about a week of the emails, he asked if she used Gchat, because that way they could talk more easily. This time she didn’t have to make a joke to cover her ignorance; she knew just what he meant. And the irony made her laugh and cry. And of course, she told Pavlov.

To: Pavlov
From: Sudan
Re: Something Funny
I have been emailing with somebody who reads my blog, he just asked me to Gchat. After recovering from the huge deja vu, I said I didn't chat. I need another pretend internet boyfriend like I need a hole in my head. And I laughed at how it felt like cheating. On you. Oh, man, life was so much simpler before al gore invented the internet.


To: Sudan
From: Pavlov
Re: Something Funny
Who is he! And don’t you dare say you can’t say!!

Because she and her husband agreed that space would also include some weekends away from each other, out of the house, she began making her plan. She would spend the weekend in a college town getting registered for classes and basically acting like a coed, and she’d go to a blogger meet-up, where, among other readers, this email man would be. She’d do as her husband suggested; she would go make some friends.

S: You gonna beat him up? I’m a sucker for grand gestures.
Makes me weak in the knees.

P: Tell me

Somehow, P ended up coming along with her, too. He was again in her Blackberry tucked into the pocket of her jean jacket, his familiar chirp piercing the silence in the car every so often. They were both a little reluctant; she was unsure of the rules now, and he didn’t seem to like the idea of her going out on her own. But as awkward as it was, that whole day they stayed connected.

S: Oh. So now you wanna talk, huh? Now that you know
other boys are sniffing around your girl? Better be careful
or you might start making me feel special again.

P: Answer me.

She missed that so much, having him in her pocket all day, giving her the feeling that she wasn’t alone. She loved going about her business but being able to stop at any moment and swap a few words with him. Having him there next to her when she got out of the shower, or chose what to wear, or brushed on a little lipstick. She loved having him keep her company.

Even so, this time was different. Like walking over ice, all careful and slippery, listening intently for a cracking sound that would tell them they ventured too far.

S: Why does it even matter? Why is it important for you to know?

P: I need to know. It’s important. I’ll keep it confidential.

S: And I asked you why it was important. You didn’t answer.
Why do you need to know?

P: Because you are mine

She loved being in hotels, and was looking forward to getting settled in her room. She especially loved being in hotels by herself; checking in, handling her own bag, walking up alone, and having all that quiet space belong just to her. Putting her things wherever she wanted without having to share the space. She opened her bag, hung her clothes for dinner that evening, booted up her computer, poured herself a Jamesons, and sat down to write, P right there next to her. Almost like old times.

P: I want to see.

S: What?
. . .

What do you want to see?

P: You know.
You always know.

It was a perfect opportunity for them to play around. They both wanted to. She spent so many nights missing him. It would be so easy. But they weren’t a couple anymore. He asked her for space. It’s what I need, he’d said to her. It’s what I need.

She was confused. One minute he was confessing that he was messed up, getting in too deep, and had counted on her to keep them playing by the rules. But the next minute he was suggesting they do the things they used to do, that once made them feel close and sexy and safe and loved, but eventually made him leave her.

She loved him in a very real way. Like a friend. To take advantage of a weak moment when they were both lonely wasn’t the right thing to do. That wasn’t what he told her he needed.

S: No. You ask me again when you’re
ready to be with me again. When you’ve
sorted yourself out. Right now
let’s just enjoy being friends. Okay?

P: Yeah. Sure.

S: Are you mad? What are you thinking?

P: Just thinking that your brain has killed
yet another great idea

And that was the sound she’d been listening for. The cracking of the ice, signaling that they had indeed taken one step too far. His cold and sarcastic response burned her skin like she’d fallen into the frigid, dark water. Even though she’d made the decision that best protected her hurting heart and his messed up head. Even though she’d done the right thing.

And that familiar twist in her chest returned, the anxiety practically choking her. All through dinner, meeting other bloggers and making new friends, she could feel it. All through drinks afterward, drinks with an interested man, she could feel it. All through the flirting and talking and laughing, she could feel it. On the walk back to her hotel, arm in arm, she could feel it. And during those awkward seconds at her hotel room door, standing there with a man who wanted to come in, she could feel it.

To: Sudan
From: Pavlov
Re:
You fight mean. I don’t like it.


To: Pavlov
From: Sudan
Re:
You called me yours. Yours. Because you are mine, you said. What is that? How is that not fighting mean? When you knew in your head we were through? How am I the one getting all of this wrong, when you finally say something to me, and it's that?

At her hotel room door, she politely avoided a kiss and thanked the man for their night out. He knew she was married, and they had touched briefly on the subject at dinner, so he wasn’t surprised. You can’t blame a guy for trying. I had fun. Tomorrow will be fun, too. Goodnight, S.

She didn’t really have any interest in being with that man that night. Really, just having the opportunity was enough; just the reminder that she was, in fact, desirable. But the reality was, she didn’t tell him no because she was married. She told him no because P was right. The ache in her chest was like a brand, telling her and the world that she belonged to him.

She woke up that morning to her ringing cell phone. The day’s picnic plans had been cancelled due to the rain. Instead of accepting the man's invitation to spend the day together, she simply packed her bag and went home.

And later that afternoon, when she had the house to herself, she did what P wanted her to do the night before. She gave him what he wanted. And she told him what he wanted to hear. If she told him the truth – that instead of making her feel close to him, it made her numb and empty and sad to do that when he was so quiet and cold - he wouldn’t accept it. And even though those things were true, she still wanted to take care of him. She still needed to be the woman he looked at.

P: That's my good girl. 

In the days that followed, they reestablished tentative communication again. They began a new game, playing tit-for-tat, S getting words and P getting photos.

But she also gave him more white lies and half-truths. She let him think she liked this new arrangement. She let him think it made her happy. When her husband tried to end their separation by writing her a love letter, she let P think it was easy for her to be strong and true to herself; she didn’t tell him that for just a second, she considered giving in. Because she was tired of being alone. She told P about things that were going on with her dad, but she didn’t tell him about the fear that came with managing doctors and prognoses and family members and appointment setters. She didn’t tell him about the panic that came with handling it all alone.

The truth didn’t really matter. He didn’t want her truth anymore.

She would tell him when she felt lonely. She would wait until it got so bad that she just had to tell somebody, then she’d find P. He was the only person who wouldn’t need her to explain it. He wouldn’t want to talk it out. He’d just give her a few minutes of what she was looking for. He’d play the part. He’d give her a little bit of the care and tenderness and sensuality she needed. He wouldn’t need instruction. He would just take care of her.

