I’m taken aback to say the least. The conversation he’s having is certainly a private one, absolutely none of my business. But he makes no attempt to speak any more softly when I conspicuously clear my throat.
‘I want to touch you. Do you grant me permission?’ A moment later he says, ‘Thank you. My fingers can’t get enough of your skin. It’s so soft, so warm. As you stand in front of me, I slide them slowly over your collarbone, just my fingertips sweeping softly over your delicate frame. Your graceful neck extends in response to my touch and I can’t wait to run my tongue over the path where my fingers have already been. But not yet. I first must give the rest of you the proper consideration. The sight of you, Noemi, makes my mind go blank of anything else.’
How easily he winds his words around his tongue. The woman on the other end of them must be beside herself, wishing he was there with her. The velvety tone of his voice only adds to the effect and, though it’s not directed at me, I find my own temperature rising from his efforts.
‘Onto the soft curve of your shoulder and round to your full breasts, where your nipples respond to a slow caress of my finger. I see you shiver a little. It makes me happy to please you. Are you pleased?’ he asks.
I hear a throaty ‘Yes’, and I’m shocked to know that he’s put his call on speaker, the volume just loud enough for my ears to decipher the word among the background noise of the plane. Mortified, I’m not sure what to do. Looking up from my magazine, I find him looking right back at me with serious eyes and only the beginnings of a dimple forming in his olive-skinned cheek.
‘You are the most beautiful,’ he breathes into the mouthpiece, his eyes locked onto mine. ‘I see many beautiful women every day, but you, Noemi, are the most beautiful, because I cannot have you.’
The things he’s saying are making me uncomfortable, but not for the reasons I purport with an indignant sigh. This complete stranger is intentionally taunting me with every sentence – and it’s working.
It’s not his audacity that has my blood boiling; it’s the uncanny way that he has me wanting to be that girl on the other end of the phone. I don’t need a high-priced therapist to tell me that I only want the things that aren’t easy to get, and that I’m easily bored once I have them. It’s the reason I am so successful in my career and such a miserable failure at relationships.
This man isn’t speaking to me, he’s speaking for me; tapping into my most secret flaw – I love to want so much more than I like to have.
There’s no getting up and switching seats; the plane iscompletely full. Yet, when it comes down to it, there’s no denying that I am utterly riveted by his every word and there’s no escaping my elevated heartbeat or the sudden quaking between my legs.
Summoning all the will power I can gather, I knit my brow into a frown. ‘Do you mind?’ I snap, pleased that I’m able to sound annoyed and not unravelled.
He places his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ he returns with a teasing smirk, and continues his dialogue with the lucky woman on the other end. I’m resigned to lean my head against the window and attempt to look like I could care less; feigning sleep that I’m sure he knows is a complete ruse.
The images he’s conjuring are explicit, starting out endearing and sweet, but gradually taking a turn toward raw and hungry sex with no apology for his detailed descriptions. And suddenly I feel his leg fall apart enough to press gently against my knee. It’s a subtle connection, seemingly unintentional, but passing electricity through me nevertheless.
I hear her ask, ‘Are you alone?’
‘No, I’m not alone,’ he says.
I bite my lip in silent duress. Will he insist on pushing me further down this road? I can already feel the delicious sting of desire making my skin burn. And locked away, behind my closed eyes, I’m dizzy with it. The power of want is keeping me on the edge of my seat to find out just how far he’ll take this.
‘She’s gorgeous, long red hair, full of curves, creamy white skin that made my mouth water the minute I saw her. Almost as sexy as you.’ He laughs, ‘Yes, almost. She’s pretending not to be listening. Not doing a very good job at it though.’ Another soft chuckle drives me mad. ‘Anyway, sweetheart, this is your time, isn’t it? I’m all yours right now, no distractions.’
‘Please turn off all electronic devices in preparation for take-off.’ The announcement is a disappointment to both of us.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart; I have to go now after all. But I’ll make it up to you.’ He says goodbye and nothing more.
