Three months later. I am a man of business, relentless in pursuit of success. I toil day and night in the insurance field, sowing policies, hauling out dividends, putting up Mason jars stuffed with green bills. The money flows, a rapid river of cash that I kayak upon. I have no time for feelings or friendship.
I cancelled for the foreseeable future my weekend golf. Instead, I drive up to my old haunts in Cambridge, and lug an actual physical textbook into some of the same buildings I lugged textbooks into decades before.
I have enrolled in a Master's program in Psychology. I told you I minored in it, didn't I? It comes back like falling off of a bicycle. I did not much care about specialty then. Now I have an advisor who studies human sexuality. I feel like I already have a Ph.D. in it, but my research experiments violated all kinds of rules and my protocol would never be approved by the board of review. I speak up in class only to answer questions with facts obtained from the text or a journal. Sometimes a topic comes up that I could contribute some substantial and oddly-specific information taken from my own life, but my peers might be alarmed by my particulars. Too much sharing, as my very much younger classmates would say.
One clear and very cold winter day I was in the Sandwich office when the receptionist buzzed and asked if I had time for a walk-in question. A woman in the waiting area wanted to see me. This happened all the time. People just don't think they have to make an appointment with an insurance agent the way they do with a surgeon or a manicurist. The best we can do is smile and pitch our wares.
I stood up as the woman entered. There was something just vaguely familiar about her. She had her long blonde hair in a pony tail. She wore a conservative blue plaid pant suit with a pearl necklace and earrings. She was a knockout -- blue eyes, wide face, thin lips, perfect lipstick. Red as is traditional. She was all tits and ass under that suit. I willed my eyes to stay on her face. It was not easy. I shook her hand and introduced myself. Her grip was strong, her nails immaculate and red to match her lips. I indicated that she should sit.
"How can I help you?" I began.
"I'm Cynthia," she said, her eyes intent on my face.
I did not know how to respond to that statement. People usually say My name is.... You only start out the way she did if she expected me to recognize her--
"Rebecca is my lover."
That blonde. I had seen her on Zoe's refrigerator door. I felt a rising alarm.
"Is she okay?" I burst out, jumping up from my chair. "Is the baby okay?"
Cynthia made a calming motion. "Everyone is fine."
I sat back down, the profound sense of relief on my face readable from the green on a Par 4.
My heart was racing nevertheless. The question on my lips was of course 'What do you want' which would sound incredibly crass, so I stifled my salesman self and waited for her speak first. She just regarded me with her head tilted, thinking.
"Wondering why I am here?"
I nodded.
"Becky doesn't know I came to see you. She thinks I am at a meeting in Braintree. I thought I would be near, so...."
We just looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, she said, "I want to know what your intentions are toward my girlfriend."
I chortled. Then the absurdity really dug in and I guffawed. I laughed in a customer's face, a sin, a true mark of a bad salesman. Then her face crinkled, she smiled, she also began to laugh. The joke rebounded back and forth between us and intensified until finally the laughter petered out from fatigue. I wiped my eyes with a tissue and passed her the box.
"I know," she said, still chuckling. "It didn't sound that absurd when I was rehearsing it in my head."
"I'm starved," I said. "Would you like to have lunch?"
We ate at a local gastropub, in a booth in a back corner so we could talk. On our way out to my car, I had followed her, admiring her wide voluptuous hips that refused to be concealed even under a winter coat. Because I am a man, I imagined her naked. Then my brain processed the facts. Rebecca? My wife, the missionary sex in the dark mother of two? Naked between those long muscular legs? The blonde's red lips moving over Becky's furry cunt? I shook my head. If I hadn't seen the picture of them together -- well, you know. I never would have believed it. Still didn't really believe it.
Cynthia had grown up in rural Missouri, went to college, married her high school boyfriend, moved to Maine, started a career in hospital administration, got divorced, met Becky in the hospital cafeteria, invited her out, invited her to move in.
"You had no idea she was... so inclined?" She asked.
"You don't say lesbian in Maine?"
She giggled. "No, we do. We don't say it in Missouri, though. As my ex told me loudly and often when I confessed to him that I had feelings for women."
"Inclined?" I said, thinking. "No, she never gave me any reason to think that she.... You know." There was nothing I could think to add that wasn't stupid or downright offensive, so I changed the subject.
I grilled her about Becky's health and the baby's progress. Finally I ran out of questions, and she spoke like she had been waiting for an appropriate moment.
"Mr--"
I out my hand in a stop motion. "Mike, please."
She smiled. "Mike. Okay." She took a deep breath. "Becky and I want to get married."
I should have expected this, but I had not. I nodded and put my attention to my sandwich. For Becky and Cynthia to get married meant that -- Becky and I would have to divorce. I took a long time with the bite, thinking about my response.
"Cynthia, my whole life depends on making that woman happy. I am dead serious, even though to you it probably sounds like bullshit, after everything that I have done to her."
"That's odd. The way she tells the story, she has done you the harm. She feels tremendous guilt at whatever it was that she did."