What she wouldn’t say was that when she was in her dark bathroom, sneaking and whispering, back pressed up against the door, hand between her legs, his voice in her ear guiding her, her head back and breathing heavy as she came, that she also had tears running down her cheeks. That she wasn’t quiet because her daughter was on the other side of the door, she was quiet because she didn’t want him to hear her cry. Crying because she missed P, crying because both the men who said they loved her only acted that way when they wanted to have sex with her. Crying because what they were doing no longer made her feel close or connected, it made her feel dirty and desperate. But even that was better than lonely and afraid.

chapter seven

I will miss your company.

-Ricki Lee Jones, Company

P: Please call my mobile.

They’d fallen into this pattern of long silences broken by aching emails disguised as casual inquiries. Just checking in, he’d write. Been thinking about you, she’d say. And she continued with the business of her life during the week, managing the kids and taking care of her home and trying to be present with her husband. But the weekends hadn’t gotten any easier since he left. And he’d been gone for weeks.

Then she got a call about her dad. One of those calls heavy with news and emotion and reminders that things could change again at any moment. And without hesitation, she went looking for P.

S: It’s my dad. He’s sick again.
I’m just trying to make my head
stop spinning for a minute. So I
can figure out what to do.

P: Please call my mobile.

S: That’s sweet of you. But it’s
okay. I don’t want to bother you. Just
wanted you to know for some reason.

P: Please call my mobile

. . .
. . .

S: Okay.

He didn’t try to talk her out of her concern with empty don’t worry, everything will be okay phrases, he just let her be afraid. And like no time had passed at all, he could still finish her sentences, helping her complete the thoughts that she just couldn’t say out loud. And for a precious few minutes, he put aside his need for space to allow for her need for closeness.

He made her feel safe again.

They hung up, and she began getting dinner ready. Her husband came home from work distracted and grouchy, but instead of giving him a few minutes to shake off the work week, she went right to him, telling him about her dad’s events of the day. Don’t get yourself all worked up, you do this every time he said. And though it was his version of support, it stung her. It was so opposite her conversation with P, so void of any real concern or understanding, that it may as well have been said by a stranger.

She could have let it go. She could have swallowed away the lump in her throat and made herself appreciate the fact that he said anything at all. But that night she chose to press the issue. And quite like the statement she made to P weeks earlier, the one that opened the door to their unraveling, she opened another with her husband. I don’t know how to do this, she said.

Like all couples they argued, but they did it in a very polite way. Restrained and quiet, without door slams or raised voices. And they both thought that it was okay to take a break. To think things over. To occasionally go to bed angry, and not get everything resolved all in one sitting. All of that was okay just so long as they said I Love You.

So, over the years, even in the bleakest of times, they always said it. I love you. And in their couple-shorthand, it became just one word. Love. They said it before they hung up the phone, when he left for work, when she'd head off to bed leaving him working on the computer. Happy or sad or angry or exhausted, it was always the last word they said to one another.

But that night, they didn’t say it.

Their argument wasn’t particularly nasty. It wasn’t one of those that went too far, hanging heavy in the air for hours or days afterward. But it was the prologue. She had opened the door.

You don’t know how to do what? he asked her.

I don’t know how to be in a relationship with somebody who deals with me on autopilot.

Seriously? That sentence actually made sense to you? I’m supposed to understand what you’re upset about from that?

The reason they didn’t say love that night was because she didn’t say it first.

And as she lay there alone in her bed, she began thinking again about all of the things that happen between them only because she initiated. From little things, like what’s for dinner, to bigger things like what do to do about their boy, to the biggest things like how to keep their relationship together, she made all of the first moves. She didn’t deny that he was a pretty decent follower, but if she didn’t make the choices, neither did he. He did nothing.

She didn’t know when that became the case. Was that really who she married?

The next morning their kids were off at their activities and they had a few minutes alone. She was expecting him to bring up their exchange from the night before. He was pretty good at the morning after conversations, partly because it takes him the night to come up with words to stand up against hers, and partly because he just couldn’t stand the thought of an argument ruining a second day. But this time he was quiet. And so was she.

They went about their day like that, with something in the air, but nobody wanting to be the first to bring it up. They played with the kids and hung out with their friends and went on about their usual Saturday activities, just the four of them. The four of them and the gigantic elephant in the room.

That evening after the kids were in bed and the house was picked up, he asked her if she wanted to join him on the deck for a drink. They wrapped up in their sweatshirts and afghans, took their cocktails out to the deck chairs, and looked up at the sky. And they began to talk. There was no fighting and there were no tears, but it was as raw a conversation as they had ever had.

I hate being the guy that’s always doing you wrong. I could handle it when it came from friends or even your parents. But you’ve been pissed at me for a year.

I’m not happy. I need something else. Something more.

Then make a fucking friend, S. Stop being so afraid to just go out and make a fucking friend.

I have friends. I want a life. I want to be doing something.

Taking care of your family isn’t doing something? This is what I’m talking about. You talk in code. Do you talk like this on your blog? 

Why is it that every time I try to bring this up, you respond with an insult? Why is it such a bad thing that I want to do more than just your laundry? Why aren’t you happy about having a wife that has ambition? 

S always believed that most things were a choice. What to eat, what to wear, what to do. You choose to be happy or peaceful or loving. Every day she woke up and decided to see the things in her life that were good. Every day she decided to do the work to make things better.

But that’s not how her husband saw things. To him, the deciding ended with the I Do. He didn’t see the need for all the work, and was tired of her making everything so much harder than they needed to be.

Let’s start talking about having another kid. We always wanted more.

You always wanted more. I can’t handle the ones we’ve got.

Why are you going back on the way we decided to do things?

We are not those people anymore.

I’m the same. You’re the one who’s never satisfied. I love our life, even though you don’t make it easy.


And for the second time, a man she loved asked her for space.


We always said that breaks were okay. So let’s just take one.

You’d rather separate than support me?

I’d just like to know if there’s anything about our life that you’d actually miss if it was gone.

And she began to realize that their polite and peaceful coexistence might really be an unhappy marriage. And she didn't know how she was going to fix it.

chapter six

This boat has caught its wind and brought me back to life.

-Kenny Chesney/Dave Matthews, I’m Alive

P: Sorry.

S: For what?

P: Making you sad

S: You make me happy, too. Both.

P: Yeah

S: Do I make you sad?

P: Yes

S: Why?

P: Just want more than we can have
Think friends might be better

S: Oh.
So this is how it ends, then?

P: Kumquat

She recalled him mentioning how he hated the Dave Matthews band. She liked them okay back in college, and could probably still produce a CD or two from some dusty box in the attic. But she thought the band seemed harmless, undeserving of such a strong word. She couldn’t imagine why P would have such a negative reaction to a very vanilla sound.

It all changed that day, driving back up the highway toward home. Because, at the very moment she read the word Kumquat, a Dave Matthews song came on the radio. And so it happened that she came to hate Dave Matthews, too. Riding along in the car, unable to breathe, both because it hurt to inhale and because even if it didn’t, her breath had been taken away when P used their safe word. She understood why he hated that band.