I’m grappling with whether I should say something. Can I admit how turned on he’s made me? I’m certain he already knows anyway, despite my thin scowl. Can I simply let this stranger sit here, relishing the fun he’s had with me today and then leave without a trace? If I weren’t so intrigued, perhaps I could.
For the rest of the hour-long flight we sit in silence; the only exchange between us is the heat from his leg so innocently pressed against mine. For the first time in a very long while, I feel at a loss ... for words, for a solution to this dilemma. The attractive man in the next seat has managed to put me in pursuit, and I have the distinct feeling he knows how to play hard to get. As we approach the gate, I decide to pose a question that seems harmless enough.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask, folding my magazine back into my purse.
‘You want to know more than that,’ he says, smiling widely and passing me a piece of paper.
It’s his name and email address.
‘Who were you talking to on the phone?’
‘Why?’
‘You seemed attached.’
‘So do you,’ he notes, gesturing at my diamond ring.
‘Looks can be deceiving,’ I respond.
‘How right you are ...’
‘Pamela.’
‘Until we meet again, Pamela,’ he says and stands up in the aisle.
I place the piece of paper into my wallet and smile, certain that we will.
That smile endures until it’s met with a slew of suitcases and boxes in my foyer. Lance is waiting for me after all, at the bottom of the stairs.
‘What the hell is this?’ I ask him with a rhetorical bite. Of course, I know what this is. This is the end.
‘I decided not to go ahead and just move out while you were away. I figured I owe you – I owe us that much.’ Lance’s voice is calm and soft, with his head hung low, busy shuffling some books in a box.
I slam the door behind me. ‘You owe me a hell of a lot more than that.’ He visibly flinches at the remark. Throwing my bag on the floor, I continue, ‘You fucking coward. You actually considered slithering out of here without a single word?’ I’m not sure which is more infuriating: his leaving or the fact that he was the first to draw the line in the sand.
‘I only considered it for a second, Pamela. Just for a fleeting moment of peace, I thought I could just disappear like the last three years never happened.’ He’s looking straight at me now, his face contorted with more pain than I’d ever allow to infiltrate mine.
‘So why exactly didn’t you?’
‘I wanted to see for myself that there’s no way to make this work.’ Lance rises to his feet and comes closer to me. ‘Pam, isn’t there a part of you that just wants to stop arguing and find the people who loved each other again? We could celebrate your birthday together, the way we used to.’
‘Lance, don’t be naïve. It isn’t as simple as that.’
‘Why not? Pam, my stuff is packed, but I’m still here. Doesn’t that mean anything?’
My arms are folded, closed to the opening he’s trying to make. For the past year, I’ve been biting my tongue about how I really feel. Today is the day I let it all out.
‘What it means to me is that you are as weak as I always thought you were, Lance. If you’ve made up your mind to leave, then you should just leave.’
‘How come I didn’t know you were this fucking heartless?’
‘I’d rather be
heartless than gutless.’
‘Pamela, that’s your problem in a fucking nutshell. The minute I show you that I love you, you take it for weakness. Let me tell you something. It takes a shitload of balls to try and put up with you.’
I press the lever behind me. ‘The door is open, don’t let me stop you.’
He throws his hands in the air and doesn’t even bother with another word. Truth is, there’s nothing he can say to change the relentless downward spiral we’re caught in. The closer he steps, the farther I run. The only difference between last year and now is that I’ve stopped pretending that it’s not killing me.
Chapter Four – Tina
IT’S BEEN DAYS SINCE I’ve seen or heard from Jimmy. Marilyn tells me, when I casually inquire, that he’s been in Atlanta, meeting with the CDC. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t been with me ... in my thoughts. Since I last saw him, I’ve been trying to prepare myself for our next meeting. Strictly professional, that’s how I intend to keep things. And that’s exactly how the week went, with merely cordial chats and business-related emails between us.
On Friday, a ridiculous YouTube video is waiting for me in my inbox. Have a drink with me tonight, the message reads.
