Love Less

This story is told in non-linear style, so please tread carefully....

1.

He lies stretched out across the bed, naked from the waist up – a brown-skinned Adonis – his finger beckoning her towards him. She stands there across the room, gazing and admiring every inch of his body – his near perfect, beautiful body – both hands clasping the handle of her handbag before her, looking every bit like a lost kindergarten schoolgirl. Her brow knots into a slight groove of deep ponder: what on earth is she doing here? Of course she knows the answer already and a part of her acknowledges the fact that her presence here is wrong, she's very much aware of this. She knows this just as much as she knows her name: Ann-Mary Owens, married to one Jeffery Owens, a practicing attorney of Law with a thriving tax firm – Guber, Johnson & Peters, located in the upper west-side district of the city. Who knows, one of these days he'll soon make senior partner, and then he'd find enough time to spend with her – enough time to make love to her and have breakfast in bed with her as much as she has always wanted. Who knows, they might even start thinking about raising kids when that happens. She's thirty-four years old, being married going on eight years now, and yet here she was, looking just as confused and bewildered at herself for standing here in another man's apartment a foot from his bed, somewhere in the downtown section of the city. A man whom she'd met one afternoon while having a lunch break two weeks ago. She shouldn't be here, she knows that, but here she indeed is. What would Jeffery be thinking right now if he ever got wind of her intention? But on the other hand, she's so lonesome and desperate.

She feels her hands unconsciously let go of her handbag, hears it fall to the floor beside her feet. She takes first a step forward and then another, reaching out as well for her brown-skinned Adonis' hand. She comes towards him, reaching out to frantically grab hold of her aching heart.

* * * *

The world has stopped moving for her.

She's been standing there for more than a minute now, staring at the row of stacked apples. This being the fruit and beverage aisle section in the Shop-Rite Supermarket, the one located along Odeo Drive. The apples are kept separate into different cart, based on their respective color. There's the green and the red. Not that she's got any intention of picking up any – her only reason being here in this supermarket was to pick up some broccoli, onions and green vegetables for the soup she intended preparing. But just as she was about heading towards the checkout counter with her intended items in hand, she'd stopped to stare at the apples, eerily captivated by their sight.

She isn't interested in the green ones, but rather the red. She's more interested in the color as she stands there staring at them from behind her sunshades. Her shades possess large oval lens, nearly covering almost her entire face. She could've taken them off – after all, she is in a supermarket – but she'd rather not. Her eyes continue to focus on the red apples. They remind her of something ...

(a hard smack across the nose)

wicked ... most especially, something ...

(she cried out from the pain and bites down on her tongue)

so painful ... so painful inside

(she raised a hand towards her nose, feeling the sharp pain there, realizing that she's bleeding)

"Excuse me. Ma'am, are you all right?"

The voice startles her suddenly as she instantly turns towards it. The young man hovers a foot behind her, a shy concerned look on his face. He's got on an attendant's uniform with the supermarket's logo stamped above his right pocket and the name JAMES written in bold letters for all to see beneath it. She attempts a quick smile as if to reassure him that she's all right, of course. Everything's just fine.

"I'm fine, thanks. Perhaps you could be so kind as to assist me here," she says rather hesitantly, like a schoolgirl she once was, caught using her older sister's makeup for the first time. "I'd like to pick up some apples – the green ones."

The young man returns her smile with a boyish one and saunters over to do her bidding. She picks up a dozen apples, drops them into her shopping cart and gives him another winning smile before making her way towards the checkout counter. A few minutes is all it takes for her to make her payment and exist the supermarket's doors into the open arms of daylight.

She is wearing a brown jacket and dark-blue jeans. The jeans are tight enough to accentuate her body curves and her long legs. She is tall and possesses a reassuring shape that's still sure enough to turn heads. Her shoulder-length hair is tied in a bun behind her head. Her lips are thin and except for the redness of her lipstick, make her seem as if she's always pouting.