Heading back home with her husband and her kids, seeing all the scenery in reverse, all the scenery that she was eagerly photographing and emailing to him just days earlier, now she felt mocked by it. Mocked by the giddiness and hope, by his attention, by that momentary feeling that she’d been noticed. And wanted.

It was as if he chose that moment to Kumquat her on purpose, because he knew she would be unable to react.

She sighed heavily and shifted position, staring out the window at the road buzzing by, thinking about a night so long ago that it is was as if in a previous life. She was sitting at a little cocktail table in the Blue Note across from a boy. They had been involved for several years, and knew they were no good for each other, but stayed together anyway, too afraid, she supposed, to break that bond permanently.

She let him take a lot of things away from her. Aside from acquiring material things during their many breakups; a Black and Decker toaster oven, many A Tribe Called Quest cds, and a fuzzy little Gund puppy named Trouble, once they were done forever, she realized that he also taken her confidence, her fearlessness, and her general belief that people are good until proven otherwise.

Her faceprint could also be found on his knuckles from time to time. But she retained the original face.

When they broke up the first time, she left him. Middle of the night, sneaking away with only the things she could fit in her gym bag, looking over her shoulder. Terrified.

But the second time they broke up, they were sitting across from each other at a little table at the Blue Note. This time he broke up with her. He’d decided, after all the years of him controlling their direction and calling all the shots, that she was too needy. Too clingy. That outside of being his girl she had no identity and was smothering him. He brought her to her favorite bar, sat her up on the stool, gave her a cocktail and lit her smoke. Then he smashed her heart into a million tiny pieces.

She was certain he did it this way because he knew that in public, in her favorite little bar, she wouldn’t react. Had they been alone she may have finally fought back, but here, he was safe. Protected from ever having to know what he’d just done to her.

Her brief time with P didn’t rob her of anything. Her brief time with P began to give it all back. It reminded her of who she used to be before life happened. Before that boy, before other boys, before this decision or that event. Somehow falling in love with him in this weird, remote way put her back in touch with the person she started saying goodbye to a million years ago. The girl who laughed hard, who would try anything once, who jumped in with both feet and didn’t look back.

She didn’t think P had any idea how special he was. Maybe he’d forgotten who he used to be, too.

That night at Blue Note ended with that boy leaving her sitting there alone at the little table with her drink and her cigarette and the cab fare he left beside her glass because he didn’t want to drive her home, but didn’t want to be perceived as a total asshole. He was gone, and she sat still, her back rail straight, hands folded in her lap, staring at the glow from the jukebox in front of her. All alone. She didn’t realize she was crying until a man from another table came over and offered her a bevnap to wipe her eyes, along with a polite apology for not being the kind of man who carried a handkerchief.

Just then, her husband noticed her tears, and he handed her a paper towel to wipe her eyes. Assuming she was crying from stress and exhaustion and pain and homesickness, he handed her that paper towel, and apologized for not having any Kleenex.

She didn’t really know what kind of guy P was, whether he’d hand her a handkerchief or a bevnap or a paper towel, or if he’d be the guy who smashed her heart but left her cab fare to get back home. She wanted to be mad at him for not allowing her to see this coming. For playing his cards so close to his chest that she was totally unprepared for his hand. She tried hard to fight through her cloudy head, to ask the right questions and say the right things, but each one was perceived as rude and mean. She couldn’t get the message across that she wasn’t trying to fight, she was just trying to play catch up. She thought she was opening up a conversation when she told him she didn’t know what to do, but he’d already jumped to the end.

She had prepared herself to go on with P for a long time. Having him there in the morning, waiting for her hello, made her excited to start her day. He softened the edges with her husband, quieted her voice with the kids, dulled the homesickness for her friends. And all of the envy and discontent and anger she wrote about that made him notice her a month ago lost some intensity. She was living her life in an almost comfortable way.

Now she would have to find a way to do that on her own.

They finally pulled off the highway and turned into their neighborhood. She remembered the feeling she had just a year ago, pulling in to the driveway for the first time. That feeling of starting over, clean slate. She had that feeling again. Back to the beginning, again calculating a way to land on her feet.

She had not been looking for him when he appeared in her life, but he carved out his place there anyway. And that place was still warm from his presence. She watched her husband come around the car and open her door, allowed him to help her stand and hold her arm as she walked, leading her back into the house. It looked like leading, anyway.

It felt like pulling.

chapter five

Too many lives to lead, and not enough time.

-The Guess Who, Undun

P: So . . . question.
I’m curious. Where exactly do you live?
Like, what’s the closest airport?

S: Why? You planning a trip?

There are things that happen in life where, when she would think back, she could remember exactly where she was or what she was doing. Where she could remember every detail about that moment. She’ll never forget the clingy, low cut tee shirt she wore the night she met her husband, the song she heard on a far off radio as she looked down at him on bended knee handing her a ring, the breeze through the open windows moving the curtains when she stood in her living room and told him she was pregnant.

For her, this was one of those times.

That morning, list of errands in hand, she was getting things together for a road trip, taking the kids to her parent’s house at the beach for a long Halloween weekend. P was in tow, nestled in her Blackberry, keeping her company as she stopped at the grocery store for snacks and walked through Target to pick up some last minute costume items. And as she sat in the lobby at the oil change place, she saw his morning message – please call my mobile – meaning he had gotten things up and running at work and could talk for a few minutes.

She was the one who brought it up. An upcoming trip. Just her. No kids, no husband. And she dangled it in front of him like a carrot, waiting to see if he’d bite.

P: You’re bad.

S: No, just making conversation. Just putting it out there.

P: You’re ba-ad.

S. Okay. So maybe I’m a little bad.

The reality of him no longer scared her. No more was she worried that he was really some homewrecker who was going to make problems for her. No longer did she dream that some slipup would expose them. Her confidence was growing at the same rate as her feelings. He was no longer the game she played to pass the time in her real life, he was her real life. She needed him.

S: Are we really talking about it? Meeting?

P: So it would seem. I like it.

S: You do?

P: I do.

S: I’d be there for work. I mean, I would have things

I had to do.

P: And I’d be the man behind the woman?

S: I like the way that sounds.

Once they began talking about it in that half wishful-thinking, half completely serious way, it was like he swallowed what was left of her ability to focus on anything else. Already she was absentminded, bumping in to walls, forgetting to eat, fumbling through her tasks on autopilot. But even autopilot was becoming a challenge.

S: Well, if we did this. If we met there, and
you saw me in real life, uh, if there wasn’t any
chemistry, or something, you know, there’d be
no hard feelings. I mean, you don’t have to
feel obligated to like me in real life if you see
me and, um, don’t.

