Dark Jeans Dark Eyes Ch 04

I've spent a lot of time with this new lover of mine. We've talked, a lot, about our lives, our selves, what we wish for. We've gone out to eat a couple of times, and we've had epic amounts of sex.

When we have talked about my marriage, I've not put any qualifiers on it. Juan knows I'm unhappy, but that I love my spouse. Juan understands that my sex life with my husband has been pathetic, since before our kid was born, and that my husband is a former professional baseball player (only a couple of incomplete seasons in the majors) with a baseball obsession but no real future in baseball, other than maybe as a school coach, which he's not interested in. Juan also knows that my spouse refuses to leave L.A. ever again, having been born and raised in the area and being sort of snobbish about the regions (he hates the Valley, for instance, which I find incongruous). But I haven't told Juan that I'm angry and frustrated and why, that sometimes I fantasize about leaving my spouse even without someone else to go to, that I feel ignored and neglected and taken for granted and that all we do is bark at each other sometimes.

I've talked about the devastating robbery, about deciding to have a child late in life, about my career in high tech. It wasn't what I chose to do with my life, but I've been pretty good at my job, which is basically designing and maintaining networks and troubleshooting. I've mostly worked for big companies that actually sell such support products, but not any companies that I liked or would work for again. I wanted this job I was offered near Santa Cruz when I got out of college, but my future husband needed to be nearer to the minor league system, and I chose him. I'm not sure if I made the right choice or not. Quite a few years back, some friends/colleagues from many years in the trenches were going to work for this start-up named Google, and tried to talk me into coming along. My now-husband was in the Kansas City Royals' farm system, and I talked to him about maybe just giving it a shot. He talked me out of it, convincing both of us that nothing would come of it, that I was better off just staying with him in the Midwest than moving back to California. Some days, I do have to remind myself not to be bitter about that one.

I try to be blasé about it, but my life is sometimes a series of very bad choices, regrets for things I did do and things I did not do. I don't seem to have a lot of luck in most any regard, personal or professional.

I didn't see Juan for about five days in a row, which was right when I was having my period anyway. I guess I should have been glad it started in the first place. He was out of town, telling me where he was going but not why (I didn't pry), and I had to deal with a school district meeting and evaluation in the meantime. He called twice, and texted several more times, so I knew he was thinking about me.

When he came back, he asked me if I'd be available to go to one of his epic parties.

I'd heard stories about them, and felt like this was a big, big step. He was inviting me into his real world, where his friends and other people he knew lived. I would meet them. I would interact with them. I would be -- what would I be? How would he introduce me? Would I be yet another friend of his, or would I be the married woman he was currently having epic amounts of sex with?

I felt good about us. I don't know why, exactly. There was a certain amount of trust, and the way he lit up when he saw me. We did not discuss our future, or try to put a definition on things, and the word love was never used. I didn't make any demands, or want to know where we were going with this. I simply lived in the moment, always happy to see him, always grateful to spend time with him.

About three weeks into it, my husband asked me what I'd been doing all day.

I stared at him, took a deep breath. I had told him I was running errands, going to the gym, but he hadn't really listened. Just like always.

"I've been making love with a beautiful man for the last several hours," I told him.

I don't know what possessed me.

"Sounds major," he replied. "Did you remember to get dishwashing liquid and socks at Target?"

Yes, of course I did. I had them on my list. Because that's what I did. The shopping and the money managing and the housecleaning and the worrying and the dealing. My husband was pretty certain I wouldn't be having sex with another man that day. Maybe he didn't think I was desirable enough. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be interested. Maybe since he didn't want me --

But those thoughts were ultimately destructive. I had stood there, while the axe whizzed past my head, and I'd remained unscathed. My confession fell on deaf ears, as he went back to whatever screen he was interested in.

So I went to Juan's party. I dressed carefully, wearing a tight little sweater dress that made my breasts and ass look amazing, and suede heels. I showed up about an hour after it started, and it was still winding up. So maybe I was still too early. He kissed me enthusiastically, but not for very long, and I asked him if he needed help. He did not; various people were already handling the heavy lifting.

He did not introduce me to people. He was flitting about, handling the details, talking to everyone, a little bit manic, so I introduced myself -- by name only. If anybody asked how I knew him, I said that I had met him at Homeland Security. I didn't tell any lies. But nobody asked me many questions.

People were pretty interesting, a very lively and intelligent group, missing a lot of the superficiality I was used to in L.A., though I could still find a little of that. The food and alcohol was pretty good, too. It was a lot of fun, but Juan didn't pay all that much attention to me. At one point, there must have been a good one hundred and fifty people there, filling his house and his front and backyards. I was talking to an incredibly sexy musician, a little too young for me, but still -- when I saw something I wished I had not seen.

