by RM Johnson
“Ask your new friend to go where?”
Lewis held up two tickets. “The Lion King. I’ve been wanting to check it out, and I got tickets for tomorrow night, but I have nobody to go with me. I was wondering—”
“No, Lewis,” Monica said, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Lewis sighed and looked at the ticket in his hand. “Here, take it.”
“I said, I can’t—”
“Just take it,” he insisted.
Monica took the ticket from him.
“I’m not asking anyone else to go, so just hold on to it. I know you can’t go, but if you happen to, at the last minute, be able to make it, then I’ll just see you there. How does that sound?”
“It sounds just like it sounded before, Lewis, because I can’t go.”
“Then what are you doing tonight?”
“Definitely no. I have big plans for tonight.”
34
Much later that evening, Monica looked down at her watch. It read fifteen minutes after eleven, and she still didn’t want to do it, but she reached down, undid the tiny buckle on her pumps, and slid one of the shoes off.
The shoe was a beautiful black-and-silver one that Monica had bought three months ago and had never worn, because she wanted them to be brand-new for this occasion.
They matched a beautiful evening gown she had worn only once before, and that was to celebrate her first wedding anniversary with her husband. She was hoping that it would create some kind of magic, him seeing it on their fourth wedding anniversary, which was tonight. But that didn’t happen, because Nate never came home. He didn’t even call.
Monica pulled off the other shoe, threw the shawl from her shoulders, and kicked her feet up, then stretched out across the sofa in the evening gown.
Maybe she should’ve reminded him, she thought now, but she had never had to do that in the past. For the three previous years, there was never any mention made of it; she would just be ready on that night. Nate would come home from work, take her out, and they would have the most wonderful time.
Monica figured she didn’t call Nate because she was just being hopeful. Hopeful that, regardless of all that they had been going through, he wouldn’t let some things change. The fact that he still loved her, the fact that he still honored their marriage and wanted to show her that, especially now, should’ve been enough to keep him from forgetting. But obviously it wasn’t.
As Monica sank deeper and deeper into the cushions of the sofa, she had to stop herself from thinking that maybe Nate didn’t forget at all. Maybe he knew it was their anniversary, and just decided to remain with his client anyway, or do whatever it was he was doing at that moment.
If that was the case—if he really stopped caring that much about Monica—then she’d…she’d…An image of Lewis invaded her mind.
Off and on she’d think about him, think about lunch. It was the only thing that brought a smile to her face while sitting there practically four hours waiting on Nate to show.
“So,” Tabatha had said, standing in the center of the store when Monica walked back in after lunch. “How did it go? What did he say?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Monica said, walking right past Tabatha.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Tabatha said, catching her. “What happened?”
Monica didn’t know why, but she felt giddy, giggly, like a teen with a crush.
“It was nice,” she said, trying to suppress her smile.
“Nice? That’s all there is?” Tabatha said, unsatisfied.
“What more do you want? We had hot sex in the men’s room of the restaurant.”
“Oh, girl! Did you!”
“No, fool. We had lunch, and that’s it.” Monica started to walk away.
“That’s it?”
“Well,” Monica said, stopping and turning around slowly. “He did give me a ticket. He had the nerve to ask me out to see The Lion King with him tomorrow.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him? No.”
“Really.” Tabatha sounded disappointed.
“Really. Everybody seems to keep forgetting I’m married.”
“But that’s a hard ticket to get, and I heard it’s really good.”
“So I should cheat on my husband, because The Lion King is good?”
“Well, he’s cheating on you,” Tabatha said.
“My husband is not cheating on me!”
“Might as well be, considering how he’s treating you.”
“Well, he’ll have his chance to make all that up to me tonight,” Monica said.
“You think he’s going to actually remember your anniversary?”
“Of course,” Monica said. “He’s never forgotten in the past. And I sure as hell didn’t forget. I’ve had his gift wrapped and sitting on my shelf for a month now.”
“And what if he does forget?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does?” Tabatha insisted.
“Then I’ll…,” Monica said, giving it some thought.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll be mad as hell.”
“And what else?”
“I’ll…I’ll…I’ll…sleep with Lewis!”
“Ohhhhhh,” Tabatha said, her eyes bulging as she threw her hand over her mouth. “You would not!”
“He is really nice, and you saw how good he looks in his drawers.”
“You wouldn’t!” Tabatha said, slapping Monica across the shoulder.
“Naw, I wouldn’t,” Monica said, slyly.
“Would you?”
Monica got up off the sofa, walked across the living room floor in her stockings, and grabbed the purse she had carried to work all week. She dug through it and pulled out the ticket Lewis had given her. She went back in the purse, found his business card, and pulled that out as well.
She walked back over to the sofa and placed both cards on her knees. The phone was sitting beside her, from when she had been considering calling Nate to ask him if he had forgotten about their night. But she had decided against it.