P: As if. No matter what,
bodily fluids will be exchanged. Even if we don’t like
each other, we’d be obligated to do it at least once.

S: You’re funny.

That morning, gassing up the car and picking up a prescription and closing up the suitcase and waiting for her husband to stop home to kiss them all goodbye, all of it was a fight. Like walking in deep water or trying to move your arm after it’s fallen asleep. Because P was all she could think about. Meeting him, smelling him, touching him. Having his undivided attention. Giving him her body, taking his. Making it hers, for just a night or two. Making him hers.

S: I sure wish I was taking you to the beach with me today.

P: Me too

I need to be inside you baby

S: Well, looks like you may be in luck.

P: ?

S: If we are talking about meeting I mean.
That would lead to being inside

Me

Having a weekend to pretend that she wasn’t otherwise committed was, to her, like a tiny slice of heaven. Every communication didn’t have to be planned and hidden. Phone calls could be spontaneous and not carefully orchestrated. She could bring him to bed with her for three nights in her mind and her thoughts and her phone.

S: I loved how you just called me.

Do it again.

She emailed him pictures of the whole trip down. The highway once they finally got on the road. Her driving. The kids sleeping. Funny things she saw here and there.

And he kept tabs on her progress, asked if she was using her Bluetooth while she talked on the phone, made sure her car doors stayed locked. He paid attention to her details.

She felt like a real girlfriend.

P: You there yet?

S: You checking up on your girl?

P: Yes

S: Well, I made it.

P: Good. Now I can stop worrying

S: I’ll find you in the morning when

I’m looking at the ocean.

P. Good girl.

S: Night, baby.

She stepped in to the loving arms of her parents, who were used to hosting her little escapes. The trips she’d take without her husband. If they knew the reasons she had to get away every now and then, they never said so. The understanding remained unspoken. The bags came in, the kids scurried off to lay in bed and fall asleep watching television, a very rare treat. The Manhattans were poured, and they all took their familiar places around the living room. And it was as if the whole house let out a long, slow exhale.

And for the first time in almost a month, S fell asleep quickly. And she stayed asleep the whole night through.

She got up the next morning and began her ritual. The first day at her folks place was her time to sneak away without the kids or anyone else, and spend an hour or so walking along the ocean. To take in breaths so deep and pure and cleansing that whatever it was she was running away from on that particular visit, it would be gone by the time her walk was over.

She sent him a good morning message, fully expecting to receive his please call my mobile soon after. Thinking all along that their regular morning conversation would happen while he was driving in to work and she was walking along the ocean, she was excited to bring him to her favorite place.

But he didn’t answer. He wasn’t there.

S: Driving down to the beach. Windows down. Radio on.
Already warm.

. . .

S: Where are you? Why are you not on the beach with me?

. . .

S: I'm beginning to think it strange that I haven't heard
anything from you yet this morning. I'm about 10 minutes
or so from the end of my morning walk on the beach.
And I'm missing my boyfriend.

. . .

S: Um. Baby?

. . .

. . .

P: Sorry took the day off
Crowded here

S: And you just neglected to let me know? I was getting worried.

P: Sorry game time call
Decided this am

S: I know this sounds silly now, but I was really getting concerned.
I always hear from you first thing. And totally expected to hear
from you this morning.

Everything okay?

P: Yeah sorry

She was a little deflated, but swallowed it away, and sent him pictures of all of it. Through the gate at the entrance of the subdivision. Over the drawbridge crossing the inland waterway. Approaching the boardwalk. First glimpse of the ocean. Toes in the water. Sunrise. Her favorite beach house, which was now the place she wanted to run away to. With P.

But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as having him there hearing the waves crash and the gulls squawk. She wanted him to hear what her voice sounded like when she was there.

P: Hey

S: Hi

P: Only have a minute

Missing you

Loved the pics

S: I miss you too.

P: Gotta run

She tried not to let her feelings get hurt. He was up to his neck in real life, and she was on vacation by herself. She knew it wasn’t fair to expect that he would be easily accessible. But she still wished. She still hoped for that moment when he’d excuse himself from his real life and be present for her for a little while. Like she’d done so many times for him.

For just a thought, she let a doubt creep in. A moment of the old insecurity he talked her out of in the beginning. For a split second it crossed her mind that, while she was breezing through another rule, perhaps he wasn’t right there with her. For just a minute she considered that maybe he had stopped breezing.

P: Sorry

S: For what?

. . .

P: Making you miss me
today

She was up early the second morning, too. The dutiful daughter, doing all of the chores around the house that she didn’t want her parents attempting anymore, which they would no doubt do had she not insisted that they let her help, most of which had her carrying heavy things, teetering on ladders, and working up an early morning sweat.

It was hot and muggy, and she was sticky pretty miserable and so ready to head down to the beach, but there was one chore left to do. The palm tree by their front door needed pruning. Most of the branches came down easily, but she saved the tallest, hardest to reach branches for last. She was gripping the tree with one hand while looking up at the tangle of leaves, and her son came around the house calling for her. Just as she stepped up a rung of the ladder, her mom let go of it to turn to the boy. The ladder tipped, and she fell, her ribs hitting the ground first, then her shoulder jammed up under her ear, and her head came down on the concrete walkway.

Things became a jumble of darkness and light and voices she couldn’t quite make out, all blurry and far away sounding. She was trying to talk but couldn’t make anyone understand what she was saying, so maybe she wasn’t talking at all or maybe she was and it was just coming out babble. And then she heard the siren and saw the flashing lights pull up, and she slowly realized that they were here for her. Because something bad had just happened.

After a pretty quick battery of scans and x-rays, it was decided not to be any more serious than a bunch of bumps and bruises. She was advised as to how to handle her broken ribs, how her folks should monitor the bump on her head. Her mom shuffled through all of the papers they handed her to sign, argued with the nurse who refused to wrap her rib cage, and chased down the doctor who kept forgetting to write out the prescription for pain medication.

They were finally in the car driving back to the house, and S asked if they could go to the beach. And her mother completely understood. She knew that S would rather lay on a beach chair watching all the cousins play than on the couch in her living room. She knew that S would feel better breathing in the ocean air than the air conditioning. So they stopped by the house and carefully got cleaned up and changed, and as they were making their way back out to the car S spotted her phone on the charger and grabbed it. Because P didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know that his girl was hurt. She was sure that would be something he’d want to know. That he’d want to give her some attention since he couldn’t be there to kiss the pain away. And she needed his attention. She needed him to tell her everything was going to be okay.

Her expectations were high. Too high. She needed more from him that day than he was able to give.

P: Hey

S: Hi. Slight change of plans today. I've just left the er.
I fell off a ladder this morning

P: You!

You ok?

S: Only my pride is hurt. Good thing my head is so hard.