With my fingers prepped over the keyboard, I start to type several times before settling on my answer: I can only imagine the mischief you have in store for me. No thanks.
He replies, If it will make you feel better, bring a friend. I was planning to watch the game with a buddy of mine, but I’d love to see you. We’ll go to this little pub I know, Finnegan’s, by the beach. Perfectly safe, I promise.
I write that I’ll have to get back to him about it. I want to see if Sonya, my chaperone, is available. A few drinks after work sounds harmless enough.
Knocking out those testimonials will be my focus for the day. But first, I dial Sonya. Innocently, I pitch the idea of meeting up with Jimmy and his friend for drinks.
‘Do you think I would miss the chance to meet the guy you were telling me about? Hell yeah, I’ll be there. What’s his friend like?’ She’s down for the plan, as usual. My best friend can always be counted on for a good time.
‘I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.’ I text the address to her and get back to work.
The day passes fairly quickly and I finish up several versions of copy for Marilyn to review. When Jimmy gets the message that we’re on for tonight, he suggests that he drive us both over there. ‘We can talk on the way, get to know each other better,’ he reasons, and I agree since he promises to be a perfect gentleman. Above all, we’ve always enjoyed each other’s company and I’m certain that hasn’t changed. It would be great to relax and laugh with him again; see if I can manage to keep things in check.
5.30 p.m., as arranged, Jimmy is at my cubicle. ‘My personal escort, timely and chivalrous,’ I joke.
‘Not exactly how I had pictured meeting you here, but it will do.’ Despite the suggestive remark, he kisses me politely on the cheek with an innocuous peck. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Sure, let’s go.’ I gather my purse and we head to the parking lot.
‘Do you like baseball?’ he inquires, making small talk in the elevator.
‘Yeah, actually I do. My dad used to take me to games at least twice a season. Growing up I was a diehard Met fan.’
‘Mets? Are you from New York?’ he asks, opening the door to his Mini Cooper convertible. Leave it to him to have a car a little left of centre.
‘Well, from the ’burbs,’ I say. ‘I went to the University of Miami and just never made it back north again.’
The air is heavy around us from the thunderstorm that threatens above.‘What was it like to live so close to the city? I grew up in the sticks of Michigan, not much to do there except drink beer and skip rocks.’ He seems genuinely interested. Cruising down the highway, I’m already enjoying myself. He laughs at my jailbait tales of sneaking into clubs with my cousin’s ID and the time we had to spend the night with the homeless in Grand Central Station because we missed the last train. ‘A bad girl, huh?’
‘No, just innocent fun, really,’ I reply with the irony of my recent actions not lost on the comment.
At the beach, waves are crashing on the shore and a strong wind snaps the flags above the pub. Jimmy’s olive skin is reflecting the amber light that fills the autumn sky. I reach for his hand, in a reflexive way, very much looking forward to enjoying the evening.
Finnegan’s is not exactly my usual kind of bar. It’s crowded with 40-year-old execs turned sports fans, with loosened neckties and rolled-up sleeves. I’m reminded that the race for the pennant hangs in the balance between the Marlins and the Braves. Drinks are streaming among the reverie.
‘Over here!’ a voice calls out from the sea of faces. Jimmy waves back and pulls me through the crowd. Following an introduction, I have the opportunity to check out his friend, who’s blond with water-blue eyes and a great tan.
‘Lance runs the tennis programme at West Palm Country Club,’ Jimmy offers, signalling a barmaid for a round. ‘I gotta make a point to get in the gym every week, just to keep up with this guy.’
Lance is quite fit with Ken doll appeal, and I imagine that Sonya will agree he’s pretty hot. ‘Must be great to work outdoors,’ I mention loosely, noticing that he has a tan line on his finger. Following my stare, he holds it up and lends an explanation.
‘Ah, yes, the old ring line. My marriage has been over for a long time, but we only officially separated last week.’ A little sigh reveals the sadness still lingering in his voice as he absently circles his empty glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, with sincerity.
