Keisha was a lucky woman, really.
It was easy to take the good things for granted. She had her stable home, her stable job at the grocer's and her stable mind. And now, lately, she had gotten her hands on a stable boyfriend.
She watched as Mark stood up from the bench and put his hand to one of the bowling balls. The muscles in his hand flexed and tightened, and she could see the subtle bulging of his arms, but he hefted the ball smoothly, as if it weighed nothing and he had all the time in the world. It had been the same way the first time she had convinced him to let her take him to bed. He had lifted her in his arms and held her as she braced her feet on his sides and took him in. She had felt weightless, safe. Free. It was a fond memory.
Mark cast the bowling ball in one measured, graceful movement. The spin was a little heavy, and it narrowly missed the last two pins. Mark acknowledged his mistake with nothing more than a self-deprecating quirk of his eyebrows and sat easily back down.
The next member of the bowling club got up to make their throw, but neither Keisha nor Mark watched. Having taken his turn, he now had eyes only for her.
"I see what you mean about a double standard," he said. "But it's hard to fault people of the past for not having all the answers. It's hard to come up with the truth under pressure."
They discussed the life before the revolution, back when men had ruled the world purely through their ability to intimidate. "I guess so," said Keisha. "But it's not like they couldn't have known. Even back then, there were people who knew it's wrong to oppress women."
"Maybe," Mark came back. "But at the same time, there were women who had it wrong too. Back when the revolution was still happening, there were women reactionaries."
Now Keisha looked over her shoulders for prying ears. This kind of talk was not outlawed—it was a free country, after all—but people liked to remember the revolution as a morality tale, of men abusing women and then getting their comeuppance with a world where women ruled instead. That there had been men and women on both sides was a fact, but it wasn't a popular one. Keisha could have said it and gotten little more than some dirty looks, but if anyone had heard Mark say it, it would be bad for him. Even here in this little bowling alley in this quiet little town, the revolutionary authorities made their overbearing presence known. Posters on the wall showed rough-looking men, armed with knives and guns, leering at the female viewer. 'Don't let it go!' screamed the caption. 'If you see suspicious male activity, call the rape hotline immediately.'
Maybe those posters had been necessary before the revolution, but now, it was just too much. After all, young men were under so much suspicion that they always kept themselves in check. It was women, Keisha thought wryly, who were dangerous. One female accusation of harassment and a man's job was in jeopardy. A single, pregnant woman needed only to name a man, any man, and he would have to choose between a shotgun wedding and being run out of town.
Thankfully, Mark trusted Keisha not to abuse him that way. With her, he was open, comfortable. He listened more than he talked, but when he did talk, he did so thoughtfully. She liked that about him.
It was an extremely pleasant evening, until the exact minute Maggie walked in.
Maggie was one of those women who acted like her theme song was always playing. She wore a cowgirl hat whether the sun was shining or not, she favored black leather vests and tan riding boots, and not one, but two revolvers hung on her hips. She tipped her hat up for boys she liked and tipped it down for people she thought she was too good for. She swore too much, set things down too hard, threw open doors and then slammed them shut again and just generally made herself a nuisance. Once, Keisha had thought that Maggie had seen too many westerns, but then learned that she was a daughter of the Sarah Washbasin Ranch. The cowgirl theme was not an act, as she did indeed know how to ride a horse, tie up cattle and shoot those guns she carried. But it was still ridiculous, the way she waved them around.
Maggie didn't bother to rent shoes or reserve a lane. Discarding all pretense, she walked up to Mark, tipped up her hat and said, "Was wondering when I'd find you again."
Mark made a concerted effort to ignore her, and Keisha helped as best she could. "Will I see you at my place on Wednesday?" She asked him. It was a formality— their Wednesday meetings were a weekly ritual that did not need confirmation.
Mark chewed his upper lip, almost as if he was frustrated with her and not Maggie. He gave his one-word agreement.
Keisha gave him a goodbye kiss and took her leave. As she left the bowling alley, he followed. That was a little clingy of him, she thought, but not as rude as Maggie, who brazenly followed along as if she had been invited.
By the look in Maggie's eye, Keisha could tell she had designs on Mark. He would probably give in. Keisha knew she should not blame him. Men, after all, were weak when it came to sex. But she had to admit, it still bothered her.
*
Mark loved Keisha. It was not just lust, but sincere, heartfelt love. But damn that woman, why didn't she have sense enough to drive him home?
It didn't need to be all the way. Just far enough to shake off Maggie and give him a valid excuse not to speak to her. Now Keisha drove off alone, leaving him to the she-wolf. He turned to face her.
"Thought she'd never leave," said Maggie. "I almost missed you. I know you didn't mean anything bad by it, of course."
'Shit,' thought Mark. 'Shit, shit, shit.' He was in the same situation he'd been in a half-dozen times before. If he refused Maggie, she would make it her mission to denounce him, to frame him, to destroy his reputation and his life. The gay rumors and rape accusations would start flying. Other women, who didn't like Maggie but still respected her for some reason, would start warning each other that Mark was woman-shy, a man-child, a deviant to be avoided. Without Keisha to be his getaway driver, Mark's best option was to appease Maggie.
He went through the motions. He gave neutral answers to everything she said. Maggie threw innuendos back at him. She drew physically close. She looked at him with that hungry-but-not-all-there look that made him sure she was mentally stripping him. Finally, she put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Wouldn't be a proper evening if I didn't invite you home, now would it?" And there was no socially acceptable way for him to refuse. He went with her.
It didn't help that Maggie excited him. A part of him liked the way she looked at him, made him feel like he was worth obsessing over. Back at her ranch, in her room, when she hung up her guns and threw off her vest, he felt a stir in his groin. Just the sight of her in nothing but a shirt and jeans made him quicken. Then the rest of it came away.
"Like what you see?" she said.
'Shit,' thought Mark, again. He did indeed like what he saw, and he had let his attraction show on his face.
"I take good care of my body," she said. "And now, I'm gonna take good care of yours."
Once, Mark had seen a documentary film showing a spider eating a moth. The spider enwrapped her prey until it couldn't beat its wings, then she kept wrapping, kept clenching. Her legs didn't jerk on the body and stop, the way a human does when she ties a knot. The spider's legs kept pulling, but slowing as she pulled, as if trying to crush the moth.