Monica flipped the business card over, saw Lewis’s home number there, and thought for a moment about calling him, but then told herself no.
Just what in the hell was she doing—was she thinking? Everybody had forgotten that she was married, including herself.
Monica lifted the cards from her lap and set them down on the coffee table, telling herself she wouldn’t think any more about it.
But again, an image of the man popped into her mind. She thought of when he came from around the table at lunch, gave her the big bear hug, and kissed her on the forehead. That made her laugh, and a bit of a chuckle escaped her lips that moment.
She was thankful for that, for that brief respite from her sadness, and as the smile slowly faded from her lips now, her attention was drawn again to the cards.
Monica looked at the time. It was almost quarter to twelve. She looked at the door—no one was coming through it, and that made up her mind.
She knew it was late, knew the man was probably sleeping, but Monica grabbed the phone from beside her and dialed his number anyway.
35
When Monica woke up the following morning, Nate lay beside her. She did not wake him, didn’t nudge him even a little. She simply slid out of bed, showered, got dressed, and headed downstairs to make herself something for breakfast before she went to work.
She made herself some oatmeal with fresh fruit, along with a glass of orange juice and a cup of yogurt. When she brought it out to the dining room table, Nate was sitting there wearing his bathrobe.
Monica paused in the entrance to the room, the food in her hands, then proceeded to sit down as if he wasn’t there.
She dug her spoon into her oatmeal, was about to lift it to her mouth, when she heard her husband say, “You could’ve made me something.”
Monica’s m
ovement halted, the spoon floating an inch from her lips. She wanted to say something, wanted to explode, but what was the point, she reasoned, and just stuck the spoon full of food into her mouth, ignoring him.
Nate opened up yesterday’s Wall Street Journal, which was sitting on the table beside him, and created a barrier between them.
Monica glanced up at him hiding behind the paper, wondering why he still hadn’t given her an explanation for last night. Again, she considered confronting him about it, but didn’t.
She finished most of the food, but after a while, just didn’t want to sit there at the same table with her husband anymore. She gathered her bowl, cup, and glass, quickly washed the dishes, and headed out of the kitchen to grab her purse and coat for work.
As she approached the door, she still couldn’t believe her husband continued to sit in that chair, reading that paper as though there was nothing that had to be talked about.
Monica grabbed the front door handle, opened it, and was about to walk out when she heard, “Monica.”
She looked over at her husband.
Nate lowered the paper. “I’m going to be home late again tonight, so don’t wait up. I just thought you should know that,” he said, then raised the paper back in front of him.
And that was what made it impossible for Monica to hold her tongue any longer. “Just thought I should know that!” Monica said, angrily slamming the door. “Did you ever think I should’ve known that you were going to stand me up on our anniversary?”
Nate lowered the paper again.
“I had a lot of things on my mind. It wouldn’t have been a good night for that.”
“You could’ve come home anyway. We didn’t have to go out,” Monica said, furious. “We could’ve just been together.”
“I felt like being alone.”
Monica was immediately silenced by his selfish response. “Oh,” she said. “You felt like being alone.”
“That’s right.”
“So if I felt like being alone, stayed out all night, and didn’t call you to let you know whether I was dead or alive, that would be just fine with you?”
“You’re a grown woman.”
“Oh!” Monica said, not just shocked now, but terribly saddened. Because it no longer sounded like he was just being selfish, but as though he just didn’t care.
“I see,” Monica said, trying to hold back tears she knew would fall. “I see now. I see perfectly.” She stared at her husband a long time, letting him see just how hurt she was, while hoping that he would say something to, in some way, try to make up for all that he’d done. But he did not.
Monica opened the door and walked out.
“I called him last night and told him I would go with him to see the show,” Monica told Tabatha later that day at work.
“Nate forgot about your anniversary, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t forget,” Monica said, lowering her head. “He said he felt like being alone.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” Tabatha said, hugging Monica.
Monica hugged her back, feeding off just the touch of another person. “I hate him so much right now,” she said.
“Then you’re going out with Lewis just to spite your husband?”
Monica leaned away from their hug and said, “I don’t know.”
“You aren’t going to sleep with him, are you?”
Monica looked Tabatha seriously in the eyes and said, “I don’t know that either.”
When Monica finished work, on the walk home, she called Lewis from her cell phone.
“Are we still on?” she asked him. He enthusiastically said yes.
Monica gave Lewis her address, and told her to meet him around the corner from her building. “Call me when you’re a block away, and I’ll meet you down there.”
Lewis told her what type of car he drove, and Monica continued on her way home.
She picked out one of her more seductive dresses, one that fit just right all over, showed a little cleavage, but not too much, and just the right amount of leg. Her shoes were sexy, opened-toed to show off her recent pedicure, and the bra and panty set she would wear tonight were Nate’s favorite. Or at least they used to be.