She walks with an unhurried gait across the wide drive-through space in front of the supermarket as she makes her way with two shopping bags in hand towards the row of parked cars where her green Saab – green as the apples in her bag – is waiting for her. She reaches a hand up to push her glasses further up her nose, bending her face towards the ground, staring at her sandals, not wanting to catch the attention of anybody's hovering eyes. In no time she arrives at the front door of her car, unlocks it and throws her bags into the passenger seat before jumping in. She sits there not moving, listening to her excited breathing. She stares at her reflection for a moment in the mirror and then takes off her glasses and feels gently the dark circled spot around her left eye. She presses her finger against the spot but feels only the tiny hint of pain from it. At least it was a sure sign that much of it was going away. As she continues staring at her reflection, she can't help but wonder at this new look of hers and not feel much helpless about it.

Inserting her key into the ignition she starts the engine, makes a reverse out of the parking lot and drives away, watching the large signboard of the supermarket – Shop-Rite Supermarket: The Best Shopping Mall Ever – recede further from view behind her rear-view mirror, feeling more like watching her former life – her former happiness – move further and further away from her.

2.

"Nice to see you here again, Ann," the doctor begins in his typical warm and reassuring voice, taking his seat across from her. His name is John M. MacDonald, a self-practicing psychologist, though when in the working midst of his clients he so much prefers them to call him by his first name. He is robust in frame with a face that looks quite befitting for any would-be Father Christmas, and he's just as gentle both in manner and approach – something he has cultivated over time to the satisfaction and often detriment of his numerous clients.

He takes out a ballpoint pen from his white jacket pocket, clicks the end at the same time reaches for a clipboard lying on the table beside his chair, ready for her to begin. Ann sits with her feet folded on the couch, leaning an elbow on her seat's arm with her head resting on her palm, staring back at him from behind her large pair of shades, but not actually seeing him. In her mind's eye, she unremittingly relieves through everything that had occurred to her only a few hours ago. In the video screen behind her eyes, she replays episode of the beating, hears her cry out ... hears Jeffery's voice, usually docile, but this time yelling at her – HOW COULD YOU DO SUCH A THING, MARY? WHY? – a sharp smack to her face, followed by a sharp explosion of pain in her mouth ... then everything turns blank.

She takes off her shades, revealing the cut lower lip and the dark spot above her left eye. The doctor makes a face at the sight of this and reaches towards her.

"My God! What happened, Ann?"

She takes her time before speaking, even though it felt kind of hard to speak about it. "Jeffery and I had a fight. Obviously he found out somehow about myself and Quincy. Even followed me the last time I stopped at his place."

"That's grounds for an assault, you know that."

"So does infidelity. Anyway, I guess I was begging for it to happen."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. Is the pain serious? Would you like for me to call you a cab to take you to the hospital?"

"No, it's all right," she folds her glasses and drops it on her lap, struggling to give him a look of assurance. "I would like for us to continue where we stopped, John. Though I think this will be my final appointment."

* * * *

She still remembers the first time they met; the day comes to her like a dream:

Her eyes set up on him the moment he stepped into the café shop, though for some reason when she later made time to reflect on it, she never could make up her mind really why she'd chosen that moment to look up from her Elmore Leonard novel, since of course he wasn't the only costumer to walk in while she was there. He was tall, African-American and athletic, with a handsome face, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and matching pair of jeans.

He walks in with a large brown package nestled in the crook of his right arm and stops right there at the threshold of the shop, his face scanning around for any free table in his sight. He soon spots Ann-Mary's free chair across from her; that being the only free chair around aside from going over to sit by the long table counter. Once again she looks up, seeing him standing there, but quickly returns her gaze to its former place. From her peripheral view she watches him approach her table and imperceptibly feels a sudden jerk in rhythm travel through her body. A confused web of déjà vu instantly percolates her thoughts – was this some sort of coincidence or could she possibly have run into this man someplace or sometime before? She forces herself to keep on with her reading while her free hand reaches for her cup of coffee.

"'Cuse me miss, but is this seat taken?"

