Cheater's Gallery, Ep. 02: Denise
The following is the result of a suggestion sent by a reader.
Adrestia Rhamnousia first appeared in "The Cheating Zone 03: Lori," as "Dr. A," and appeared in a couple other episodes of that series.
I decided to feature her in a series of her own.
Like "The Cheating Zone," each episode in this series can be read as a separate story.
As always, constructive comments are always welcome and appreciated.
Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc.
And remember, this is a work of fiction, meaning that it is not real in any way, shape, matter or form.
It was early afternoon when I pulled up to our house, an old two-story farmhouse set out in the Kansas countryside surrounded by large fields of wheat and alfalfa. Before you ask, no, I'm not a farmer. For that matter, I wouldn't know one end of a tractor from another. The fields belong to someone else, thank God.
My name is Bill Jacobs. Maybe you've heard of me, or read some of my work. I'm an art critic whose weekly articles are syndicated in about 200 newspapers across the country and featured on a number of large mainstream websites. I do most of my work here, in this quaint country house my wife of eight years and I decided we would call home. I do spend some time on the road, about one to three days a week, depending on what it is I'm writing about at the time.
My wife, Denise, works as a surgeon at the county hospital located in what the locals here call a town. Don't get me wrong -- they're good people -- honest, decent, hard-working folks who take care of their families and try to do right. The kind of people who look you in the eye when they shake your hand. It's just that the town isn't quite what I'm used to, having lived in southern California most of my life.
I met her at an exhibit in Los Angeles. I was covering it for the paper I wrote for and she was there taking a break from her studies. At the time, she was a student finishing her medical degree. I remembered that day as if it were yesterday. I was examining a piece of art, making notes in my pad when she approached me.
"That's an interesting piece," she said.
"Think so?" I asked.
"Yes, I do," she responded. "What do you think?"
"Personally, I've seen more cerebral work done by six-year-olds with crayons," I told her.
"Don't you like abstract art?" she asked.
"I like abstract art okay," I said. "But this... This isn't abstract. It's lazy. No doubt done by someone who hasn't sold anything in a few months. Probably figured he'd slap some paint on a canvas, stick his little finger out and spout some psychobabble about inner conflict or something. He'll probably sell it, but I wouldn't give a plugged nickel for it myself."
"Are you an art buyer?" she asked.
"No, I'm a critic," I said. "Bill Jacobs," I said, offering my hand.
"Denise Blackman," she said, taking my hand. "You're a real art critic?" I chuckled at that.
"Yup," I said. "They actually pay me real money to write horrible things about stuff like this. Some artists actually think it's a badge of honor to be insulted by me." She laughed at that.
"Sounds like an interesting life," she said. I shrugged my shoulders.
"It can be," I said. "Mostly, I travel to see exhibits like this, maybe talk to an artist or two. Most of my time is spent on a computer, though. It can get rather boring. What about you?"
"I'm a medical student," she said. "I start my residency next year."
"Now that sounds exciting," I told her.
"It's all work and no play," she said. "That's why I came here. I need a break from studying."
"I can understand that," I told her. "Now if you want to see some REAL art, take a gander at that piece over there," I added, pointing to a picture of a country farmhouse covered in snow. "Tell me what you think of it." She looked at the piece and her face lit up.
"That kinda reminds me of where I grew up in Kansas," she said. "I love the way the moonlight reflects off the house."
"Are you sure it's moonlight?" I asked. "Stand in front of it and tell me what you think." She walked to the picture and I followed her. She looked shocked as she stood in front of it.
"It looks so much different from here," she said.
"Indeed," I said. "The brush strokes the artist used and way the colors are blended, it's almost like looking at a different picture depending on where you stand. And if you look close enough, you'll see detail here you never would have picked up over there."
"You're right," she said. "I like this."
"Congratulations," I said. "You're now an art critic." She laughed.
"Oh no," she said. "I could never do what you do. I'd be too afraid of hurting someone's feelings."