‘Don’t be. We’ve been living in the same house, but we were more like roommates than a couple. It’s time to move on.’
‘I’ve been telling you that for months,’ Jimmy says.
‘You’re one to talk,’ he chides in return, piquing my ears for a glimpse into Jimmy’s past.
‘Isn’t your friend going to join us, Tina?’ Jimmy asks me in place of the elaboration I’m hoping for. ‘Nothing like a little female laughter to mend a broken heart.’
‘She’s coming from across town, probably get here in a few minutes.’ I glance at my watch.
‘Enough about that gloomy shit. Tell me what else has been going on with you, man,’ Lance says, eager to lighten the mood and catch up with the latest man gossip. Men can be equally as chatty as women, they just ramble on about different things. When the conversation turns to the price of gas, I look at my watch again and excuse myself to try Sonya on her cell.
‘Hi, Tina. I was just about to call you,’ she says, sounding exasperated. ‘A nurse’s assistant called out sick at the last minute and I have to wait until they find a replacement. I don’t know how long I will be.’ I know she hates letting me down.
‘Don’t worry, come when you can,’ I tell her, feeling comfortable enough in my surroundings and present company to feel like staying without her.
Whisky shots are on the table when I return and with a hearty ‘Salut!’ we all slam one back, and then another. The guys are impressed with how well I am able to keep up with them. University of Miami practically has a course called How to Hold Your Liquor .
When the ballgame starts, we all exuberantly cheer for the home team. Lance seems like a good guy. I grew up with two brothers and have always held my own in the company of men. We crack up over jokes that might make a fairer lady cringe and I feel right at home with both of them.
But it isn’t long before the atmosphere around us turns sour. Raucous curse words start to fly at the television screens. By the fifth inning, the Marlins are down by eight and, with two more games in the series, both the team and their fans seem to chalk it up. Another inning with two more runs in for the Braves and Jimmy signals for the check. We are all deep in the sauce by now, but the night is still young.
Outside, the impending storm has not come yet and the air is as thick as ever. Beyond the pub, twinkling lights from the b
oardwalk remind us that the carnival is on. Bored with the game and feeling buzzed from the beer and shots, the three of us agree it’ll be fun to check it out. I call Sonya again, only this time she doesn’t answer. On her voicemail, I ask her to call me before she heads over. But it’s getting late and I doubt that she will make it at all.
The carnival is desolate; it seems the threat of thunderstorms has kept people away for the night. Though, that doesn’t stop us from playfully challenging each other to the games of skill and luck dotted across the boardwalk. Pushing 40 or not, the two guys are like a couple of kids, thanks in part to the four or five rounds of drinks. When a water-gun fight ensues after I beat both of them three times at fill-the-balloon, even I scream with girly thrill. In the spirit of the moment, I strategically focus my stream at Jimmy’s crotch, making it look as if he’s pissed his pants. In response, he sprays my top and instantly I’m displaying my bra through the wet shirt. Amid my hearty laugh, I catch Lance spying the black lace impressed against the sheerness of my soaked blouse. I also notice Jimmy looking at Lance, looking at me.
‘Who’s up for the funhouse?’ Jimmy asks suddenly, pointing to the converted double-decker trailer across the way.
‘Those things used to freak me out when I was a kid,’ I admit, dabbing some of the water on my neck with a napkin from my purse. ‘Count me out.’
‘Come on, Tina, don’t be a chicken,’ Lance taunts, gesturing for me to join them. I shrug and tuck my hair behind my ears, holding my ground.
‘How about it, Tina? You up for some fun?’ Jimmy presses, smiling widely. There’s no way can I resist that smile. And Jimmy knows it.
‘OK, you’re on,’ I relent. Approaching the building, I have the very real impression that there are mysteries awaiting me inside and my apprehension has turned into anticipation. Lance pays the attendee and we enter. The strobe lights and blaring soundtrack assault my senses, both cheesy and spooky at the same time.
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