Such Dark Things

by Courtney Evan Tate

  This rouses him, and I can feel him staring at me, and a weird tension pops up between us. I can practically feel it on my skin, like it’s a living thing.

  “Maybe.”

  “What should we do?” My level of panic increases, and my grip on Jude’s arm is tight, and the weird tension grows.

  “We’ll be okay,” he rushes to reassure me. “Because we want to be. It’s just a slump. Our priorities aren’t in order. We just need to get them straight, Co. We’ll be okay.”

  Just as soon as I change my whole life to suit his ideals.

  Where did that awful thought come from? I chastise myself. He wants only what every normal person wants—to see their spouse and have children. What is wrong with me? I have no call to resent him.

  Minutes pass before Jude gets up.

  “I’d better shower for work.” He retreats to the bathroom, and the bed is empty without him. He doesn’t have time for a run, and I doubt he’ll have time for breakfast.

  I run my hand over the empty sheets, idly looking at the Jude-sized indentation he left behind. Whatever semblance of intimacy I felt twenty minutes ago is gone now, even though my thighs are still damp from his presence between them.

  Something in me wants to go to the bathroom and step in the shower with him, and force a sense of intimacy to return. But something else tells me in a louder voice that I can’t force it. It’s not there to force. We have to somehow figure out how to rebuild it.

  I throw on a robe and trudge to the kitchen to make some coffee, and I pour Jude a go-cup. When he comes out from the bedroom, his hair is still damp, his face freshly shaved, and he has that “clean man” smell. He’s long and lean in his black trousers and cream-colored sweater. I kiss his cheek, and his mouth curves against mine.

  It’s quick, but it’s there. A smile.

  “It’s going to be okay, right?” I hate the uncertainty in my voice. He glances at me quickly, and I remember for the millionth time in my life that my husband is a very sexy man. His hazel eyes glint in the sun warmly, and I search them for truth.

  “Of course, Co. It’s not even a question.”

  He’s sincere, and he’s sure, and I feel a bit better because of that. I watch his black Land Rover disappear from the driveway. Marriages go through peaks and valleys. I knew that when we got married. It just seemed at the time like valleys would never happen.

  It’ll all be fine. It has to be. We both work too hard at life to not be fine.

  I can’t shake the uncertainty, though, and so I do the only thing I know to do. I call my sister.

  “Hey, you,” she answers cheerfully on the first ring.

  “Do you and Teddy have issues...in the bedroom?” I ask hesitantly without preamble.

  My sister pauses. “Issues as in...”

  “As in, you never make time for sex, and when you do, Teddy can’t get it up half the time?”

  Jackie laughs, a raspy sound. “Of course. That’s what happens when you get old, weirdo. The soldier just doesn’t salute as easily.”

  “I’m not old,” I tell her. “And neither is Jude.”

  “Of course not,” she agrees. “But in penis years, he’s like...fifty-five. So be patient.”

  “Penises aren’t like dogs,” I tell her. “They don’t have their own time system.”

  “I disagree. Once a man hits thirty, years double for penises. It’s practically a fact.”

  “Odd that I didn’t learn that in medical school.” I’m droll and Jackie laughs.

  “Do you guys try new things from time to time, to spice things up?” I’m hesitant to ask, but the words come out anyway.

  “Hell, yeah. Variety is the spice of life.”

  Okay. Maybe Jude was right to try something. Maybe I’m a lunatic for freaking out. Something about it, though... Something felt wrong. Really wrong.

  We hang up and I take Artie outside.

  I stand on the patio and watch her move slowly around the yard. Her muzzle is white now, and her once-strong haunches are thin.

  “Artie, come in, girl!” I call, and she rambles leisurely to me. I scratch her ears, and she closes her eyes.

  She’s been my family for the longest time. Her and Jude and Jacks. They are all I need in this world. I feed her breakfast before I get ready myself, adding some scrambled eggs to her dog food.