We spent the next two hours looking at the rest of the exhibit. I had to admit, I liked hearing her input on different portraits. I hated it when she had to leave, but I understood that she had to get back to class. We exchanged numbers and email addresses before she left.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Bill," she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. "I'd like to do this again sometime."
"So would I," I told her.
We spent the next few months getting to know each other and started dating exclusively. At first I was concerned she might be put off by the fact that I was six years older than her, but she wasn't. She certainly did make me feel like a younger man. One thing led to another and before you know it, we got married.
I thought I had hit the jackpot. Denise was -- and still is, in my opinion -- a very warm and loving woman. Sex between us wasn't just good -- it was over-the-top great. She never complained about my work schedule, and never complained when I had to travel across the country to review an exhibit.
At the same time, her hours varied greatly, as she worked through her five-year residency. Sometimes she worked a normal day shift, but often had to work late or work after hours depending on what was going on. We discussed this in the beginning and I had no problem with her odd schedule, even though it often made it difficult for us to connect in the evenings or on weekends.
After her residency, she was offered a job at the hospital in her home town. They had just put in a fancy new surgical center so the locals wouldn't have to go hundreds of miles to get surgery. By then, I had become syndicated, so it really didn't matter where I worked, physically. The Internet was my office and I could submit pieces from anywhere on the planet, so long as I had web access. So we packed our things, sold the condo and headed to Kansas.
The house we bought was a two-story farm house that supposedly dated back to the 19
th
century. Everything had been upgraded so it sported all the modern conveniences, including central air conditioning. I made sure it had cable access, which included high-speed Internet -- that was crucial for my work.
We turned one bedroom on the second floor into my office, and planned to use the third bedroom as a nursery. The master bedroom was huge and included a nicely-appointed master bathroom that could easily accommodate both of us at the same time.
The biggest adjustment for me was the fact that nights in the country were actually dark. I mean, pitch-black. You couldn't even see your hand if you put it in front of your face. This was a far cry from what I was used to in the bright lights of the big city.
What I really loved, though, was the view of the night sky. I had never seen so many stars before in my life. I used to have a small telescope when I was a kid, and enjoyed looking through it at night, but nothing prepared me for this. Seeing my interest in the night sky, Denise surprised me with a nice eight-inch telescope that had all the accessories needed for taking pictures. Naturally, I thanked her that night in bed -- repeatedly.
It took a while for me to get the hang of astrophotography -- there's a lot more to it than just pointing a camera and clicking. But I eventually figured it out and soon, my office was adorned with pictures of planets, galaxies and brightly-colored nebulae. Denise had even taken a few to decorate her office.
The most fun for me, though, were the nights Denise and I sat out back with the scope. After watching the stars for a while, we would often make love right there in the back yard, under the night sky. I felt like I was on top of the world.
The first seven years or so of our marriage seemed idyllic -- at least to me. I had a good job I loved, a nice home and a beautiful loving wife. What more could a man want, I thought. We had even started discussing children. Denise had been on birth control, and wanted to wait until she was more established, which I understood.
Then I started seeing subtle changes in her. Her hours got longer, more erratic. She became short-tempered over the littlest things and we argued over ridiculous issues. I figured it was the stress of her job, so I didn't say much.
One year, she was asked to attend a medical conference in Wichita. The conference lasted five days, starting on a Monday. She seemed pensive and out of sorts before she left, but she wouldn't say why. I tried to make love to her the night before she left, but she begged off, claiming a headache.
The next day, she left, promising to call me every night. I had a major exhibit to review that week in New York and, looking at my itinerary, found that I could meet her in Wichita that Friday and come home with her. I hoped she would appreciate the surprise.
The exhibit went well, and I managed to get my article done by my weekly deadline. Denise called every night as she promised, but I got the feeling that she would rather do anything other than talk to me. I decided not to say anything about the upcoming Friday. I figured that maybe we could even spend the weekend there.
I got to the hotel where Denise was staying and looked all over for her, but couldn't find her. After verifying my identity, the hotel said she had not checked out of her room yet, and might be in one of the conferences still taking place. So I placed a call.