She looks up at him and her eyes are immediately captured by the magnetic gaze of his brown eyes while his other hand indicates at the free chair opposite hers. She waves a hand telling him to help himself, which he does, first dropping his package beside his feet and then taking his cap off his head and slapping it on the table. A waitress appears approaches their table to take his order. He asks for a hamburger and hot tea and waits for his meal to arrive while she returns to her novel. Around them hovers the usual dull chatter of early afternoon lunch-breakers while outside the usual traffic moves on by.

* * * *

"I met someone today," she says with a smile and a glow on her cheeks.

"Really?" Doctor John scribbles something on his clipboard page. "Where and when was this, if you don't mind my asking?"

"At a café shop a block down from my office. I was on my lunch break."

"With the way you're smiling it seems he must really have made an impression."

"Well ... you could say that."

"That's nice to know. So, how did both of you get to meet?"

A shy laugh, then: "Well, if you really want to know, he came and sat across from me, and then he said ..."

"Sorry, but I never figured white women read Leonard," the young man says, startling her from her reading. She looks up from the books' pages at his smiling features; she's at first at a momentary lose on how to respond.

"Pardon me?"

He notes the puzzled look on her face and makes for a quick adjustment. "Sorry for disturbing you, I couldn't help but notice the book you're reading. Elmore Leonard, right? I said I never figured white women such as yourself ever read his books before."

Were it not for the openness of his face, most likely she would've mistaken his words for an insult. Afterwords, when she makes time to reflect on it, she'll be glad that she didn't. "Really? And what would you prefer us white women to be reading – the average Mills and Boons stories?" she doesn't mean to sound sardonic with her remark, but she can't help her response, and he seems to sense it.

"I didn't mean to sound offensive with what I earlier said. I'm sorry if I did."

"Your apology's noted, now how about you answering my question."

"Hope you won't bite if I do."

She shrugs. "Depends on what you have in mind."

"Alright there, I was going to say Sidney Sheldon or Ann Rice, but if you object," he waves a hand in the air, leaving her with whatever answer she prefers. He picks up his tea and takes a sip. His plate lies empty aside from the few crumbs to signify the remains of his hamburger.

"You enjoy Ann Rice?" she throws the question at him. He makes a wry face at this.

"I'm not much into Gothic horror – I'd seat well with instead a James Ellroy."

"How about King," she said. "Stephen King, I mean. You read any of his?"

He shakes his head. "Love the movies that bear his name though. First time I watched that film Misery, I couldn't sleep for a week."

"Really? I haven't seen that one. But you know, not all of Ann Rice's books are horror."

"Really? I didn't know that."

She can't help but laugh.

___________

"Mind telling me his name?" John asks in his soft manner, his pen poised above his clipboard, waiting for her to speak. She is nervous at first, feeling too guarded of herself. She know she shouldn't – but it seems hard for her at first. It's been a week and a half since she signed up for his therapy lessons and just as when they began, he'd confidingly reassures her that whatever information she divulges to him will be kept wholly between both of them and for no one else's eyes or ears. She recalls his words and takes adequate strength from reliving them, and takes little time loosening herself to him once again.

"His name is Quincy."

"Quincy, as in like Quincy Jones?" he offers this with a smile, merely to further loosen her up. Dutifully, she relaxes to the joke with a laugh.

"No, he's just Quincy – no relation to the other, mind you."

"With a name like that I'll bet he's a jazz fan."

She laughs at his witty statement, taking more comfort from it. "I wouldn't really know. I'd have to ask him about that."

"Of course you would. So, tell me a bit more about your new friend Quincy. what does he do for a living?"

"He's a software technician. Owns an electronic emporium downtown."

"Young, dark and handsome and independent, you mean?"

She makes a shrug. "What else can anyone ask for?"

"Tell me what you like about him?"

She looks about his head, takes a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. "He's funny ... very charming type of guy, and he's a good listener."

"Hope you don't take any offense in my saying this, but hope you don't think he was there to like hit on your or something."

"I wouldn't really know that now would I? Though I doubt it. I'd have noticed if he was."

"There's lots of guys like that around you know. A lot of them I hear like preying on alone women. Especially married ones."

"Well let's hope then that he isn't."