Monica styled her hair just the way Lewis liked it, but let a single long curl hang over her eye and into her face. After she was completely dressed, she sprayed herself with her favorite perfume, grabbed her purse and coat, and headed for the door.
Just then her phone rang. It was Lewis letting her know he was waiting outside, around the corner.
When she approached his truck, he was waiting by the passenger door, looking as handsome as she could’ve imagined him, in one of the new suits he had just bought. He was smiling widely, and when she was just a few feet from him, he opened his arms and took Monica into a huge hug. Monica hugged him back.
“You look incredible,” he said, his lips pressed very close to her ear. “And you smell too good!”
On the ride to the theater, Lewis kept looking over at Monica, almost gazing at her at red lights, down at her legs, at her hair. He complimented her the entire trip, so much that if she hadn’t been so neglected recently, she would’ve gotten sick of the constant doting. But she didn’t. Monica loved every minute of it.
The seats Lewis had for them were fourth row, center. They could see everything.
They arrived twenty minutes before the opening curtain, so they sat, talked, and laughed until the lights above them dimmed.
They shared an armrest, their arms touching the entire time during the play. But in the second act, Monica felt Lewis graze her hand with his. She thought nothing of it until moments later, when he had lightly covered her hand, and then he had taken it, wrapped his hand completely around hers, holding it as if they were a couple.
Monica thought of yanking out of his grasp, thought allowing him to touch her like that was wrong, was disrespectful. But sitting there beside this man was wrong and disrespectful. Giving him her phone number, allowing him to pick her up, to hug her the way he did, everything that she had done to this point, and what she still considered she might do, was equally wrong and disrespectful, so why should she object to something as innocent as him holding her hand?
Monica slowly turned to look at him. Lewis looked back at her, and they both smiled.
After the show, and after they had found their way back to Lewis’s truck, they stood outside it. It was 9:30 P.M., and he said, “Did you like it?”
“It was wonderful, Lewis. Thank you so much for inviting me.”
“I’m just glad you decided to come.”
They stared at each other oddly for a moment, then awkwardly looked away.
Lewis looked down at his watch again. “So I guess this is it. I should be getting you back, hunh?”
“No. I don’t have to go back now.”
Lewis looked surprised. “Oh. You want to get something to eat or drink?”
“No,” Monica said, thinking a moment to make sure she was certain about what she was about to say. “I want to go back to your place.”
When they walked into Lewis’s town home, he had Monica by the hand, pulling her along into the dark living room. He closed the door, pulled her over toward the sofa.
“Let me turn this on,” Lewis said, reaching to click on the lamp there before they sat down, when Monica said, “Don’t. I want to go to your room.”
Again Lewis looked shocked, and Monica had seen that expression in various degrees over the course of the night.
He looked at her, both of them still standing in the dark. “Are you sure?” he said.
She thought about herself waiting all night for her husband to show, thought about his worthless explanation this morning, then said, “Yes, I’m sure.”
He turned, grabbed Monica’s hand again, and led her upstairs.
Behind him, Monica continued to tell herself she was certain of what she was about to do. She wanted to cause Nate pain.
It wasn’t like he would ever find out ab
out it, but whenever he said anything hateful or uncaring to her, whenever he acted as though she just wasn’t there, or deserving of his attention, respect, or love, then she would think back to what she did that one night with Lewis.
She would be able to say to herself, Yes, you’re treating me horribly, but I’ve done something horrible to you as well, so we’re even. That would make her feel better. At least she hoped it would.
Lewis’s bedroom was dark, but not very. There were large glass sliding doors at the back of his room that let out onto a patio. Moonlight came in through there, haloing everything in the room with a silver glimmer of light.
They stood at the foot of his bed, Lewis looking down into Monica’s eyes, and if she didn’t know better, by his stare it appeared that he could have feelings for her. She was sure she misread that.
He continued to stare into her face, and then he slowly moved closer to her, as though he wanted to kiss her.
She wasn’t there for that, Monica told herself. She was there to have sex, and nothing else, so she started unfastening his belt buckle.
“I want you,” she said, trying to manufacture as much fake desire as possible.
Lewis stopped attempting to kiss her, and started undressing her as well.
Monica dropped his pants, felt him pressing hard through his underwear.
Lewis slid her dress off her shoulders, where it fell to the floor. He then helped her with the buttons of his shirt, pulling it off, together with his jacket, and throwing them to a corner. Then he undid her bra, looking down as her breasts fell from the cups.
She heard him gasp, and then he pushed himself into her, her bare breasts against his hard, broad chest.
His big hands held her back, slid down, following the contour of her waist, then down farther, cupping her soft bottom.
Again she heard him gasp, louder this time, and felt him pulsate against her thigh.
She was not turned on by that, Monica told herself, feeling the slightest twitch in the small of her back. This was sex, she reaffirmed, nothing more. She was not doing this for enjoyment, but to simply get back at her husband, for revenge.