Swim, Butterfly Chapter 1
{Short Synopsis here:
"Can I have my cake and eat it, too?"
Homemaker Caroline Donnelly struggles after years of boredom and neglect. Frustration trying to reach her aloof husband mounts, and during a solo trip to Manhattan, Caroline meets Jimmy Marchenkov. Younger, charming, fun, Jimmy stimulates her imagination and sexual appetite with a tour of the city that ends up in his bed.
Months later, home and unsuspected, Caroline can't forget Jimmy. Through an odd twist, she reaches out, turning the one-night stand into a friendship and an affair. Caroline knows the affair is wrong and regards Jimmy's occupation and motives as questionable, and despite eventually uncovering the secret behind her husband's unhappiness, she still won't let Jimmy go.
Trapped between obligation and desire, she must choose husband or lover, family or freedom; the responsible but stifling lifestyle she knows, or a new and unique lifestyle suggested by Jimmy.
Or, can she have both?
Swim, Butterfly, a later-in-life bittersweet affair, contains explicit sexual situations, infidelity, profanity, and reference to alcohol. Enjoy!}
Flatter Myself
Hot fireplace, warm woodwork, cool jazz, cold wine--the bar of my dreams! And I shouldn't be here. Low lighting reflects off polished bronze taps with the warmth of the holidays. Cozy tables and chairs wait in dim corners for secrets. I take a breath, heart beating fast.
Take a step, Caroline. Backwards.
I look over my shoulder at the well-lit art déco lobby. Guests lug suitcases, coming and going. A tired-looking couple tug a sobbing, complaining toddler by the hand, his blankie dragging on the ground.
Uh, no.
I step over the threshold and walk to the bar, my fingertips resting on the satin varnished oak.
Why am I here? Oh, shut up!
The bartender, a pleasant-looking man in his fifties, smiles and waits for my order. "Uh, Riesling, please." He nods and pours one to the rim. I cast a quick glance at the two guys in suits at the bar, the only other patrons so far, hoping they don't watch my clumsy short-stepping to the golden tub chair by the fireplace, holding my breath so I don't spill a drop.
I reach the chair and set my wine on the little table to the left without a spill. Better not at twelve dollars a glass! I sink into the soft chair like a warm, buttery palm enfolding me. I smile and take a deep sip of wine while the flames flicker orange and yellow. My hand glides over the silky velour of the chair's arm--nothing like the tattered fake leather chairs at home, almost threadbare in spots and sticky with juice.
I smirk at my making love to a chair, the only thing I'm making love to tonight. Pete, my husband, can handle June and Rudy for a weekend. That doesn't mean they'll get regular meals, change their underwear, or brush their teeth, but they should be alive when I return home too soon.
I trade domestic life for big city, big lights, once in a while, to keep my sanity. Wine tonight, Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow. I sink deeper into the chair, prying one ugly black pump off of one foot with the toe of the other, and shove them nearly all the way under the chair with my feet. Practically barefoot, but who cares? There's no one else over here. The guys at the bar laugh and yuck it up. Good to hear
someone
laughing.
I tuck my legs underneath me, then swirl the glass beneath my nose, inhaling the distinct scent deeply just before I drink. I close my eyes, reminded of the free days; single, doing whatever I wanted, drinking any evening I wanted, yet waiting for that dazzling day that would change my life forever. But it wasn't the chime of empty wine bottles that announced a life-changing event, but the hollow, tin-dented sound of an empty beer can falling out of a car and onto the pavement. Thankfully, the life-changing event
wasn't
the yeast-ridden drunk dad driving his son to little league in the park, and hitting on me as I sat sketching, but his tall friend with curly, dark hair. He put an arm around the drunk dad and led him back to the ball game and a bench upon which to stretch out and sober up. Later, the dark-haired man returned and apologized for his friend's behavior. He wiped his palm on his jeans, extended his hand and introduced himself, "My name's Peter, by the way."
Pete. Hope he remembers to start the dishwasher tonight. Maybe I should call? Shit, no, I left my phone upstairs. Upstairs, that's right.
Oh, relax!
I try to put home out of my mind and think back on the day. My eyelids feel heavy and my cheeks tingle from the long walk up 7th Avenue to the hotel, followed by a nap on a hill in south Central Park this brisk late afternoon in April. So beautiful, waking up to the sun touching the skyline on the West Side before its descent, before my escape back to the hotel at dusk, before some bald guy staring at me through mirrored sunglasses could approach. Ha! I should flatter myself. Who fancies a middle-aged stay-at-home with silver strands in her shoulder-length brown hair?
I take a long sip, put the glass down, and close my eyes again. The crackling fire contrasts with the murmurs behind me, perhaps at the bar. The bartender says to someone, "
... picks up later.
"
The melting effect of the wine merges with a scent like the daffodils in the park, sending me in a drifting, downward spiral. The hotel shampoo, perhaps? No, there's a touch of spice.
A dainty 'ting' rings to my left and I open my eyes. Peering over, I glimpse a man's elegant hand placing a full wineglass next to my nearly depleted one. I don't recall ordering a second glass, but what the hell? Sitting up, I turn to thank the bartender, but no one's there. I look to my right and catch my breath. My eyes widen.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you," a bald man smiles, "I saw you sitting alone with an empty glass, and took the liberty of getting you another. I hope that's okay?" He smiles and settles back in a chair near mine.
"Yes, thank you," I whisper, averting my eyes briefly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Just had the night off, wandering around. I can go," he leans forward, gripping his lime-garnished drink in an Old Fashioned glass.
"Oh, no, you don't have to go," I hold up my hand. I look at him--he's got beautiful eyes, blue with the outer ring of the iris dark. "I was daydreaming. You caught me off guard, that's all. It'll be nice to have some company."
Slippery slope, girlfriend.
"You here alone?" he asks.
"Yes, on business." My gaze darts to the floor, then back to him.
"Business." One corner of his lips rise. He balances his drink on his thigh. "So, what is your
business?
"
I take a deep breath, "Uh, I write. For women's magazines, mostly." Fiddling with my wedding band, I figure
women's magazines
should keep him distanced. I
do
write, mostly Dear Diary drivel and weird stories, so I'm not totally lying. I look at him again. Why does he look familiar?
"Ah, I see. I'm Jimmy, by the way." He leans forward to shake my hand; strong, warm fingers wrap around mine.
"Caroline, my name's uh, Caroline." He holds my hand a moment longer than necessary. I jerk my hand back, yet smile slightly.
"Pleased to meet you, Caroline. So, anything else bring you to New York, or are you all business?" The timbre of his voice flows beneath the jazz and the crackling fire and the laughing men at the bar. He takes a sip of his drink and sets it on the table before him. I hate small talk, but maybe we can hit on something interesting. I reply, "No, just business."
Those high cheekbones...
Looking into my eyes, he chuckles, "So, why are you sitting in the bar alone?"