  “Don’t tell Daddy,” I tell her. Eggs give her gas, and she knows it. I think she smiles at me.

  I shower and actually have time to get ready for work leisurely, instead of getting called in early. I blow-dry my hair and put it in a long braid draped over my shoulder, because that makes me feel young and pretty. I still feel the afterglow of sex with my husband, and I want to keep the good vibe going. I apply makeup and lip gloss and the whole nine yards.

  When I walk into the ER an hour later, I feel good, I look good, and Lucy stops in her tracks with an armful of catheters for the supply closet.

  “You got some,” she crows. “I can see it on your face! God, why do I have to be a crazy cat lady? All I get is fur on me all the time, no orgasms.”

  I laugh without meaning to, and she growls at me. “You don’t get to laugh at my pain.”

  This, of course, only makes me laugh at her again, and she rolls her eyes.

  “It’s slow today,” she tells me. “For once. It’s just you and Dr. Lane, and there’s a girl in exam room twelve who wants to see a female doctor.”

  I nod and head in that direction, stopping to pick up the chart from the door. Glancing through it, I get the main facts.

  Female, twenty-four years old, presenting with a migraine.

  I slip through the curtain and find her sitting on the table, her feet swinging. She’s young and cute, and I greet her with a smile.

  Because I did get some today.

  9

  Eleven days, nine hours until Halloween

  Jude

  “How does that make you feel?”

  I ask my patient the age-old question, and he stares at me, dumbfounded.

  “It makes me feel pissed. The bitch cheated on me, Doc!”

  I don’t correct him. I don’t remind him that I’m not a doctor, I’m a therapist. And I understand why he’s looking at me like I’m on acid. It was a stupid question under the circumstances, but necessary according to protocol.

  “I’m sure,” I assure him, and he nods because in my own way, I’m validating his feelings. “You have every right to be furious. She violated your trust, and because of that, I’m sure you feel vulnerable.”

  He nods because of course that’s right. I know it’s right. I see a hundred patients a year who are in this same exact situation.

  “I do,” he admits, and he sounds embarrassed. “But I still love her. Isn’t that a bitch?”

  I have to imagine it is. Sometimes I think the human mind practically sabotages us into self-destructive behavior. I nod and make notes, and he keeps talking about his feelings.

  “It’s possible to get over infidelity,” I tell him. “If your wife is willing to recommit, and if you are both willing to examine what is wrong in your relationship. Do you think you can both do that?”

  He ponders that, and we talk until his hour is up.

  “I’ll see you next week,” I tell him. “Make sure you see Ginny on your way out to confirm your appointment.”

  “Will do,” he agrees, and I’m left in silence but for the trickle of water from the fountain in the corner. Water tumbles over three stacked pots, and it’s always on because water is soothing to my patients.

  Frankly, listening to it all day makes me have to piss.

  I stare at the dark gray walls, at the comforting artwork, at the dark leather furniture. All of it was designed by Corinne, to look dignified and provide a peaceful place for my patients. I have to admit, she’s good at
designing. When she did it, deep down I felt resentful, like she was trying to control every facet of my life. Even at the time I knew it was stupid. She was just trying to help. Back then I felt like she was too controlling. Now I feel like she’s too neglectful. Maybe I’m just a childish bastard who can’t be pleased. I have a good life and I know it.

  This morning, she wasn’t expecting the rough sex. I wasn’t expecting it. It was something I did on the spur of the moment, and I know why.

  The girl at the diner. She had announced so loudly that she loved rough sex. It got my imagination going, and Lord help me, I took that fascination out on my wife.

  My intercom buzzes, then Ginny’s voice fills my office.

  “Jude, you left your cell phone out here. It’s been vibrating all hour.”

  I don’t bother to answer; I just get up and head out to my receptionist’s desk. She sits in her pencil skirt, her middle-aged legs still looking decent even though she claims she’s allergic to exercise.

