1.
“Michael,” she said, “We did not have sex.” Her gaze shifted to somewhere over my left shoulder. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
I stared at her incredulously. I watched as a flush began to spread across her face.
I waved the now crumpled piece of paper in my hand.
“Maria?” My tone was rising. “Tell me what this means?” I glared at her. She began to shy away.
Just a moment before, I’d been happy, when I’d come in through the door. I’d thought it was a prank, a joke, a silly rumor. I thought she would explain. I hadn’t expected this.
“Michael,” she said, backing up. She almost tripped on the low table near the door. She glanced quickly back. “Michael,” she said, “Please, listen to me.”
She dropped the paperback she’d been holding in her hands onto the table. “We didn’t do it,” she said, “I mean we did not have sex, I mean, at all.” She held out her hands.
“What does that mean?” I asked. She continued backing up. I followed her.
“Please,” she said. “Listen to me.”
“Maria,” I said, trying to control my voice, “I am listening. Tell me what you meant.”
She backed up against the counter that separates our kitchen from the living room. She stopped there. “Michael,” she said, “I did it for us, for the baby.”
“For the baby!” I stared, wide eyed, at her. Her fair skin had nearly lost its blush. Her blood-red lips were slightly parted. She licked them nervously. I could see the fear there - she was afraid of me.
I felt my own face begin to burn. The paper I’d been holding fell from my hand.
“For the baby,” I said, angrily. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Michael,” she said, “Don’t use that tone with me.” She widened her eyes at me. She sounded angry, ashamed, and frightened, all at once.
I felt a little frightened myself. I stared at her a moment, and then turned abruptly, looking back at our front door. For the baby, I thought. I felt a little dizzy.
“Maria.” I swallowed and tried again. Our neighbor’s little girl rode by outside, on a new bike without training wheels. “Maria-” She was going much too fast, I thought.
She interrupted me. “No, Michael,” she said, “Listen to me.” I felt her nervous footsteps on the floor. “I’m trying to explain.” She’d stopped somewhere in the middle of the room. “Listen,” she began again, “It’s not the same – it’s not the same with us. I mean with him. As it is with him.” I felt my stomach drop, like it does, when you come up over the top on an amusement park ride. I opened my mouth. Not a sound came out. I took a step toward the door.
“Michael,” she called out, “Don’t leave!” Her voice was shrill, plaintive.
I paused, looking out.
Maria was standing just behind me. I felt her fingers on my arm. “Michael,” she breathed, “Don’t go.” I stood there for a moment, thinking: it’s vertigo, I thought, that’s what they call this.
She clutched my arm. “Try to understand,” she said. She stepped in closer. I could feel her breathing on my neck, her nipple through her blouse, her thigh through the thin cotton of her small summer skirt. “Michael,” she said, “I’m doing it for us.” I swallowed, feeling a fierce hot anger building inside me. I started to pull away, but she pressed her nails into my flesh. “Don’t go!” she said. I turned on her.
“Michael,” she said, “Don’t.” Her blue eyes were rimmed with red. Her blonde framed face was smeared with tears. “Michael,” she stammered, “I don’t- I don’t enjoy this!”
“Don’t enjoy it!” I yelled back into her startled face. “You don’t enjoy it?” I breathed, panting through my mouth. A little spittle landed on her cheek.
“I don’t-” she moaned, eyes darting, clinging tightly to my arm, “I don’t enjoy it!”
I stared at her. I had a premonition: a vision: “You’re blowing him,” I said. I felt a preternatural sense of calm.
Her mouth was open, looking up. I saw her small pink tongue. I watched her touch her lip with it. Her face was turning red again.
