Because he was joking. But the jokes were hitting a little close to home. Mac worked Wednesdays, and Mac was disgusting. I still hadn't told Conrad that he needn't worry about Mac at all. It was Nate. Nate he should be thinking of.
“You just want all those young guys to ogle you.”
I had rolled my eyes when he said things like this. I had denied it.
It didn't feel right, denying it the way I did – not because Conrad had it exactly right, but because there was some truth to it.
I felt a drop in my abdomen, like I was going down an elevator shaft. I had, in fact, been having a recurring dream, one I tended to have when I was dishonest with people. In it, I keep having to get on an elevator that works for a while and then continually plummets, for no reason.
Blush. Very, very light blush.
Mascara.
Here I was going a little overboard. It was very black. Very thick.
I had to remove it before I went home.
There was deceit here, but not really that much, I told myself.
It was, after all, a requirement of waiting tables – at least if you wanted any tips as opposed to completely wasting your time – to look attractive.
I loosened my ponytail and let my hair fall down. In order to keep it from getting into my face I had a headband. I brushed it until it was glossy, and then I looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked good. I looked younger. Refreshed.
It was almost as if having this illicit, fantastical “thing” - after all, nothing was actually going on between Nate and me, aside from flirting – had rejuvenated me.
I lowered my eyes for second with a little pang of guilt.
Why couldn't Conrad “rejuvenate” me?
I had given that particular thought quite a bit of thought, on the side of the road. Because something about the whole thing felt a little tawdry, a little dirty. Conrad was the one I really loved. Conrad was the one who I wouldn't ever risk or betray. And I wanted Conrad to make me feel so good that I actually looked better.
But you can want things to be like that as much as you want.
At the end of the day, though, it was the idea that Nate's eyes were on me that made me elevate my eyes to just-below-whoreish. It was the look in his eyes that made me put on red lip gloss. Wear my hair down.
There was no danger of anything else.
And just to make sure, on Thursdays, I put on the worst pair of underwear I could find, and a bra that was barely held together by a safety pin.
I would never be so undignified, I told myself, to have an affair in those things.
As I had done for the past six weeks, I wrapped it all up in my mind very nicely. Thursday nights, flirting with Nate, were my escape.
And hadn't they made things better between me and Conrad? Didn't we have a more exciting sex life now? Things had gotten better than they had been in years, almost back to the same growling, hungry sexual relationship we had had before the kids, when we first got married.
Something wrenched around in my abdomen.
No, more precisely, my fucking groin. It turned and twisted and then it transformed into a dull ache.
Such a cliché, I thought to myself. I was turning into an old, crazy, horny woman.
The last time I had sex with Conrad bubbled up in my mind. I had come home from a night out with Nate, a few of the cooks, and another waitress. I was pretty loaded, and I had been exchanging heated looks all night with Nate. I had danced with him, up close, against his chest, getting pressed into him by passing club goers prying their way through the dance floor. We had kept it lighthearted. He had twirled me around in some ballroom moves to R&B. Clean, silly fun.
Except when someone pressed me into him, and we were stuck together like that for a moment, our lips were close and he was looking at me that way, and against my leg I could feel his cock. Hard. Big. Pulsing, practically, with all of that youthful heat.
I shuddered just thinking about it. I could actually feel myself getting wet. In my car, on the side of the road. All over again. Just thinking about Nate.
And when I had gone home, I had found Conrad waiting. Sitting in front of the TV. Pretending not to care where I was, but I know he was thinking about it. I knew he was a little miffed that I went out drinking every night after work, but he couldn't complain because it had, in fact, made everything easier and better around there.
I had enticed him into sex again and again. It was dangerous, ludicrous – how many times can you come home so wet and so horny before your husband starts to suspect something? But I was tipsy, not thinking. And I had wanted to get him in my mouth, feel him all the way down inside my throat. Not a thing I'm usually into, in a sober moment or at the end of the day.
Still, was it all bad? Was it all bad for Conrad? On Thursdays we had wilder, crazier sex than we had in such a long time. Maybe even better than when we first started fucking, if it was possible to believe.
Last week we had ended up on our own couch, curtains open. I had lain my head on the armrest, with Conrad crouched over my head on the armrest. I had opened my mouth and let him pound his cock into my throat, some wild thing I had only seen in a porno. He had come all over my tits, gushing his warm seed all over me in wet, hot strands. I had rubbed it into my skin while he watched. He told me he almost had a heart attack.
So really...was it all that wrong?
I was thinking about all of this by the side of the road, and then I did something that made me realize I was losing my shit. I looked around. Nothing in any direction, except a farmhouse that seemed to be abandoned about two hundred yards away. Almost no traffic, and anyway, if I just…
I grabbed a map, and placed it in front of me.
And then I slid my fingers into my pants, and found my clit easily, despite the odd angle and the pressure of my jeans. An electric shudder went through me as I grazed the ultra-sensitive core. It was protruding, my clit hard, my pussy welling up with juices. I slid my finger up and down, frustrated that it was too hard to move any faster. My wrist hurt almost instantly, but I wanted to sit upright in case anyone passed by.
