Jasmine

by Winston Aarons

  Sor was opening the bottle of Shiraz when Jasmine arrived. He heard her fumbling with her key in the lock.

  “Damn door,” she said irritably, when she finally opened it and walked into the apartment. “I can never get into the apartment without a struggle. You’ve got to remember to oil the lock, Sor. You promised you would two weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting to pick up the oil at the hardware store. I’ll do it tomorrow and give it a good oiling before I go to the university.”

  Sor saw that Jasmine had brought home her laptop and a folder bulging with documents. “I see you’ve brought work home again,” he chided. “I thought you had decided last week that you wouldn’t be doing that anymore.”

  “I make promises, Sor,” Jasmine said wearily, “but the corporate world does not allow me to keep them. Unlike your world, which deals with literary interpretations and critical studies of imagined literary works, mine focuses purely on the making of money.”

  As she put the laptop and folder on the unused end of the dining room table, Sor took a good look at his wife. He had never looked at her like this before. It was almost clinical, his eyes peering through her skin and flesh, digging deep to find her inner self. When you are married for a long time you don’t see your spouse anymore. Jasmine had become a habit, a fixture in his life, like the Heckman table in the foyer with the little clock that chimed on the hour, like his chair. He hears her, though she often complained that he never does, and sees her, and understands, through some kind of osmosis, what she is feeling and thinking, but is blind and deaf to her inner self, the important stuff, the crucial stuff hiding in her.

  She was a good-looking woman, Sor thought. She had put on a little weight over the years but she still had a shapely body. Her curly black hair went well with her pale brown eyes and olive skin. She was the right height. Just a few inches shorter than his six feet. The only thing one could find fault with was her nose. He thought it was a bit too small for her face. He also thought her business-like demeanor concealed her beauty. She was too serious. If she only smiled more—he constantly reminded her of it—she’d appear younger and more attractive, more beautiful. Not that he cared for beauty, at least not the kind that made some men drool with desire. He would not be attracted to the Marilyn Monroe type; she exuded sex, but that was all. He looked for other qualities in women. Intelligence was more important to him than beauty.

  How different Jasmine was from Marguerite, he thought. Marguerite was not as beautiful as Jasmine. But her body spoke to him. Just looking at her lubricated his senses, hardened his primitive appendage. Maybe it’s because she wasn’t as serious as Jasmine. She was able to let herself go. Be free. The artist, the Bohemian part of Marguerite, he thought, was the reason for this. He wondered if she had the same effect on other men.

  After dinner Jasmine wanted to listen to music with Sor. She had bought a new recording of one of his favorite Paganini violin concertos; Midori was the violinist. Jasmine knew how much Sor loved Paganini. He loved the tense, manic passion in some of his music. “Come listen with me,” she urged. He felt preoccupied and anxious and wasn’t in the mood, not even for Paganini, but he listened. Afterwards, he even watched a half hour of British comedy with her in the bedroom, the only room in the house with a television. At ten o’clock he told Jasmine he was going into the study to respond to some students who had e-mailed him about their assignments.

  As he sat down at his desk, Sor felt he should calm himself before writing to Marguerite. He was running ahead of himself. In his mind, he was already sleeping with her. Be calm, he told himself, as he turned on his laptop. He had one new message. It was from Karl, an old school friend who was teaching at a small university in the Midwest and wanted to know if he could spend two days with Sor and Jasmine during the summer. Yes, Karl, you can, he said to himself, and immediately wrote his friend telling him that it would be fine. He opened up the New Message folder and entered Marguerite’s e-mail address. He did not know how to address her. Should he just say Marguerite, or Dear Marguerite, Hi Marguerite, Hello Marguerite? He decided ‘Hello Marguerite’ would be most appropriate, and began his message to her: Hello Marguerite . . .