I have a bump and some bruised ribs

Gonna go lay on a beach chair

P: Dude

Sorry

Pain meds?

S: Dude? You called me dude?

P: Yes

S: How romantic

Dude

Anyway yes pain mess

Meds

P: Good girl

S: But I don't want to take them

P: Rest up

Feel better

Missing your clumsy ass

S: Mom and dad don't think I should leave

Yet

You are? Missing me?

. . .

Oh. Guess you are off again

God I hate weekends

P: Me too

And yes I miss you

But yes have to go

S: Not even bruised ribs and a trip to the er get me weekend

attention, huh? Well, have fun. Happy halloween. Later.

P: Shitty comment

Later

S: Hey. Don't be mad. I apologize. I just went through

something really major. I hurt. I just wanted some time.

P: Sorry you are hurt. And sorry I can't give you more time
Busy day

S: Yeah. It’s okay. Have fun.

She was stung by the tone of his words, and surprised that he wasn’t more affected by her news. Trapped in her head, she tried to ignore the chill in her chest and the twisting just below her heart that was her anxiety rising.

He was just busy, she told her self. He was busy and I am not. That’s all.

And her stomach started to churn like it did when something bad was happening, but she couldn’t tell if it was the fall or if it was something else. She couldn’t tell if it was just a crazy afternoon, or if something bigger was going on. She could swear there was something simmering just underneath his words, but her brain felt too fuzzy to be sure of anything.

Her eyelids were heavy, and she realized how tired she was. After a month of sleeping in preoccupied catnaps, finally having a full, uninterrupted night’s sleep the night before made her feel more exhausted instead of more rested. And her neck was starting to stiffen and her shoulder was getting sore. It was getting harder to breathe without feeling the pain in her ribs. She looked over at her dad, and he handed her a Vicodin and a bottle of water. She swallowed the pill, laid back in the chair, and within seconds, fell asleep.

P: Back home yet?

. . .

S: No. Spent the night back in the hospital

P: !

S: Just got on the road an hour ago

P: Why back at hospital?

S: Observation. I fell asleep yesterday afternoon and
they couldn't wake me up

P: Holy shit!
Should you be driving?!

S: I'm not
Husband came down
Really I knew I was ok
Just tired from not sleeping for a month

P: Good good
I'm glad he's there

S: Yeah

P: Ok
Well safe
Trip

S: Kind of a crazy night
And today I feel like I was hit by a bus
Nobody would let me sleep last night
It’s very surreal
Right. No time
Forgot what day it was

P: I figured you were busy

S: No. I'm not. Nothing to do but sit and think

P: He isn't reading over your shoulder

S: No. He's driving. I'm laying as flat as I can.
Texting a lot with my very worried bff
Kids are sleeping
But you need to be present with your fam
Not talking with me
Its Sunday. Its fine

P: I am worried about you

S: Yeah?
I'm ok
Just hurting

P: You sure
Where

S: My ribs. Neck. Shoulder.
Was a stupid fall
Baby? I'm not sure I can do this

P: What were you doing on the ladder

S: I was pruning a palm tree
My mom was holding it
I don't really remember what happened
I came to when the ambulance pulled in
I guess I was awake before that
But I don't remember it
I just remember being mortified that the
ambulance was there

P: Crazy
Do what baby?

S: Yeah. It was crazy. When I was done in the er we went to
catch up with everyone at the beach. Stopped at the house to
change and get my phone. After all that all I wanted to do was
curl up in the sun watch the kids play, and tell you all about it.
After our brief chat I went ahead and took some Vicodin
Eventually fell asleep
Next thing I know I am seeing all of these worried faces
And my son is crying
Because I wouldn't wake up
I was trying to tell them that I was just so tired
But fine
My cousin scooped me up into his car
And back to the hospital we went
I didn't have my phone

P: Yuck
And scary

S: Couldn't remember if I left any messages in there from you
Or even if I had locked it
And I got scared that somebody would find you in there

P: Yikes

S: My dad followed along to the hospital and had it in his pocket
the whole time
Gave it back when it rang at some point
I cried
So relieved

P: Why

S: To have it back
Then cried again

P: Why

S: To see nothing from you checking on me
Overall very tired and lots of drugs
made me all weepy I guess
My husband got there around 6
I sent him to go be with the kids
Trick or treating
and they were freaked
I stayed in the er all night
Woke me up every hour
To do vitals
Let me go around 5

P: Wow
So rough night all around

S: Yes

P: Sorry baby

S: For what?

P: For your fall and your horrible night

S: Yeah

P: Soo
You are having second thoughts?
About us
This

S: I don't know how to do this
How to love somebody when
we never get to be the priority.

P: I understand
And I

Have second thoughts too

And there it was, the source of that nagging feeling. The something bad that was about to happen. It wasn’t the fall or the injury or the night in the hospital or the worry. It wasn’t all the meds making her mouth dry and her brain fuzzy. It wasn’t guilt or doubt or worry. It was him. Mere hours after beginning to plan the meeting with the one man who knew the real her, the one she hid under her clothes, and loved her, now she understood that the clock was running out. And she was losing. Game over.

chapter four

It’s exactly like I thought it would be.

-Teddy Pendergrass, Close the Door

P: Good morning

S: back at ya.

P: That pic of you on your post the other day?

Hot.

S: Thanks.

P: Just sayin

She loved writing for him. Bending and shaping and molding the words, trying to fit them together so that they would look like the way he made her feel. They did it together, like kids lying on their bellies side by side, amidst a scattering of crayons and coloring books. Together they painted intricate, detailed, sensual pictures.

P: I want to taste you

S: Wow

P: Do you taste good?

S: Of course I do.

P: Tell me

S: How I taste? I don't even know how to begin to describe that.
Womanly.Sexy.
Decadent, like a really great secret that nobody else knows.
Something like that.

P: Like a deep dark secret. Exposed with great effort

S: Then finally told in bits and pieces. And once you get it all

you realize it was totally worth the wait.

P: Yes yes exactly

It was the most creative she’d felt in years. It had been a long time since she had an outlet. The solitude of her new life gave her plenty of time to write, and she often went through the exercise, but true inspiration came back once she began making stories with P. He brought her out and dusted her off, played muse to her writer, and together they created their own adventures.

P: Okay. Tell me a secret fantasy.

S: Aside from a rendezvous with my

pretend internet boyfriend, you mean?

P: Tell me. What would happen?

S: Hmm. Well, since this is fantasy, then let’s say I’m on my book tour. I’m doing a signing somewhere in the city, and you come. Get in line. You see me first. And as you get closer to me you send me a text. You’ll have to decide what it says, but certainly it’s something provocative. And when you watch me read it you finally get to see what I look likewhen I read something from you that makes me all blushy. So I scan the crowd and there you are. For real in person. We lock eyes and I instantly feel excited. Tingle. Fidget. And when I sign your book I write down my hotel and room number. Good start?

