head in bewilderment. What is it with men and their horrible need to confess? Again she knows the answer. Confession may be good for the soul, but it’s even better for passing off the guilt.
Janet mistakes Amanda’s bewilderment for denial. “You’re trying to tell me you didn’t have an affair with my husband?”
“I’d hardly call it an affair.”
“Really? What would you call sleeping with somebody else’s husband?”
Amanda is much too tired to mount a good rebuttal. “Thoughtless,” she hears herself say. “And stupid. Very stupid.”
“Well, at least you’ve got that right,” Janet agrees, looking distinctly uneasy, as if she’d come prepared for a good fight and wasn’t ready to accept victory so easily. She glares at the wineglass in Amanda’s hand.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?” Amanda asks.
“What’s the matter, Mandy? No married men left to drink with?”
“Please don’t call me Mandy.”
“Oh, sorry. Do only the men you sleep with get to call you that?”
Amanda struggles to stand up, when all she really wants to do is lie down. “Maybe you should go now.”
“Not till I’ve said what I came here to say.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d already … said.”
“This is all a game to you, isn’t it? Playing with people’s lives. It doesn’t bother you that people get hurt? That one night of mindless fun for you might equal a lifetime of pain for others? That my marriage might never recover?”
“I really think you’re making way too much of this. It was just one night. It didn’t mean anything to either of us.”
“It meant something to me,” Janet says simply.
A flush of shame washes across Amanda’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Just stay away from my husband.” Janet walks quickly to the door, slams it behind her.
The vibration from the door zaps through Amanda’s body like an electrical charge. This would probably be a good time to get out of town, she thinks, then throws up all over her white living room rug.
When Amanda wakes up on the living room floor, it is almost 2 a.m. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, the smell of vomit still alarmingly fresh. She stares at the huge red stain in the middle of her carpet. It looks like blood, she thinks, knowing that no amount of soap and water is going to wash the stain away. “Shit,” she says again, her head pounding as relentlessly as the surf beneath her windows. She touches her hair, feels it sticky and covered with bile.
“You’re disgusting,” she says, stepping into her shower fully clothed, and standing under the gush of hot water that shoots from the oversize showerhead. She’s ruining her suit, she knows. Just as she’s ruined the rug. Not to mention her whole life, she decides melodramatically, pouring almost a full bottle of shampoo over her hair and digging her long nails into her scalp.
Oh, well. Like mother, like daughter.
Although she doesn’t remember her mother ever actually throwing up after one of her many binges. She’d drink herself into oblivion, and there she’d stay—aloof and unavailable, her physical presence defined by her emotional absence.
After her shower, Amanda strips off her wet clothes, scrapes her body raw with a large white towel, then crawls into bed. She’ll deal with the rug in the morning, although what can she do with it really, except roll it up and throw it away? Even with repeated professional cleanings, a shapeless puddle of blush will always be visible beneath the surface. She wonders what the manager of the Four Seasons hotel in Toronto has done with the rug in his lobby. Three bullets make for a lot of spilled blood. “Maybe I should call and ask him how he handledthe situation.” Amanda reaches for the phone beside her bed, presses in the number she hadn’t realized she’s already committed to memory.
“Hello?” the sleepy voice on the other end responds.
“What did they do with the rug?”
“Amanda?”
She
Janet mistakes Amanda’s bewilderment for denial. “You’re trying to tell me you didn’t have an affair with my husband?”
“I’d hardly call it an affair.”
“Really? What would you call sleeping with somebody else’s husband?”
Amanda is much too tired to mount a good rebuttal. “Thoughtless,” she hears herself say. “And stupid. Very stupid.”
“Well, at least you’ve got that right,” Janet agrees, looking distinctly uneasy, as if she’d come prepared for a good fight and wasn’t ready to accept victory so easily. She glares at the wineglass in Amanda’s hand.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?” Amanda asks.
“What’s the matter, Mandy? No married men left to drink with?”
“Please don’t call me Mandy.”
“Oh, sorry. Do only the men you sleep with get to call you that?”
Amanda struggles to stand up, when all she really wants to do is lie down. “Maybe you should go now.”
“Not till I’ve said what I came here to say.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d already … said.”
“This is all a game to you, isn’t it? Playing with people’s lives. It doesn’t bother you that people get hurt? That one night of mindless fun for you might equal a lifetime of pain for others? That my marriage might never recover?”
“I really think you’re making way too much of this. It was just one night. It didn’t mean anything to either of us.”
“It meant something to me,” Janet says simply.
A flush of shame washes across Amanda’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Just stay away from my husband.” Janet walks quickly to the door, slams it behind her.
The vibration from the door zaps through Amanda’s body like an electrical charge. This would probably be a good time to get out of town, she thinks, then throws up all over her white living room rug.
When Amanda wakes up on the living room floor, it is almost 2 a.m. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, the smell of vomit still alarmingly fresh. She stares at the huge red stain in the middle of her carpet. It looks like blood, she thinks, knowing that no amount of soap and water is going to wash the stain away. “Shit,” she says again, her head pounding as relentlessly as the surf beneath her windows. She touches her hair, feels it sticky and covered with bile.
“You’re disgusting,” she says, stepping into her shower fully clothed, and standing under the gush of hot water that shoots from the oversize showerhead. She’s ruining her suit, she knows. Just as she’s ruined the rug. Not to mention her whole life, she decides melodramatically, pouring almost a full bottle of shampoo over her hair and digging her long nails into her scalp.
Oh, well. Like mother, like daughter.
Although she doesn’t remember her mother ever actually throwing up after one of her many binges. She’d drink herself into oblivion, and there she’d stay—aloof and unavailable, her physical presence defined by her emotional absence.
After her shower, Amanda strips off her wet clothes, scrapes her body raw with a large white towel, then crawls into bed. She’ll deal with the rug in the morning, although what can she do with it really, except roll it up and throw it away? Even with repeated professional cleanings, a shapeless puddle of blush will always be visible beneath the surface. She wonders what the manager of the Four Seasons hotel in Toronto has done with the rug in his lobby. Three bullets make for a lot of spilled blood. “Maybe I should call and ask him how he handledthe situation.” Amanda reaches for the phone beside her bed, presses in the number she hadn’t realized she’s already committed to memory.
“Hello?” the sleepy voice on the other end responds.
“What did they do with the rug?”
“Amanda?”
She
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