  SEVEN

  When Marguerite got home from Fresh Market she was on edge, nervous. Every fifteen minutes she’d go into her studio where she had her computer to check for new e-mail messages. Her elder son, Mark, noticed her odd behavior and asked if something was the matter. Marguerite told him she was expecting an important message from her department head regarding a course she had proposed to teach the following semester. He was to e-mail her his decision today. It was a lie, of course. She was expecting no such message.

  Her attention was not on cooking that evening. She burned the rice and overcooked the steak, made it well done instead of medium, the way Edgar and the children liked it. The younger boy, Adam, told his mother she was slipping as a steak-maker. He had once said she made the best steaks in the universe. Her husband ate without complaint, but ate slowly—a sign he was not enjoying his meal—and spoke even less during the meal than normal, leaving a large portion of his steak on his plate and not finishing his glass of wine. He, too, noticed her nervousness and constant disappearances from the kitchen, and asked if anything was the matter.

  “Nothing, dear,” Marguerite said. “University business, that’s all.”

  Edgar had experienced too often this kind of behavior in Marguerite and left the matter where it was. It was her artistic temperament exhibiting itself, he told himself. Still, he remembered how she had gotten sick two years before. It had begun much like this: signs of being mildly anxious at first, then becoming severely stressed emotionally, and then becoming ill. He would not remind her of it, but he would keep a close watch on her.

  Marguerite couldn’t understand what had come over her earlier that afternoon at Fresh Market. She had basically thrown herself into the arms of a stranger. Suppose someone had seen them? It wasn’t so far from the university. Faculty members, students, friends, acquaintances—she had run into them there on several occasions—someone might have seen them embracing. God, how passionately, how recklessly they had embraced—scandalously, there in front of Fresh Market. She was a married woman. She had a family. She should be more careful. What was it that so forcefully drove her toward this man? She hardly knew him. She had met him that one time at Julian Plum’s birthday party. She had sat next to him at the table. They had spoken at length about art, her work and his. Sor had stood out. He had charisma, she thought. Her female instincts had also picked up something sensual underneath his cool, conservative and tightly controlled exterior, something powerful, daring and adventurous. It was all the more noticeable because he did not seem to be aware of it. And the way he walked—graceful, but firmly rooted on the ground, like a prizefighter or an athlete—and his broad shoulders, she found sexy and exciting. He did not speak often, but spoke confidently when he did. And she felt he was someone she could trust. That was it. That’s what drew her toward him.

  After she had put her younger son to bed—Mark stayed up to watch a movie with his father—she went into the bathroom and ran a hot bath, a single candle burning. She decided she would not check her computer for Sor’s letter until after ten. It would be too unsettling to open up her e-mail and not find a message from him. She’d have a long, leisurely bath. She’d put some fresh oil of jasmine behind her ears after her bath. She loved the way it smelled. As she leaned back in the tub she admired her legs, her stomach. Her stomach still looked firm after the two boys, she thought. She could make out the patch of pubic hairs nestled on the mound below her stomach, curlier than they actually were because of the water. Maybe one day she’d shave down there. She wondered how it would look. A close friend of hers shaved down there. She said it got her husband quite excited. Maybe she’d do it. Maybe I’d do it for Sor, she thought, and laughed quietly to herself.

  Sh
e wondered if he’d write to her. She was sure he would. She must have seemed desperate: “Write to me, Sor. Tonight, please.” What was she thinking? Was she crazy? Damn Edgar. If things were different she wouldn’t have to bring herself to this: a married woman wanting other men after fifteen years of marriage. They should have seen a counselor long ago, five years ago when the trouble started, when he stopped being intimate with her. She didn’t know what happened.

  Sometimes she blamed herself for Edgar’s lack of interest. Maybe she drove him away when she went on one of her numerous painting binges, staying up late at night working in her studio, letting him go to bed without her, ignoring him when he wanted to be intimate with her. It must have been frustrating for him. Maybe his withdrawal was some sort of defense mechanism. He couldn’t be hurt if he didn’t want her.