P: Yummy. It might say I wonder what you taste like right now.

S: That would do it.

So, I get done working. Go back to the hotel. Shower. Try to choose something to wear. Change clothes a couple of times. Wonder if I should wear my glasses or go without. Take a long look at myself in the mirror, wonder what you’ll think when you actually get to see me up close and for real.
Put on a little of my favorite perfume. Decide on a dress. Consider no panties for a minute, but decide to wear them anyway because it will be so much fun to have you take them off of me later. And I am completely nervous, butterflies like crazy, terrified of you looking at the real me and deciding that fantasy was better. And I’m really hoping you’re serious about wanting to buy me a martini,
because my hands are actually shaking a little bit. I keep waiting to hear you knock, but you call up instead. Giving me one last chance to talkmyself out of this. But I don’t. I come downstairs and we are finally face to face. I finally get to put my arms around you and feel what you feel like. I finally get to smell what you smell like. I get to reach over and touch your hair. You suggest cocktails or dinner or whatever you would suggest we do first. And you do all of the goofy chivalrous stuff that I am such a sucker for. Hand on the small of my back to lead me through the door. Offer me your arm.
So, where do we go? Where do you take me?

P: I love reading you. Makes me hard. Call if you want to hear me cum.
We go to a small blues bar.

S: Small blues bar is perfect. So perfect. Dark table somewhere out of the way of anyone who might notice if you happened to slide your hand up my skirt. And I can’t decide if I’d rather sit across from
you so I can stare and drink in the very sight of you, or if I want to sit next to you, right up close.

P: Still waiting for the phone to ring.

S: I can't. Not tonight. So just tell me what we're drinking in the small blues bar. And tell me if we chose to sit across from each other or side by side.

P: You would hold me to the martini. Grey goose 3 olives.

S: You are so in my head. Great choice. I am so relieved that Martini doesn’t mean gin to you. So, we start off across from each other so we can just stare. You notice my hands shaking and you cover mine with yours. Mine are like ice, but yours are warm. And calm. If you’re nervous too, you’re doing a much better job of hiding it.

Are you? Nervous?

P: No. Only because I've reached the point that not tasting you is worst thing that can possibly happen. Everything else is easy in comparison.

With their foundation established, made strong with lots of trust and affection and a healthy dose of lust, she became ready to play. He made her feel mischievous, like a cat with a ball of string, batting around her desire and waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. Words were pretty easy for her to produce, even though she still blushed and fidgeted her way through many conversations, so he pushed. He was good at planting seeds, wanting something just one step further than where she was comfortable going. He was good at making it seem like it was her need for more that drove them forward, but it was all at his suggestion. He needed her just as much as she needed him.

P: Send me a picture.

S: A picture? Is there something wrong with the images

I'm creating with the words?

P: Nothing at all. I'm just very visual. I need to see.

S: I'm very squeamish about pictures.

P: I want to see what you hide with clothes.

S: I cannot imagine showing myself to somebody new.

The last time somebody saw what I hide under my clothes

for the very first time, it was long before stress and age

and babies and I was also very very drunk.

This is so much harder than writing.

P: It's ok. It will get easier.

Let me see your eyes.

Sending pictures didn’t come easy. She couldn’t stop being critical. They were never good enough, never looked like she felt on the inside. So she made a rule that when he asked for a photo she would only take one. Because she just couldn’t spend all that effort agonizing.

And his appreciation of what she sent made her a little more willing the next time. While he was never one to say “don’t be insecure, you look great” he did understand that she would respond differently to the words hot or pretty, sweet or sexy, thank you or good girl. He understood that foreplay for her was more about her mind than her body, and that playing with words could make her both adventurous and compliant, and anxious to try things she never would have considered otherwise.

She was starved for the attention.

P: I like knowing my words can affect you that way.

She had grown accustomed to the change in her husband’s eyes. Where he used to be turned on by her quirks and insecurities, he now reacted to them as if they were symptoms needing some kind of treatment. His patience was replaced with irritation, his admiration with mere tolerance. They still got along, they were still friendly, but she was withering, and her husband didn’t seem to notice.

P was supposed to be a fantasy, something to arouse and attract her so that she could put the spark back into sex with her husband. She knew that this was supposed to be a game, with P giving her the attention and words that she needed to feel special, and her giving P the secrets and the pictures that he needed to feel connected to someone.

But it quickly became more than a game.

P: Take another picture. Let me see your eyes and smile

S: I only take one. It's my rule.

P: Break it

For me

S: well, I guess it's the least I can do for someone willing to

exert all of that NON sexy chat effort just to get to this point.

P: Thanks and umm I like both types one isn't for the other

S: Sure it isn't.
She was never one of those overly affectionate people. She did well with hello and goodbye hugs and kisses, and she liked having people near her, but she really had to make a conscious effort to give the motherly snuggles and the wifely caresses as freely and as often as her family required. But P made her want to be touched. She found it became easier and much more enjoyable to sit close to her kids to read stories, to cuddle at bedtime, to kiss away the hurts or squeeze away the nerves for them.

Her husband’s touch was familiar and deeply rooted in his own likes and preferences, and she realized that she really had no idea anymore what hers were. So in the quiet moments in the dark early hours of the morning when she was unable to sleep, she would reach down and slide her fingers under her pajamas and let herself feel what P did to her. Trying to be still enough as not to wake her husband, but still able to explore and learn the ways to make her own body respond, taking her time, taking forever if she wanted, not feeling pressured to produce an orgasm so that they could move on to the next step. Rediscovering all of the places, how hard or gentle, how fast or slow, what made her wet, what made her quiver, what takes her over the edge, finally releasing the desire that thinking of P created inside of her.

And in shower, eyes closed, feeling the hot water fall onto her neck and shoulders, she’d wish it was the heat from his hands that was relaxing her. And in those few private, hot, steamy minutes with the door locked and no fear of being discovered or interrupted, he become real to her. The water became his fingers pouring over her, massaging her body into such intense orgasms that she’d feel dizzy for seconds after. She’d have to close her eyes and take a few slow, deep breaths before she could dry off and go on about her day. Because she felt him there, inside of her, all the time. Every minute.

That feeling is what made her take the pictures. That feeling is what made her unable to tell him no.

P: So hot.

And it's the look in your eyes
Naughty like you know you are
breaking rules but like it. Can't help it

P was playful, leading her with subtlety and finesse, knowing exactly the way to break through her nerves and get her to follow along. They had a pattern. The first mention was merely to plant the seed. He knew she would balk and pretend to say no, but really she was just buying herself a little time to savor the idea, thinking over how she might actually make it happen.

S: Well. You've done it again. Completely
flustered.

P: Made you wet?

