I removed two chocolate donuts from the cardboard box, stacking them like rings on a small plate. They were not the artisanal donuts du jour. They were store bought. Filled with preservatives. I worked a candle gently into the yellow cake and lit it with a miniature cigarette lighter. As I marched it down the hallway to our bedroom, my heels clicked loudly over the hardwood. Inside the bedroom, Brittany slept soundly, her cheetah-print sleep mask blocking out the daylight that was encroaching from the sides of our blackout shades. The sight of her body, its curvature in repose under the sheets in the chiaroscuro of the room, could have been a painting. I held the flaming treat in my hand and just watched her sleep, her mouth slightly ajar. Inhaling, exhaling. The new filler looked good--not only were her lips plumper, but also slightly upturned. A perpetual pout.
"Happy anniversary, baby."
She pulled the mask above her eyes.
"Oh my God. Meg--happy anniversary, baby!"
She sat up in bed and I handed her the plate. She took it carefully, her long nails clinking against the porcelain.
"What should I wish for?"
"That's birthdays, baby."
"Oh my God. You're right. Duh."
"Doesn't mean you can't blow it out, though."
"I'm going to make a wish anyway."
She screwed her face into an expression of mock-concentration, shutting her eyes purposefully before blowing out the candle.
"What did you wish for?"
"I can't tell you, or it won't come true. And I'm not telling, because I really want it to come true."
She smiled suggestively.
"Suddenly I want it to come true, too."
"Just wait until you see my gift for you, baby." She removed the candle, setting it on the plate. "Ugh, I've been trying to be good with my diet but these things are just too tempting. They're like my Kryptonite."
I don't do anything by accident. I loved Brittany's body, forged in equal parts by HIIT and high calorie treats. Together, these forces evened out, accentuating her voluptuous figure--a taught silhouette populated by softness. So yes, I knew exactly what I was doing.
"Don't worry about that. Here, let me help you, baby."
I took the smoking plate from her hand and broke the top donut into segments. She smiled shyly as I took a segment of donut between my thumb and forefinger, lowering it gently to her augmented lips. Her mouth parted to accept the gift. She chewed it thoughtfully.
"Mmmm... I wish you didn't have to work today. I hate waiting."
"I know you do, pooh bear. But some things are worth waiting for. So in the meantime, lie out at the pool, go to the gym, go to..."
"Do I have permission to...?"
"No, you do not."
She pouted again. Or maybe that's just how her face looked with the new lips.
I sat on the bed, grabbing her neck with my palm and pulling her head towards mine. I kissed her intentionally, with my full life force. I wanted her to truly feel it.
"So why don't you spend the next ten hours thinking exactly about all of the things I'm going to do to you when I get home. And here, have another piece of donut."
I fed another segment of the supermarket confection past her waiting lips, then set the plate on the bedspread.
"I love you so much, Miss. Happy anniversary," she said, chewing.
"I love you too, baby."
As I drove to work, I thought about the anniversary. Three years we'd been together. Milestone that it was, introspection was inevitable. I found my mind wandering back to when we'd first met. How I'd found her, and how much she'd changed. How much I'd changed, too.
Funny enough, it was me who was being punished the day I met Brittany. Professionally, of course. I'm a lawyer, and it's not bragging to say that I'm a savvy operator. I know how to play the politics. But sometimes my temper can get the best of me, and I had been, I admit, somewhat indelicate with a senior partner during a disagreement about strategy. And that was how I had found myself representing the firm at a local state college's career fair. Usually this sort of assignment was strictly reserved for the most junior employees of the firm. But the senior partner I'd offended had strung some line about how the firm would be better suited by a rising star--someone the youth could aspire to be, and also connect with. It was total bullshit. I had gotten a demerit and this was my penance, and I was determined to take my medicine and get back in good graces, no matter how inappropriate it might be for someone befitting my profile.
And so, there I stood, dutifully, behind the little paper tent that displayed the firm's name, praying that the adhesive nametag they'd prepared wouldn't permanently ruin the lapel of my suit. The whole mission was a farce. This was a non-target school. The firm never even interviewed candidates from this university, nor its law school. My presence there was pure PR. But I had to prove I was a good soldier, so I firmed my will and answered some of the most inane, ignorant questions about the legal profession ever uttered with a smile on my face. Sure, there was basically zero chance I'd see any of these students again, but I needed them to leave our interactions with a generally positive feeling--about me, the firm, the legal profession, the post-graduate job market, etc. etc. I laughed, and shook hands, and placed CVs into a folder that was destined for the shredding bin as soon as I was back at the office.
Then, about ninety minutes into my two hour punishment, I spotted Brittany. I had been something of a prodigy at voir dire--the jury selection process. I could look at someone and intuit almost everything about them. It was a trick that had served me well. And when I saw Brittany, I saw precisely what I wanted. I'd been out as a gay woman since the end of high school, and I'd lived enough of a life to know exactly what I expected to extract from any relationship with another woman.
She was a tall, dirty blonde thing--corn-fed, with thick thighs and ass. She wore a pair of high waisted jean shorts and a t-shirt--a baffling choice to a career fair, but they displayed her wonderful lower half exquisitely. She looked lost in the crowd, wandering around the fair, her attention volleying around the room from all the competing stimuli. Through the crowd, we made eye contact and I smiled. Encouraged, she weaved through the bodies and approached the table.
"Hi."
"Hi, there. I'm Meg Moskowitz."
"Brittany."
"Are you interested in law after graduation? Maybe you have some questions I can answer."
"I actually graduated two years ago. They let alums come to these things too. And I haven't taken the LSAT. I'm potentially interested in law, so I guess my question is, 'do law schools accept students who have gaps in their resumes?' Will that be a barrier?"
"Well, no. People don't have to go to law school straight out of undergrad. It's not unusual." She smiled. "But in your case, I'd exercise caution."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean about the whole endeavor. I mean why do you want to go to law school? I don't mean to insult you, Brittany--I don't even know you. But law school is a waste of time for most people. It has become a reservoir for the unremarkable. The place to go when you're done with your undergraduate education and don't know where else to turn. When your most marketable skill is reading and regurgitating. What do you want to do? When you close your eyes and imagine your future...what is it that you see in your wildest dreams?"
She blushed.
"I don't know..."
"Come on, Brittany. What do you see?"
"I don't know!" she cried, in joking exasperation.
"Okay. Maybe that's too loaded. Let's backtrack. What do you like? How do you spend your time? Who do you admire?"
"You're going to laugh."
"I promise I won't."
"I kind of admire...Kim Kardashian."
I had to try very hard not to laugh--from the objectively funny answer, yes, but also from my own giddiness. She was perfect.
"And that's why you're interested in law? Because Kim K is studying law?"
"Kind of, yeah."