My cheeks flushed.
I closed my eyes and thought of Conrad's cock in my mouth. Then Nate's. Then how each of them felt, or would feel, inside me.
I came, gripping the steering wheel, just a few seconds later.
Jesus.
What the fuck was I doing?
Did it matter?
Did it matter where that came from, on my end, if I never crossed any real line?
I looked back at my eyes in the mirror. “Damn it.” The mascara had smeared a little, as I had sweat. I touched my hair. It was damp at the temples.
Did I know what the line was, for Conrad?
Was it over the line to masturbate in the car on your way to work, half-thinking of your husband, half-thinking of someone else?
I tapped my teeth and started the car. Directed my attention to the road. These weren't really questions I wanted to be asking myself, or him. Even if it was the right thing to do.
Because I loved the way I felt like a hummingbird was trapped in my chest.
And I didn't want Conrad to tell me that was over the line.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Don't actually have sex with young men.
I pulled out onto the road.
S USPICIOUS THINGS
CONRAD
I was awake, in the dark, watching the occasional headlights splash across the ceiling.
I couldn't sleep anymore, on Thursdays. I couldn't even watch TV.
I lay awake in bed, thinking of Laura.
Where Laura was now.
When Laura would be home.
Who Laura was with.
If Laura had put on her “secret” lip gloss or not.
What dirty thing Laura would do when she got home.
And why.
I looked at the clock. The numbers seemed to be transforming at an alarmingly slow pace.
A beam of l
ight saturated the ceiling, but unlike the passing cars, this one brightened, glared, and turned the ceiling to a liquid gold glow. I squinted, irritated. The car remained where it was, in our driveway, lights blasting into the master bedroom.
I waited. Instead of a car door opening and closing, the low beat of a stereo kicked beneath the hum of the car's fan. The lights dimmed to parking lights.
I stood up.
The thoughts that raced through my mind were the most facile, the most base: we have all been there, driving a girl home, her hand on the door. You say something stupid, ask a question, get her to stay. Her knees turn back in your direction. The fan of the car turns on, your engine is too warm.
But you can't turn the car off here, not yet. And not with this girl. Her left hand is clasped on her knee, and her face is apologetic...she moves the gold band on her finger, gently, with her thumb. Maybe there's some regret there. But she's facing you, and her brown eyes are lit up in the back-splash of light on the garage door...
I stopped short of the window. We had a long driveway, and the master bedroom was large: we never felt the need for any window coverings on the only window that looked out to the front, half-blocked from the street view by the pointed roof of the garage. I knew I wouldn't be able to see into the car, but I leaned forward anyway.
The driver's arm, and part of his torso, was all that was visible. The lanky, muscled arm of a young guy. The hardness of youth underneath the white t-shirt.
His body moved, leaning in the direction of the passenger.
The passenger.
My wife.
His arm remained against the window for a moment. Resting on the ledge. He could just be leaning over to turn down the radio. To get something out of the glove compartment.
But then he leaned further. His arm moved, reached toward the passenger side of the car.
A sensation of cold, and hot, uncoiled violently inside of me.
What was he doing? It was pretty obvious.
Leaning toward Laura. Laura and her pretty ponytail. Laura with her looks that were almost sullen, almost plain, until she smiled. Was she smiling now, inviting him closer? Was he moving his hand toward her, closer to her jeans, closer to the new blouse she had worn? Was she brushing her new, long bangs from her forehead with that gesture of hers, the one from so long ago, half-impatient, fingers turned away from her face, a small flick of her head at the end to help them on their way?
Laura had a look, a look I hadn't seen for such a long time, partly incredulous, partly absorbed. Her smile was not entirely symmetrical; it was one of the things that held her back from the realm of plasticized, model-perfect beauty. This was the kind of look she gave from across the car, when I still didn't know if she would let me come up for the night. The kind of look she gave me when she knew she should do some work, and not be convinced to go to bed early...
Was she giving him this look now, from across the car?
I closed my eyes. A long, deliberate, heavy-lidded blink. Involuntarily, my hand went to my forehead. I was sweating. My blood had gone colder than it had ever been before, and a chill went up my spine. But at the same time, like I had the fucking flu, I was so hot I was sweating.
She wouldn't. Laura wouldn't do that.
Was I closing my eyes because I wanted to shut the image out of my mind?
I knew I wasn't, really. I knew because I just kept going. Laura's right lip curled slightly more at the corner than her left. Her eyes scrunched into almonds of teasing, beckoning laughter. Her teeth slightly parted, her fingers brushing across her bangs. “I can't,” she would be saying, but her mouth was smiling, inviting...and when he reached over to place his hand on her knee, she wouldn't move it. Her hand would drop away from the handle, she would press it into the fabric of his cheap, shitty seat, so that when he climbed in her direction she wouldn't slide away. And he would put his hand on her jaw, and pull her to him.
I knew what it felt like to have that kind of hunger for Laura's smile. It just...had been so long since it was like that.
Why?