S: I am not sending you a picture of it.

P: Lol

Tragic

The second time he’d turn the tables on her, manipulating, daring her to say no. He made her consider that whatever it was they were dancing around was not so much something he wanted as it was something she needed. Something she needed to do for herself, even if just to prove to herself she could.

P: Question

S: Yes.

P: When you send me a picture of your pussy

I'm not talking about

When you decide in your head that

"if he asks again, I'll do it"

I mean when you want need me to see how wet I

make you

And I finally agree

Would it be rude to remind you of this

conversation?

S: What are you saying?

It's almost like you're daring me to send you a

picture. Like I'm a kid

who can't back down from a dare.

P: Incorrect

S: Correct me.

P: I no longer require a photo

S: So you're doing that trick they teach you in sales
training. Taking it off the table.

P: Lol if it's on the table I would say yes take it off

and find the spray cleaner please

S: What are you, 13?
Wait a minute. You're not really 13 are you?

P: Lol my mom says you are too old

S: I am so going to end up on To Catch a Predator,

aren't I?

P: Lol permaybe

If he had to ask a third time, she gave no argument, but often, there was no third time. By then he was right, she did need to do it. She did need him to see.

P: I love seeing you

Knowing you needed me to see

And she began to understand what it was that P needed. She began to anticipate his requests, and before long he didn't even have to ask.

chapter three

Where do I begin?

-Shirley Bassey, Love Story Remix

P: Hey baby.

S: Good morning.

Miss me?

P: Yes like a kidney

S: A kidney? Wait a minute. You can live your
Whole life with only one kidney.
So, do you mean like kidneyS?

P: My last functioning kidney?

S: That’s better.

In a heartbeat P became her constant companion. She’d send him an early morning email so he’d have something waiting from her as soon as he woke up. They’d swap messages as he was in and out of meetings. She upgraded her Blackberry, and happily carried him in her pocket as she ran her errands.

But her favorite was always the morning, having his complete attention on his way into work. She fell in love with him in the mornings.

S: What are you doing right now? Set the scene.

P: On a platform waiting for train doors to open.

Right by the engine so it’s loud. Listening to
run dmc louder

S: Run DMC? Man, you make my heart go pitter pat.

P: lol king of rock

S: You just threw me back to eighth grade.
Big hair and too much eyeshadow. Nice.

P: Hot

S: Oh yes. Had the whole rebellious attitude to boot.
Quite the package.

P: Lol ready to make bad decisions? Daddy issues.
Scrumptious

S: It’s like you were there

It was easy to draw him out in the morning. Riding the train, he’d be thoughtful and wordy and attentive. They could meander through their conversation and just be. Together.

P: The doors are on now

People are strange

S: Oh yes. Smoked lots of dope listening
to The Doors. It was my post-black eyeliner
turned fake retro-hippie phase. It eventually evolved
into not shaving my legs, wearing lots of bracelets that
jingled, and spending a summer touring with the Dead.

P: Nice.

S: I did all these ridiculous things like selling peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches for whippit money and saying things
like Peace, Brother. All the while I had daddy’s Platinum
AMEX in my wallet for hotel rooms, gas, and fancy restaurants.
I was really not a very good deadhead.

P: Too funny
I can’t wait until my kids pull shit like that

S: It will be fun watching them

P: and I have to bite my tongue and pretend

S: think they invented it.

P: it’s original

S: We were saying the same thing at the same time.

It was the time they got to make all those discoveries one makes about somebody when a relationship is new. The ones that seem superficial at first, but really you’re finding out about who they are on the inside. How you might fit together.

P: Elvis now

S: What?

P: Every day I write the book

S: When I was recovering from a boy I almost married, but didn’t

I met a pilot
We had a 21 day love affair in when he was in
town training on a new aircraft
The way he wooed me was with his Elvis impression
It was very good
The bar we hung out in had a karaoke night
and he sang an Elvis song to me
It worked
He got lucky
Very lucky

P: Lol not presley!

S: Started typing the story before I read the song.
But, it’s my only Elvis story so I went with it

P: And slut!

S: Not slut! I was just getting back in the game
Though he just thought I was a slut probably

P: lol I’m sure he still thinks about you

S: Oh. I doubt that. But it was a fun 21 days

P: You don’t understand how deep you burrow

She didn’t understand that, as deeply affected as her days now were, she was in P’s head, too. He told her from the start he’d never love her, so she just ignored the feeling. Left it unnamed. She ignored the flutters in her stomach that jumped around when she’d hear his chime on her phone, signaling a message from him. When her distraction became so great that she’d bump into things, or try to leave to go somewhere but have to keep running back into the house for a myriad of forgotten items, or read the same sentence of her book five or six times and still not know what it said, she wouldn’t admit even to herself what was happening.

P: Moving right through your sex past.

S: Yup.

Lots of stories from back when I was young and fearless.

P: And now?
Fearful?

S: No. Fearful isn’t quite right. Just older.
Not as spontaneous.
More guarded.
Don’t bounce back quite the way I used to.

P: I know what you mean

S: Of course you do.

She believed him when he spelled out his rules, so when they’d bump up against one with some wistful comment or double entendre, she was quick to say so, not so much because she was opposed to breaking it, but to communicate to him that she remembered they were there. Trying to prove that she wasn’t a novice who was going to turn this into a big mess. That she could play the game, too.

P: Dude, love the Blue Note

S: I do, too. Spent many formative evenings there

Trying to grow up too fast.
Love to go there as an adult

P: Wow
Come out
I will buy the drinks
And the hotel

S: That’s nice to think about.
But I believe that would be a boundary.

But she was already thinking it. Because, for her, it had always been impossible to have a sexual connection without an emotional one. She was never one of those people who could have friends with benefits, even though she tried, because she was always mixing up the sex with the love. She thought it would be different with P, because of their circumstance, because they were supposed to be just pretend. But it wasn’t different. It was becoming impossible for her not to fall in love with him, too.

S: How do you do that?

P: Do what exactly?

S: Make me so nuts. Make me chase my tail. Forget to eat.

Bump into things. Hang on your every word. Smile inside out.
Be constantly aroused. Forget my troubles. All those things.

She was never the girl that got the guy. She’d become entangled, she had a lot of sex, and she’d certainly fallen hard many times. But she only had two real, long-term relationships in her whole life. She almost married the first one, which would have been a mistake of the grandest proportions. She did marry the second one, and she would sometimes wonder if they were a bad match, or if even the most perfect couples eventually arrive at a place of boredom and complacency.

So getting to have a boyfriend again as an adult woman with adult experience was exciting. It’s like being married for a few years and then registering for gifts and having the big party, after you’d been together awhile and knew what you needed. When you could better understand the magnitude of it all.

S: When's your birthday?