  “Here you go.” She smiles at me, handing me my phone.

  “Corinne?” I guess.

  Ginny shrugs. “I’m not nosy. I didn’t look.”

  Yeah, right. She’s the nosiest person I know, and she probably searched through everything on my phone. But I don’t call her on it. Instead, I thank her and head back into my office. Ginny keeps everything organized here and keeps me on track. If it weren’t for her, I’d be lost. I’m not going to piss her off.

  I scan through my texts.

  None from Corinne. I’m oddly disappointed, even though she never texts me during the day. The ER keeps her too busy. But still. I thought she might text after this morning’s sex.

  One from Michel.

  How are you doing?

  And several from a number I don’t recognize.

  Hi there. It’s Zoe from Vilma’s.

  Damn it.

  I swallow, and I read her other texts.

  You left your credit card at the café this morning.

  Do you want to meet me so you can have it back ASAP?

  I feel a jolt. First, fuck. I left my card someplace? I can’t even remember the last time I did that. How irresponsible. I practically don’t have a credit limit, so a thief could have a field day with it.

  Second, how weird that she’s texting me. So weird.

  I can just pick it up from Vilma in the morning, I answer. Thanks for letting me know.

  I see the three bubbles on my text screen signifying that she is answering. So I wait without putting my phone down. The idea of who is on the other end of the phone gives me a jolt, a thrill, even though my initial thoughts about the girl weren’t flattering. She might have clear daddy issues, but she has an ass you could bounce a quarter off. It strokes my ego that she’s texting me.

  I actually have the card with me. I didn’t want anything to happen to it. I’m in town running errands. I could meet you for lunch?

  Another jolt.

  She wants to meet for lunch? Is this for real?

  What a kind offer, I answer, and my heart literally pounds. But I would never impose on you like that. If you’re working tomorrow, I’ll pick it up then.

  There are three bubbles. She’s typing.

  But nothing comes through.

  I wait.

  The three bubbles are still there, then they disappear.

  Still nothing.

  I can’t help but picture her in her overly tight waitress uniform. The bright blue complemented her skin tone, and her tits were busting out of the top. The skirt was short, and it’s quite possible that she made it that way on purpose.

  For a minute, being a red-blooded man, I picture that ass bent over a chair, her uniform skirt hitched up to her hips. Her lacy panties would be shoved to the side...and I think she’d be shaved.

  I indulge for just a second, then I push the images out of my head. It’s a fantasy. That’s all.

  I’m normal.

  I love my wife.

  I miss my wife.

  Corinne is my world.

  I jam my phone into my pocket as my door opens with my next patient.

  “Mr. Ford,” I greet the elderly man in front of me, the one with OCD who is at this very moment wiping his feet on the carpet as he walks to wipe away all germs from his shoes. He does it a thousand times a day. “I’m so glad to see you. How have you been?”

  He takes a seat in the chair across from me, careful to keep his right foot crossed over the left, and for the next hour, I’m immersed in the world of an obsessive man. This week, his new habit is stepping on a particular stair step on his porch precisely four times every time he goes home.

  We discuss coping mechanisms, and the chemical reasons that OCD could be at play in his brain, and when we’re nearly done, I find him staring at the portrait of Corinne and me sitting on my desk.

  “You’re a lucky man,” he tells me, and his cloudy eyes are pensive. “I lost my Helen a decade ago. I haven’t been the same since.”

  No, he hasn’t. His OCD emerged that year, when he was lost in grief.

  “I am lucky,” I agree. “My wife is a brilliant woman.”

  “She’s a looker, too,” Mr. Ford observes, and I try to see the picture through the fresh eyes of a stranger.

  Corinne’s eyes are bright and blue, her hair long and blond. She’s thin, she’s trim, she’s tall. Her legs are long, her smile bright.

  She is a looker. Sometimes I forget that.

  Probably because I haven’t seen her in days and days.

