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Authors: Laura Cooper
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again if you do.” And she crosses her heart for good measure.
“Whoa!” I raise my hand, “So if I say we go forward, this starts today? Right here and now?”
Jonathon nods, “Or you could go home and clean your house again. Eventually you’ll head to Walmart for a fuzzier robe to keep you warm at night.”
Now that cuts right to the bone. He isn’t far off the mark here, and he knows it registers like a ton of bricks; he can see it in my eyes. Suddenly I find myself searching for a way to blame this all on Simmons, and somehow spin it so that it isn’t my responsibility. Like maybe if he said we’re getting a divorce unless you do this; something, anything, an ultimatum to get me out of this Catholic laden guilt. I feel envious of the women whose husband’s drag them kicking and screaming to Jonathon for reform. I sigh, “Does my husband have to know I’m here?”
Both Patty and Jonathon shake their heads, “No he does not. That’s between you and Simmons. Patty says you need us,” he says as he winks at her, “and Patty’s word is as good as gold with me. Of course, luscious curves don’t hurt my eyes either, so you can’t blame me for hoping you’ll join us! From what she tells me, I think we can help.” His eyes surround my ‘luscious curves,’ pulling me in the warm waters again, making me feel like a pawn under his enchantment. Rationally I know there is no magic here, a definite chemistry though.
I sit silently for what seems like an hour, sipping my drink and contemplating. Patty and Jonathon are doing the same, not wishing to disturb my consideration of the offer. Should I do it? Or should I not? Damn it, where’s a daisy when you need one? Vagina is causing a ruckus, but she is so occupied with Jonathon that she’s barely adding her opinions to actual thought. Finally I take my hands away from my forehead and lay them on the table. “My life is a miserable mess. Let’s get started.”
He smiles with understanding and motions over to the bartender, “We’re going to take these upstairs if you don’t mind. Thanks honey.”
Before I can change my mind he stands up and extends a large hand to help me out of the booth. Instinctively my hand goes into his. This must be some magical power he has over women, or maybe they’d put something in my drink? I’m sure neither is the case, but I’m unwilling to accept the logical answer: that I want this. I want it because my marriage is ‘T’ total shit; because my husband doesn’t know I exist. Am I doing it for revenge? Out of anger? There may be a tinge of that happening, I won’t deny it.
Jonathon places his hand in the small of my back and directs me down the barely lit hallway to the stairs. As we walk he explains that O’Malley’s belongs to the Club, and that I’m to feel welcome here at all times. The warmth from his fingers shoots through me, both calming the anxiety I’m building and adding to my adrenaline rush. As I climb the stairs in front of him, I can feel his eyes burning my flesh. Once again, a feeling I haven’t felt in years; the feeling of being checked out. I’d forgotten how good it feels.
At this point you’re probably thinking, “Whoa! She must be a closet tramp to head upstairs with a man she just met.” I prefer to think of it as an involuntary response to the overall shittiness of my marriage. Like a mosquito bite, you can’t help yourself from reaching down and scratching the hell out of it.
We walk into a dimly shaded office at the top of the stairs. It’s complete with a black leather sofa and chairs, and a deeply oiled mahogany desk is perched in its center. I feel like I’ve walked onto a historical movie set and that at any moment Hugh Jackman will pop out and start singing and waving his hands in the air. But Jonathon ushers me to one of the chairs in front of the desk with grace and dignity, thus
“Whoa!” I raise my hand, “So if I say we go forward, this starts today? Right here and now?”
Jonathon nods, “Or you could go home and clean your house again. Eventually you’ll head to Walmart for a fuzzier robe to keep you warm at night.”
Now that cuts right to the bone. He isn’t far off the mark here, and he knows it registers like a ton of bricks; he can see it in my eyes. Suddenly I find myself searching for a way to blame this all on Simmons, and somehow spin it so that it isn’t my responsibility. Like maybe if he said we’re getting a divorce unless you do this; something, anything, an ultimatum to get me out of this Catholic laden guilt. I feel envious of the women whose husband’s drag them kicking and screaming to Jonathon for reform. I sigh, “Does my husband have to know I’m here?”
Both Patty and Jonathon shake their heads, “No he does not. That’s between you and Simmons. Patty says you need us,” he says as he winks at her, “and Patty’s word is as good as gold with me. Of course, luscious curves don’t hurt my eyes either, so you can’t blame me for hoping you’ll join us! From what she tells me, I think we can help.” His eyes surround my ‘luscious curves,’ pulling me in the warm waters again, making me feel like a pawn under his enchantment. Rationally I know there is no magic here, a definite chemistry though.
I sit silently for what seems like an hour, sipping my drink and contemplating. Patty and Jonathon are doing the same, not wishing to disturb my consideration of the offer. Should I do it? Or should I not? Damn it, where’s a daisy when you need one? Vagina is causing a ruckus, but she is so occupied with Jonathon that she’s barely adding her opinions to actual thought. Finally I take my hands away from my forehead and lay them on the table. “My life is a miserable mess. Let’s get started.”
He smiles with understanding and motions over to the bartender, “We’re going to take these upstairs if you don’t mind. Thanks honey.”
Before I can change my mind he stands up and extends a large hand to help me out of the booth. Instinctively my hand goes into his. This must be some magical power he has over women, or maybe they’d put something in my drink? I’m sure neither is the case, but I’m unwilling to accept the logical answer: that I want this. I want it because my marriage is ‘T’ total shit; because my husband doesn’t know I exist. Am I doing it for revenge? Out of anger? There may be a tinge of that happening, I won’t deny it.
Jonathon places his hand in the small of my back and directs me down the barely lit hallway to the stairs. As we walk he explains that O’Malley’s belongs to the Club, and that I’m to feel welcome here at all times. The warmth from his fingers shoots through me, both calming the anxiety I’m building and adding to my adrenaline rush. As I climb the stairs in front of him, I can feel his eyes burning my flesh. Once again, a feeling I haven’t felt in years; the feeling of being checked out. I’d forgotten how good it feels.
At this point you’re probably thinking, “Whoa! She must be a closet tramp to head upstairs with a man she just met.” I prefer to think of it as an involuntary response to the overall shittiness of my marriage. Like a mosquito bite, you can’t help yourself from reaching down and scratching the hell out of it.
We walk into a dimly shaded office at the top of the stairs. It’s complete with a black leather sofa and chairs, and a deeply oiled mahogany desk is perched in its center. I feel like I’ve walked onto a historical movie set and that at any moment Hugh Jackman will pop out and start singing and waving his hands in the air. But Jonathon ushers me to one of the chairs in front of the desk with grace and dignity, thus
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