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Authors: Valerie Frankel
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of the shower, towel dried her long, straight hair, and walked into their bedroom in her silk robe.
“Surprise,” said Peter.
Curtains down, the room was dark. Peter lay nude beneath the sheets. Candles lit the room, around the perimeter of the bed, the mantel, the bookshelves, the dresser, and night tables. Some were fat, some thin, a spectrum of colors. The scents were a bit much. Ilene nearly recoiled from the commingled fragrances.
“Did you buy up the entire candle department at Pier One?” she asked. Her eyes and nose fully occupied, the music took a moment to register. “Is that Ravel?”
Peter, grinning, patted the space next to him on the bed.
Ilene stood, frozen, at the threshold of the bathroom.
He said, “Come, wife.”
“You lit all these candles while I was in the shower?” asked Ilene.
“Obviously,” he said. “Are you coming over here or not?”
Ilene was touched he’d go to such effort—not much; in fact, hardly any—but she was running late. She was expected at David’s in a half hour. How to get out of this without hurting Peter’s feelings?
She cinched her robe more tightly around her waist and walked over to him. She sat on the very edge of the bed. He scooted toward her, keeping himself fairly well covered, and put his arms around her waist.
Ilene let him touch her, but she didn’t allow him to pull her down. She said, “Sweetie, this is so nice of you.”
“I’m glad you like it. I have other surprises in mind.”
That’s when her eyes lit on the small tin on his night table. It was black with a gold ribbon wrapped around it. “What’s that?” she asked.
Peter was kissing her wrist. Between smacks, he said, “It’s chocolate body paint. I thought I’d smear some on you and, you know. Lick it off.”
She laughed. “Only you could turn sex into a high-calorie act.”
He stopped kissing her. But then started again, speaking between smacks. “I thought we could spend the day together, in bed. It is Saturday, after all.”
“Sweetheart, we haven’t spent a Saturday in bed since2001.” They used to, every week, each choosing to use their personal time to administer to the other’s personal needs. It had been a ritual. Sex, breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, snack, sleep. Now that she thought of it, maybe it was all those Saturdays of indulging themselves that had instigated Peter’s post-marital weight gain.
He said, “Then we’re long past due.”
She said, “You’re very sweet, Peter. Really.”
He dropped her forearm. Her hand hit the bed and bounced gently on the down-covered mattress. “ ‘Sweetie, sweetheart, sweet Peter, really,’ ” he said mockingly. “You obviously want to leave. So get dressed and go.”
She felt terrible. But she did have to get dressed. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”
He said, “Glad I went to all this trouble. I want it on record that I tried.”
“Noted,” she said, standing.
“And that you are not meeting me halfway.”
She was starting to feel annoyed. He’d sprung his little seduction at the worst possible time. Why couldn’t he have waited until tonight? Besides which, as she suddenly felt compelled to say, “What trouble? You lit a bunch of cheap candles, put on a CD, and bought some stupid condiment. If you really want to interest me, you could go to the honest effort of getting in shape. That would mean something. Not this unoriginal, low-rent, porn-inspired crap.” She flung open her closet door and added, “Every time we have sex, I’m half-convinced you’re going to have a heart attack. Not exactly fun for me.”
He wasn’t listening. He’d already bunched up the covers, wrapped them around his body and gone into the bathroom. She dressed quickly and left.
“David, it’s gorgeous!” said Ilene. The apartment was lovely. David, himself, looked pretty good, too. In the six weeks since he’d left his wife, he’d taken off ten years. Separation was like
“Surprise,” said Peter.
Curtains down, the room was dark. Peter lay nude beneath the sheets. Candles lit the room, around the perimeter of the bed, the mantel, the bookshelves, the dresser, and night tables. Some were fat, some thin, a spectrum of colors. The scents were a bit much. Ilene nearly recoiled from the commingled fragrances.
“Did you buy up the entire candle department at Pier One?” she asked. Her eyes and nose fully occupied, the music took a moment to register. “Is that Ravel?”
Peter, grinning, patted the space next to him on the bed.
Ilene stood, frozen, at the threshold of the bathroom.
He said, “Come, wife.”
“You lit all these candles while I was in the shower?” asked Ilene.
“Obviously,” he said. “Are you coming over here or not?”
Ilene was touched he’d go to such effort—not much; in fact, hardly any—but she was running late. She was expected at David’s in a half hour. How to get out of this without hurting Peter’s feelings?
She cinched her robe more tightly around her waist and walked over to him. She sat on the very edge of the bed. He scooted toward her, keeping himself fairly well covered, and put his arms around her waist.
Ilene let him touch her, but she didn’t allow him to pull her down. She said, “Sweetie, this is so nice of you.”
“I’m glad you like it. I have other surprises in mind.”
That’s when her eyes lit on the small tin on his night table. It was black with a gold ribbon wrapped around it. “What’s that?” she asked.
Peter was kissing her wrist. Between smacks, he said, “It’s chocolate body paint. I thought I’d smear some on you and, you know. Lick it off.”
She laughed. “Only you could turn sex into a high-calorie act.”
He stopped kissing her. But then started again, speaking between smacks. “I thought we could spend the day together, in bed. It is Saturday, after all.”
“Sweetheart, we haven’t spent a Saturday in bed since2001.” They used to, every week, each choosing to use their personal time to administer to the other’s personal needs. It had been a ritual. Sex, breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, snack, sleep. Now that she thought of it, maybe it was all those Saturdays of indulging themselves that had instigated Peter’s post-marital weight gain.
He said, “Then we’re long past due.”
She said, “You’re very sweet, Peter. Really.”
He dropped her forearm. Her hand hit the bed and bounced gently on the down-covered mattress. “ ‘Sweetie, sweetheart, sweet Peter, really,’ ” he said mockingly. “You obviously want to leave. So get dressed and go.”
She felt terrible. But she did have to get dressed. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”
He said, “Glad I went to all this trouble. I want it on record that I tried.”
“Noted,” she said, standing.
“And that you are not meeting me halfway.”
She was starting to feel annoyed. He’d sprung his little seduction at the worst possible time. Why couldn’t he have waited until tonight? Besides which, as she suddenly felt compelled to say, “What trouble? You lit a bunch of cheap candles, put on a CD, and bought some stupid condiment. If you really want to interest me, you could go to the honest effort of getting in shape. That would mean something. Not this unoriginal, low-rent, porn-inspired crap.” She flung open her closet door and added, “Every time we have sex, I’m half-convinced you’re going to have a heart attack. Not exactly fun for me.”
He wasn’t listening. He’d already bunched up the covers, wrapped them around his body and gone into the bathroom. She dressed quickly and left.
“David, it’s gorgeous!” said Ilene. The apartment was lovely. David, himself, looked pretty good, too. In the six weeks since he’d left his wife, he’d taken off ten years. Separation was like
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