  In time they grew apart. He didn’t want her. She didn’t want him. But she didn’t want to dismantle her marriage, though she longed for someone to love her. She began fantasizing about other men, men who would love her body, tell her how much they wanted her. She wanted so much to be loved that way. Maybe Sor was that man.

  Her stomach looked good in the light. Her breasts were still firm. She’d love a man’s mouth on her nipples. Such a long time since anyone had held them, kissed them, loved them, made her feel like a woman, told her she looked good. Wanted her. Write to me, Sor. Tonight, please. What was she thinking? After her bath, she would check the computer and find out whether she had scared him off or not.

  It was almost ten when she stepped out of the tub. She stood before the mirror. Not a bad body, she thought. A man should still find interest in it. And she was a sensual woman, that she knew, and going to waste. What a shame. She put on a pair of new panties, the red ones with frills and black lace. Why? Why this pair tonight? Where was she going? What rendezvous did she have planned that she should be wearing them tonight? Was she mad? She must really be losing it, thinking like this. Damn you, Edgar.

  It was a few minutes before eleven when she sat down before her computer. She was nervous. She wasn’t sure he would write to her, though she felt he would. She felt sure, from his reactions, that he felt something, too. He was as much caught up with her as she was with him. Damn it, she thought to herself, I studied Nietzsche and Kant—I did that psychology course on relationship in college—I studied Freud, and Adler, and good old Jung. She almost did her graduate work in psychology, she should be cognizant of these things, she should be able to tell whether a man was interested in her or not. She should at least be able to discern honesty in a man to avoid being hurt. She knew, though, that when it had to do with love, matters of the heart, and sex, education was of little help.

  She’d wear the new panties if he invited her out. She’d shave down there, too. Ah, to be held again like that, she thought, his hands around her, on her stomach, on her breasts, her nipples, his hand going down, his fingers searching, lifting the waist of her panty, sliding down, down, touching her there. Ah, to be touched again, a man’s hand on her. She put her hand down there. Her new panties were wet.

  She turned on the computer and keyed in to e-mail. Her heart raced. She put her hand on her breast. She could feel her chest heaving. Two messages, one junk mail, the other from Sorbena7. Sor… bena7—that must be him. She opened it up, her heart racing fast, faster. “Thank you, Sor, thank you,” she whispered to herself, and began reading his message.

  Hello Marguerite,

  I’m not sure what is happening between us. Whatever it is, it feels good at this end. However, the suddenness, the rapidity with which it’s happening, is somewhat overwhelming. The fact, though, that it’s so spontaneous, that we are so comfortable with each other, undermines any thought of hesitancy on my part. On the other hand, to be cautious, I won’t now divulge what I’m feeling. It’s too early. I might seem impulsive. Also, what I’m feeling might not be what you are feeling. Often, that’s the problem one faces in relationships. If there’s going to be something between us, there’s the matter of our marriages, your husband, my wife, your children, and the added complication that we’re both faculty members working at the same university. For self-protection, we must act cautiously. But we’re both mature and intelligent individuals. And I assume both our heads are screwed on properly, though, to be honest, since our meeting today, I’ve either lost mine or there is something the matter with the way it’s currently screwed on. I don’t seem to be thinking as coherently as I’d like. I’m still somewhat shaken emotionally. I feel anxious. I feel a little giddy with anticipation. I know, you’ll probably think when you read this letter that I’m going much, much too fast for you. Maybe so, but should you get to know me, you’ll find I say what’s on my mind. I say what I feel. I’ve never been one to pull punches. What’s happening between us—if it materializes into anything—is also new for me. I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife. I might have had the occasion when I was tempted, but I never allowed myself to be drawn into a relationship with another woman.