P: April 21st

S: Oh. Good. Plenty of time to make you a mix tape.

P: Lol

S: I do that, you know. Think of a song to put on your mix tape.

File it away in my brain for later. See something here or there
and wonder if you'd like it.

P: Hot

And as quickly as everything else happened between them, so came the feeling that they weren’t playing around anymore. It felt less and less like make-believe, and more and more like something she wouldn’t want to live without.

P: I get butterflies waiting for your responses

You have me grinning
Like an idiot
On my train

S: Me too baby.
I'm so glad you told me that.

P: Why
And good

S: How else would I know?
I don't get to see you smile on the train.
I only know what you share.

She grew to dread the weekends, because their day long chats turned into brief email swaps while they were each living out their real lives. All of the things she used to love – her husband being home, being pulled out of bed early by the kids, sipping coffee looking out the window, cheering at the football games, socializing with her friends – felt different now, not because she didn’t still enjoy that part of her life, but because the things she didn’t like, that didn’t fit, that made her feel suffocated or invisible, they became harder to overlook.

And she began walking this fine line between hoping he was happy when he was away from her, and hoping he was just a little bit miserable.

P: I am in love with you

She and her husband were supposed to be just a one-night stand. After that night, the first time he called her she didn’t answer the phone. The first time he asked her to go to dinner with him she declined. The first time he told her he loved her she didn’t say it back. When he asked her to marry him, her first answer was no. She just wasn’t very good at being loved. She never felt worthy of it, because she never felt like the person trying to give it to her actually knew the real her. She didn’t let her real self be seen.

S: You are in love with the idea of me.

But hearing the words from P was different. Because she thought love was never to be an option, she didn’t actively seek it. Because he was more of am imaginary friend than a real one, she could just be herself. Because she never had to look him in the eye, she could be truthful.

Because she didn’t pretend to be somebody else, it felt like she was hearing those words for the very first time.

S: I'd drive you crazy in a weekend.

Maybe it wouldn't even take that long.

P: Lol sounds like you are trying to
Convince
Yourself that we are doomed

S: Baby. We are doomed.
I mean, this doesn't end with you and me riding
off into the sunset.
Best case scenario is only us being hurt when
this ends.

P: I think you spend too much time inside your head

She didn’t know how to be the girl that actually got the guy. In the past, she was always the filler. The non-girlfriend girlfriend, who could hang with the boys, who was a great date for work functions or other parties where it was important to show up with somebody respectable, who could fill the role of the female companion until the hot chick came along. So, to be in a position where the man she wanted actually chose her? She just didn’t have the experience to know how to handle that. She didn’t know what to do.

S: So you think you really love me. ME.

You really think that you know enough about
me
to know that you love me?

P: I think I know a truer you than others.
I feel like we've connected on a deeper level.
Bullshit thrown out the window and raw. Yes

Once P said it, her instinct was to talk him out of it. To convince him that there were other women that would do this more easily, be more adventurous, have fewer hang-ups. To give him every chance to go before he discovered the depths of her clinginess and insecurity. To tell him to leave before he decided to all on his own.

S: I never quite say the right thing do I?

P: You noticed that too?

S: I'm sorry I didn't say the right thing.

P: Sok

S: You know what? Even though I love my husband and

have absolutely zero interest in messing up our marriage?
When I sleep with him, I feel like I'm cheating on you.

His love for her wasn’t the only thing she learned about P that day. She also began to understand that all of his open, vulnerable, honest conversation took effort. It didn’t come naturally for him to share himself with such intimacy. If she didn’t receive it with patience or tenderness or love in return, she could hurt him. She did hurt him. Her insecurities weren’t the only ones being overcome by their being together; he was conquering some of his own.

And just as he didn’t share himself easily, nor did he forgive her easily when she’d stumble.

S: What do you want to do? I mean, is this what we do?

Chat and email and sneak conversations on the phone?
Do you want to meet me someday? Do we plan secret
rendezvous here and there, telling our spouses we are away
on business? I mean, what do we do? I trusted you when you
said you wouldn't love me. And now? I love you too.

P: The IDEA of me

S: All of that. All that I said. And you're still focused
on the word idea.

P: You seem to link the word to an action
A meetup
A life shift

S: Yes. You're right.
I worry that after blowing through several of our
initial rules,
we'll just keep on.

P: I'll slow down

S: Because I never get enough of you.

P: I overshared
I'm sorry

S: And I'm always thinking a few steps ahead.

P: Lesson learned

S: STOP IT.
Fuck Baby.
You didn't do anything wrong
I'm trying to share, too and you won’t let me

P: Share

S: Being told I am loved means everything to me.
I want to be worthy of it. I take it seriously.
I take you seriously. I love you, too.

P: The idea of me
You mean

S: Am I ever going to get to say it to you without you
inserting the word 'idea' in to it?

P: Doubtful
You fucked it up

It exhausted her, this dance between real and pretend, confidence and fear, trust and anger. The excitement of being with somebody new came with the downside of not knowing how to make it through the intensity of the first fight. Each cross word felt like the beginning of the end rather than a simple growing pain. And regardless of the language they were using, she knew she did not want this to end. That was the one thing she knew for sure.

S: You could have picked an easier girl, but you didn't.

You picked me.
I don't want to fight with you.
That's not what I want.

P: Me neither because you see
I love you

S: I love you too.

P: I wish you wouldn't say that

S: Are you kidding? I thought you were giving me the moment
to do all over again. So that my memory of our first I love you
wouldn't be when I got scared and fucked it all up.

P: Ok
Baby

S: ?

P: I love you

S: I love you too.

P: Good girl

Somehow they salvaged a pretty spectacular moment through all the mess, and though she didn’t know it then, they were establishing a pattern for all of their spectacular moments. They wouldn’t come easily; they would all have to be extracted from his fear and her anxiety. But what she did know was that something in her world just shifted. She knew that knowing P meant she would never be quite the same.

S: I don't like fighting with you.

I prefer to be the one you don't have to fight with.

P: Me either

S: You feel very far away.

P: I'm right here
Close
And with a box of tissues

S: That's a nice thought. But you're not. You're a
Million miles away, and I'm here with the runny nose.

P: And my full attention
And my heart

S: It would be nice to have your full attention.
I can't even imagine what that would be like.
No co workers or traffic or ringing phones.

P: Lol
Intense

S: Yes. Intense.

P: I miss you today

S: Oh God me too.

The day ended with her listening to the music and P telling the stories. She cooked dinner, the kids played outside, and their chat during his evening commute kept her company. They were once again back at that comfortable place, meandering through their conversation. Where they could just be. Together.

S: Van Morrison

P: Into the Mystic?

S: Tupelo Honey. My favorite song.

P: If we were together right now we would be dancing

very, very slowly. Like a song long hug.

Just like two people in love.