I was in a part of the house that didn't have a direct view to his bedroom door, but I could see the door in a reflection of a mirror. I didn't stand there on purpose; I was actually hanging out over by the stereo while the hot musician was talking music with me and some other guys.

There were two beautiful women, who looked to be rather young, and very scantily clothed, in sky-high heels, and Juan was ushering them into his bedroom. He looked over his shoulder briefly, and I wasn't entirely sure if I saw his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but then he went in, and locked the door (I saw the old-fashioned tab-thing move into the locked position).

And remained in there for at least half an hour.

It was an unbearably long half hour. I know, because I actually checked my watch. When thirty minutes finally passed in the space of three hours, I said I needed some fresh air. I had downed three sangrias, and I felt completely nauseous. I knew I was in no condition to drive home, but I halfway thought I might sit in my car and try to sober up, and maybe cry my head off.

This was a horrible feeling. I burned with envy, loss, and my own unworthiness. I was too old, I wasn't hot enough. And I shouldn't expect his fidelity in the first place, right? I was a married woman, having an affair with him. He was probably still sleeping with other people this whole time. I was inwardly chastising myself for my unsafe sex with him, convincing myself to sober up as quickly as possible.

My hot musician friend was being wonderful to me, and he didn't know how much I needed it. He wanted to go outside with me, so we made our way through the party and into the backyard, where we sat on a bench under a tree.

I'd have to manage this pain somehow, deal with this loss. I felt alone and desolate, yet again, and mused how I was quite certain that rejection was the worst feeling in the world. Maybe worse than betrayal. And I thought of my husband, and felt immeasurably awful.

"Do you want another drink?" Oscar asked me.

He was the hot musician. He was named after his grandfather, and he was of Cuban descent, though he grew up in the states.

"I drank too many, too fast," I explained. "They tasted good, and I should have paced myself, because now I feel disgusting. I was mostly going to try not to puke on you."

He grinned, saucy and young.

"Let me get you something," he said.

He went back into the house, and I saw Juan briefly. He came out into the backyard, looked around, was checking in with people. I hoped I was mostly invisible, across the yard on this bench, that he wouldn't see me.

And I cannot explain why I was horribly disappointed when he did not take notice of me.

Oscar came back with a sparkling mineral water that he'd added something to, like a tincture. I drank it gratefully.

"Family recipe," he explained. "If it doesn't work, I'll still hold your hair."

"You're such a gentleman," I remarked.

"I'm just relieved," he said.

"I wasn't really going to puke on you," I said. "I would have given you fair warning."

"No," he laughed. "Not about that. Juan's been telling me about this lady he's seeing, someone he's crazy for, says they hardly spend any time out of bed. I was afraid that she might be you. But he just hooked up with someone else while you and I were hanging out."

There it was. It was way too much for me to process, to consider. I didn't know what to think at that moment. So I bluffed, pretended I was holding way different cards.

"Definitely not me," I said with a chuckle. "I'm too old, I'm unemployed, and I'm stuck in a troubled and sexless relationship with a former baseball player recovering from alcoholism."

"So I can get your phone number?" he asked, and I wasn't sure if he was teasing.

"Of course," I told him. "Because I'm such a catch in this womanless city we call Los Angeles."

It was hard to act at being normal instead of distressed, but what the hell -- I was a woman, and I could always fake it. We talked and laughed and discussed music until I was starting to shiver, at which point I was pretty sure I was sober enough to drive. So Oscar, that sweetheart, said he'd walk me to my car.

I wanted to get into and out of the house without seeing Juan. And I was bloody afraid that that was exactly what would happen. I hated this, not wanting him to see me, and then feeling awful when he didn't see me. It was fucking junior high school. I was too old for that shit.

The party was a little less busy and frenzied, and I surmised that some people had left. I grabbed my coat and purse from the rack, and Oscar held the front door open for me. I realized at that moment that that was the last time I was going to be in that lovely bungalow, which had been my happy place for almost five weeks. Then I pushed that thought hard out of my mind. I was done now.

We walked to my car, and I thanked him for making my evening. Well, he had. I got in my car, hit the start button, and rolled down the window.

"Nice Audi."

"Thanks," I replied.

"This woman Juan's seeing also has an Audi," Oscar observed, watching me curiously.

"That's weird. They're such rare cars," I said, deadpan.

He smiled.

"So. About that phone number," he said.

I gave him a strange look.

"You really want my phone number?" I said, my disbelieving tone.

"If I don't get it tonight, then I have to wait until the party six months from now, and hope that you show up again," Oscar explained. "Otherwise, then I'm bugging Juan about how to get ahold of you."

"Awright," I conceded, and gave it to him.

Finally, he leaned in for a kiss. I cradled his face in my hands, giving him a much longer kiss than I expected to. We said our final goodbyes, and I drove away.

I almost made it all the way to the freeway before I started sobbing.