The lights brightened, through my eyelids and my fantasy. The car door opened, the music tumbled into the driveway. Laura's laugh broke apart on the cement. The radio was muffled, Laura's voice said something, but not like she was hiding it. And then clearly: “Goodnight.”
What kind of “goodnight?” The car door slammed and I stepped backward until I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Goodnight,” just friends? “Goodnight,” silly boy hitting on a married woman almost twice your age? “Goodnight,” I hate to leave you, but...you know. Him.
Keys tinkled on Formica, slid with a careless throw. It was late. The clock flickered and it was 1:37.
Not that late.
But still. They closed at ten. She could have been cut hours ago. Where had she gone? What had she done? What had she been doing with her lean, athletic busboy, or waiter, or bartender, for the past hours?
I heard a thump downstairs, followed by a crash. And, very unexpectedly, a giggle. Laura's.
Laughing. Laughing about something breaking.
The searing thing inside of me twisted again, flared right up to my temples. My face felt hot.
Without really knowing what I was doing, I stood up and walked purposefully downstairs.
The lights were off. The kind of funny thing a drunk would do, thinking that leaving lights off after sitting parked in the driveway with headlights blasting into everyone's room would make a difference.
I flicked the kitchen light.
Laura, whose presence in the kitchen was announced by the scraping of glass and the sloppy, rustling movements of her clothing and her shoes, popped up from behind the counter.
She was smiling. Radiant. Her cheeks were flushed with alcoholic happiness. She covered her mouth and let out a wet, silly laugh. “Oh,” she sort of gurgled. “Sorry. Sorry, honey.”
That was it. She dropped back down, still smiling, and started to clean up the glass.
I narrowed my eyes.
In the back of my mind, it was burning me up that she was...that she was....that she was what?
More like her old self, Conrad?
Not as sorry as she should be for having a fun night?
Not as angry as she usually was when something got broken?
Drunk?
Probably back from making out with her boy-toy?
Another quiver of delicious and horrible pain.
“You're home late,” I said, moving around so I could see her on the floor.
She tossed her hair back – it was not in a ponytail now at all, I noticed, but down. Well-brushed, arranged. I didn't understand what women did with their hair, but whatever she had done, it was straight, shiny, and looked as though she had made an effort with it. It looked glamorous.
Her lips were shiny with some kind of candy-pink lip gloss. Her eyes were also darker than usual. Sexily darker...her lashes were blackened by mascara, I realized.
It was too young for her, very nearly to the point of being silly. Almost, but not quite.
She had on a cream shirt, and a beige jacket. New.
What was I accusing her of, in my mind? What, exactly? So she had a new shirt on. So she looked hot. So she...
The scene from the car invaded my thoughts.
No, something was definitely up.
But she was oblivious to me, oblivious to my irritation. Her eyes were glassy. As soon as I noticed this, she brought her hand to her mouth and snorted again. She was laughing at nothing, giddy, being a silly drunk. The scent of tobacco wafted toward me.
“Have you been smoking?” I said. My voice was much more accusatory than I mean for it to be.
She was still covering her mouth, as if she had just heard the greatest joke ever. She nodded, like she couldn't affirm with words or she would lose it completely.
My chest burned.
“God, I'm sorry,” she said, standing up. “I really got...I really had way more than I meant to, and then this cr
azy man....you should have seen this guy, he's the one who's always down at Mercer's? He won the lottery or something and he...he was singing karaoke all night and buying everyone...he did a version....he did a version of....” she was waving her hands at the air and her eyes were twinkling. I softened a little. I hadn't seen her this happy, this buoyantly carefree in such a long time. “Of Billy Jean that was...I don't know what it was, it was like...genius, but also really...really....” she placed a finger under her nose, but too late, the laugh escaped her and sprayed a little on my arm. She shook her head violently, and when she looked at me, her eyes were wet with laughing tears. “I can't explain it,” she squeaked. “It was just so funny.”
I was torn. The image of the car was floating around in my head, mixing with what I was seeing right before my eyes, offering alternative explanations, making me feel foolish. Probably they had just been reliving the moment, maybe her waiter/bartender had been doing an imitation of this guy.
I was relieved.
I was disappointed.
I watched her in disbelief.
“Anyway,” she said, and she placed her forearms on my shoulders, tossing her hair again and pulling me toward her. “I know I'm being obnoxious. I'm sorry.” Her eyes were twinkling with mischief. I could smell hard alcohol on her. “How can I make it up to you?”
Her voice went from very silly to very low, very sexy, in a heartbeat. It was only at that moment that I realized I had an erection – I had one all along – and she could feel it against her leg.
Her lips grew closer to mine.
Oh, the old days. They were stained on her lips as vodka, cigarettes, and some kind of cheap lip gloss with a smell that was almost dangerously expired. The days when we had places to drive, and we laughed in the car together, and she gave me the kind of crooked smile she was giving me now.
The kind she had given to her boy in the car, I thought.
But the thought, rather than making me sullen, rather than making me angry, only surged inside of me.
The Hobby Job: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel Page 9