John turns to his open pages and scribbles down something before returning to her. "Would it be wrong if I assume that you'll no doubt be seeing him again?"

She doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to; her shy smile and laugh does it all for her.

3.

She cruises into the cobbled driveway that is her home and stops a foot from the garage door. It's obvious that Jeffery isn't back yet – his Mercedes would be parked in front of the house if he were. She checks her watch. It's already half past four. He won't be back till another hour at most, that's if there isn't any late hour meeting to keep till nine or thereabouts. How relieved it makes her feel; at least she'll have enough time on hand to thoroughly clean herself up before he arrives.

A minute goes by as she sits there listening to the idle sound of the engine before finally giving strength to her hand to turn off the ignition. She steps out of the car and walks towards the front door of their lush suburban abode. Inserting her key into the lock, she suddenly stops and turns around. She cocks her head at an angle, as if straining whether at all to catch something, but all her ear captures is the mellow evening breeze ruffling her lengthy auburn hair, coupled with the distant playing cries of children no doubt coming from the neighbor's house beside theirs. Her finger turns the key and she walks past the door and slams it behind her.

Walking through the short corridor, she turns left into the sitting room. Everywhere is silent, deep quiet. She loathes the silence as much as she loathes finding herself inside it. She moves towards the stereo system, selects a Celine Dion CD from their album collection and inserts it into the stereo player. She presses the PLAY button and stands there, letting the music envelope and bounce round the walls of the room before making her way into the rest of the house.

She climbs up the stairs and opens the door of the master bedroom – hers' and Jeffery's final sanctuary. She takes off her clothes and heads into the bathroom for a shower. As the hot water falls down on her, washing the soapsuds off her body, she runs her hands softly, delicately, all around her body, her mind still recalling the imprint of Quincy's touch when he had made love to her. It's almost as if he's here in the bathroom with her, still giving her pleasure after pleasure with every part of his body. She runs her hand from her breasts – playing with her suddenly erect nipples – down past her navel region, raising her face towards the falling waters from the shower, feeling a deep moan escape her throat. Never has she felt such a feeling before, never once since she'd been married to Jeffery. It's almost like being alive for the very first time in her adult life. A long time ago she knows she has once been bestirred with such feeling; where or under which rock it must have gone and hidden under away from her she can never tell.

She finishes with her bathing and picks up her towel and returns to the bedroom, drying herself off before searching out a pair of house clothes to put on, but not before picking up everything she had worn earlier and dropping them into the laundry basket. She reminded herself that it wouldn't be wise leaving them around for her husband to accidentally stumble upon; who knows whatever damning evidence they still carry to announce that she had spent half of her day in the comfort of another man. Done with her clothes, she heads down to the kitchen to start preparing supper. Jeffery, she knows out of mundane habit, will be mighty disappointed with her if he returns home with nothing waiting for him.

She washes the vegetables and carrots in the sink before taking them to the counter and starts cutting them up. A small stereo deck sits on the kitchen table, and the enchanting voice of Enya floats out of the speakers. She is deep in the middle of her cutting when something makes her to suddenly stop.

And then she reflects.

* * * *

"I always wanted to become a dancer," she says with her mouth partly full of chocolate ice cream, staring across from the protective railing out at the massive boats that lined the docking quay at the far corner of the bay, too nervous to stare into Quincy's eyes for fear of what she might see or for whatever sense of perception – whether good or bad – she might get from them. But whatever could she be so afraid of: it's another lovely Thursday afternoon, this being their second rendezvous meeting. Before they parted ways the other day, he'd asked if there was by any chance they could meet again and if possibly converse more on Elmore Leonard. Of course they'd been a dark notion lurking underneath and right there and then, she'd so much wanted to tell him no. Still, her lips had felt heavy when she finally told him yes. In the end she'd written out her cell phone number for him, though with a dire warning never to call once it's past four; she needn't have said such – one glance at the ring on her finger was well enough to convince him of being discreet. It wasn't surprising at all after departing from him to ask herself the number one foreboding question – what on earth do you think you're doing, Ann-Mary? – And for some reason couldn't come up with an acceptable answer. In a way, it felt naughty.