  I hide my stress. My patients don’t get to hear my very real and very human problems.

  We finish our session and Mr. Ford leaves, and I wrap up my notes. When I’m finished, I’m surprised to realize that it’s lunchtime.

  Ginny pokes her head in. “Hey, boss. I’m going out for lunch. Should I bring you something back?”

  I could meet you for lunch?

  Unbidden, the texted words flash through my mind, and guiltily, I push them away. Fuck, man. Not cool.

  “I’m good,” I tell Ginny, and I think my words have a double meaning. I’m good. I don’t have straying thoughts about a woman who isn’t my wife. Not real straying thoughts.

  Ginny leaves, and I grab my jacket, and as I do, my phone buzzes, and I think my wife might’ve texted me back.

  I’m startled when I see that I’m wrong.

  It’s not Corinne.

  It’s a picture.

  Of Zoe.

  I was right. She’s shaved.

  My heart thuds as I stare at the nude picture.

  Her tits are big and full, and her thumb is brushing her nipple, her other hand caressing her shaved vagina. Her eyes are big and turned to the camera in a sultry gaze, and she’s completely and absolutely naked.

  Are you freaking kidding me?

  I swallow hard, and it’s not like I haven’t been hit on before. I have. But this is different. It’s so blatant, so outrageous, and frankly, in some hidden and shameful spot, it turns me on.

  Fuck, man.

  I’m sorry, I’m married, I reply, typing with shocked wooden fingers.

  Because I’m good. The stiffness in my crotch doesn’t count.

  Three bubbles.

  That’s fine, she answers. Do you want a girlfriend?

  Sweet Jesus.

  She can’t be serious. Is her generation so blatant and direct?

  No, I answer. Sorry.

  Three bubbles.

  Hmm. We’ll see.

  My heart is beating hard, and it seems to be in my throat and I don’t honestly know why. I stare at her words, and every one of them is designed to be flirtatious, to engage me. Somehow, that feels shamefully good.

  My wife works so much that we rarely see each other. And here is this girl, this much younger girl..
.throwing herself at me via message. It’s flattering.

  It’s also pathetic that it somehow makes me feel validated.

  God, I’m such a therapist. Can’t I turn it off for one fucking moment and simply enjoy that I got hit on by a hot young girl?

  Jesus.

  I turned her down. I’m good. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t stare at her nude picture a little while longer. I mean, she sent it to me. She wanted me to look at it. I shouldn’t feel like such a perv.

  I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, a physical effort to switch gears, to get the forbidden picture out of my mind. Because it is forbidden. I’m married, and there comes a point where fantasies aren’t good or healthy.

  When I come out, Ginny is back.

  “Hey, boss,” she says cheerfully, a sandwich in front of her. “Your one o’clock is here.”

  “Send her in,” I instruct.

  I sit down in my office, stick my phone back in my pocket and get back to business as usual.

  My patient comes in, rife with overeating issues, and my afternoon begins.

  * * *

  Once again, Corinne works late and doesn’t come home in time for dinner. Michel arrives instead, with his hands full of takeout. We spread out at the kitchen table and eat our weight in Chinese food.

  “Don’t you think that’s enough?” Michel raises an eyebrow at me over the top of my scotch bottle. I scowl at him from across the kitchen table.

  “No.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You know Corinne throws herself into work this time of year, more so than normal. It’s her way of dealing with things.”

  I sigh.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” I insist to him, gulping down the amber liquid. “It sucks. I’m a therapist, and I can’t help my own wife. And she won’t come home long enough to let me try.”

  “I know,” he says sympathetically. “I know. I’m not judging you. I just think you might want to limit yourself to maybe five drinks. Six is a little over the top.”

  He’s wry, and I gulp down my sixth drink. The room spins a little, and I squeeze my eyes closed.

  “Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll clean up our dinner dishes on my way out,” my brother suggests. I don’t argue. I slap his back on my way past, heading down the hall.