  I live a very quiet, uncomplicated and uncluttered life. Both my wife and I are on very short leashes. It’s work. It’s home. We do most things together. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You might get cold feet. I might get cold feet listening to myself telling you these things. I think, therefore, I should stop writing at this point. By the way, are you the only one who uses your computer? Is it safe to send you messages like this? My wife rarely uses mine. If she does, it’s usually after ten at night. If you’re writing to me, do so after 10:30PM, unless I tell you otherwise. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

  Sor

  She read it twice, three times. She put her mind to the task of understanding exactly what he was saying. She’d answer him, but not before she knew where she stood and what his feelings were for her. She would be careful this time. She would not be as impetuous as she had been with Conrad two years ago. She had met him at her boys’ soccer practice. He was divorced. He seemed nice, kind, someone she could trust. But he wasn’t nice or kind. She dove into the relationship without thinking, hungry for love, sex. She was a fool. He had sensed her vulnerability and taken advantage. He had made her feel cheap, slutty. But she had allowed him to treat her that way—at least that’s what her psychiatrist, Dr. Glanfeld, said afterwards, after Conrad dumped her, refused to speak to her, and took up with another soccer mom, openly carrying on, throwing his new fuck in her face. On top of that, she felt certain he had told some of the other women about their relationship. One day, she had seen a group of women talking. As soon as she got close to them, the conversation stopped. The bastard. Luckily she was not close with any of the women. Still, it was humiliating. And the way he had used her and dumped her, without any explanation, had hurt her terribly. She had literally gotten sick over it.

  Looking back on their relationship, she realized she was just his sex toy. All he did was screw her. That’s all he wanted from her. How many times she let him fuck her on the back seat of his car, and once on the grass behind his car in a parking lot, and repeatedly in his foul-smelling apartment. And she thought he loved her. Why did she lower herself like that? His bed was never made when she went to his apartment. He might have screwed other women on the same sheets. And his exercise machine! It took up half the room. He wanted to screw her on that too, stretched out on the treadmill to satisfy his kinky urges. She tripped over it once in the dark after she had sex with him, almost broke her neck. In his apartment, she’d only let him screw her in the dark, so she wouldn’t have to see his filthy room, dirty clothes everywhere. She wouldn’t go through that again.

  Maybe she should make an appointment to see Dr. Glanfeld, Marguerite thought, but quickly put it out of her mind. There was no crisis. Sor was different. She had started seeing Dr. Glanfeld after her breakup with Conrad, and continued seeing him once a week for a year. She fondly remembered his consulting room in Boca Raton, the overstuffed wingback patients’ chair in which she
felt comfortable and at home, and the Mayan funerary pieces—he was a collector of Mayan artifacts—mostly bowls, and her favorite piece, an onyx mask, which he kept on a small table next to his chair. He must have placed it there on purpose. His patients could not avoid seeing it. Its eyes seemed to stare knowingly at her, through her, uncannily. But she hated Dr. Glanfeld’s wife’s dog, a black and silver male schnauzer that occasionally came into the room, sniffing eagerly about her feet, and sometimes put its paws on her knees, as if it wanted to climb into her lap. On several occasions she had to ask Dr. Glanfeld to remove it from the room. Aside from the dog, the year she spent as his patient had helped her out of her depression. But there were things she didn’t like. She remembered him telling her not to become one of those women who put all the blame on men for their failed relationships. So long as a man doesn’t force himself into a woman’s body, rape her, he said, women are partially to blame. Men will have sex with women and leave them. Women should know that. We should get to know the men we meet before opening up ourselves completely to them. Before giving them our sex. Some of what he had said was true, but she didn’t agree with everything he said. Dr. Glanfeld is a man. Some of what he said is the male’s point of view, not a woman’s. But regardless, why did I have to give my body to a man like Conrad? Why was I so vulnerable? Why was I so weak?

  But why did she feel differently about Sor? She didn’t know him, yet she felt she could trust him. He was an honest man and would not hurt her. He had integrity. But a man can fool a woman so easily. Fill her head with lies. Even she, with her doctorate, was not immune. Maybe that’s why she loved the tough women of the world, the ballsy women who didn’t let men take advantage of them. Enough of this digression, she told herself, and went back to re-reading his e-mail.