Just Once... An Ending
This is my ending to Kalimaxos' recent story,
"Just Once... If You Don't Mind?"
about a wife who leaves her husband to spend six weeks in South America with her lover, a doctor with whom she works. If you haven't read his story, I suggest you do before reading this one.
Day One
Leslie sat next to me on the loveseat, as I tried to absorb the contents of my wife Marcy's farewell letter. Well, farewell for six weeks, at least; whether it was a farewell forever was yet to be decided. Obviously, at least to my way of seeing things, and despite what she had written in her fucking letter, she had been cheating with Trey in the hospital or the Red Roof Inn across the street from the hospital, for some time already. This trip would let her do it without the guilt and the sneaking around, according to her. Plus, she had arranged a neighbor, who was a 30-year-old married, sexpot slut, Leslie, to "entertain" me during those six weeks. The whole situation was surreal.
"So, Rick? What do we do?" Leslie had asked, after I had read my wife's amazing "farewell" letter to me.
"It's too soon. I just read the letter. I need to think," I replied. Marcy and I had been married, and in love, for 25 years. Was I ready to throw that away without a fight? Maybe; maybe not.
"Did you read the letter, Leslie?" I asked.
"No, of course not. What goes on between a husband and wife is private," she said.
"Not even a peek?"
"Well...no, not even a peek," she teased.
"Here," I said, handing her the letter. "I'd like you to read it." Leslie took the letter from me, and she read it.
Leslie and I sat together on the loveseat, me lost in thought, and Leslie, well, I don't know what the hell was transpiring in Leslie's mind, but at least she was quiet, and patient. Finally, I spoke, "Leslie, would you like to stay for dinner? If so, is pizza okay?"
I called, the pizza came, and we ate the pizza in silence. I oscillated between flashes of anger and extreme sorrow, even despondency, but I kept it to myself. Leslie, however, like Marcy before her, was able to read my face. She knew what I was going through. She looked at me with a sympathetic regard. I began to realize she was possibly quite a likeable person, interested in more than just having me jump her bones.
"Another beer?" I asked, breaking my silence for a second time.
"I'd prefer wine, if that's okay," she said.
I smiled. It was my first smile since I had waked to find Marcy gone, with no note. My smile surprised Leslie, but it stunned me. Why did I smile? The easy explanation is the absurdity of Leslie's nervous politesse; after all, she had come bearing a bottle of wine and it was still half full. The likeliest explanation was that my smile was due to the simple pleasure of enjoying a normal, quotidian event, such as sharing food with a pretty woman. Well, Leslie was not just pretty - she was both sexy, and gorgeous.
I rose from my chair, and got another beer, Leslie's bottle of wine, and a crystal glass for her wine. The crystal glasses had been a wedding gift to Marcy and me, 25 years ago, and we only used them on special occasions. I figured today was as special as any day: The day my suspicions proved true, and the beginning of the end of my 25-year-long marriage with the girl I loved.
After dinner, and since I'm in my late 40's, I retired to the living room to watch some TV (yes, we middle aged people still have TVs, and what's more, we actually watch them). Leslie rose too, asking if I'd like something.
"A glass of Scotch, please," I replied, "and thanks. Help yourself to whatever your taste is," I said. Leslie poured herself a glass of dry Sherry.
After I had finished my eight-ounce glass of Scotch on the rocks (Leslie had filled up the glass, and added ice without even asking me), and Leslie had quickly fetched me a second glass and after I had downed that, as well, I felt human enough to talk.
"So, tell me, Leslie: Is Vincent okay with you being here, looking so amazingly fetching?" I asked.
"Call him Vinnie, please, and yes, he is, as long as I tell him everything later, assuming we get up to a little bit of mischief," she said. There it was: Out in the open.
"That's unusual in a marriage," I remarked, stating the obvious.
"Yes. Yes, it is. Are you okay with it?" she asked.
"How other people conduct their lives is their business. I don't judge," I said. "So, I guess Vinnie likes being a cuckold?"
"He loves it, Rick. Sometimes I think he craves it," she said.
"If I may ask, how did it start?" I asked.
Leslie explained. She was twenty-two when they married, eight years ago. Vinnie was 28. She worked at an upscale bar in the Wall Street Area, and she was constantly hit upon. Obviously, she would flash her wedding ring and politely decline. When she got home she complained about it to Vinnie, and his reaction surprised her.
"He actually wanted me to take one of those men up on the offer to take me out when my shift ended at 2 AM. So finally, I agreed, and the guy returned for me, right on time, at 2 AM. He asked me to stay dressed in my cocktail waitress outfit, and not change into my street clothes. My skirt was super short, and my blouse was low cut, giving the customers lots of chances to see my boobs, covered with my lace bra. Well, the guy was set on having sex with me, and eventually I returned home to Vinnie crying, without underwear, and with my clothes a little bit torn."
"What did Vinnie do?" I asked.
"That's the thing: he wanted to know if we had fucked, and then he wanted a full blow-by-blow description of what happened. To my surprise, shock even, he was not at all mad, but in fact totally turned on by my detailed description of what had happened. Before you ask, no, I wasn't raped. I was reluctant, but I got into it, the rough sex and all," Leslie said. "Mostly I was worried that Vinnie would hate me and want to divorce me. It was a huge relief that he was the way he is," Leslie said.
She continued, "He loves hearing about how other men seduce me, or how I seduce them, blow by blow. He's the happiest when he can watch, but most men, we've found, aren't into that. It's been going on for years, now."
"How are you with it all?" I asked.
"It's complicated," she said, and then she clammed up. I realized it was time to change the subject.
"Another drink?" I asked.
"I'll get them. You just sit and admire my ass," she said, as she swished it, walking to the kitchen. I had to chuckle. She did, in fact, have an ass well worth admiring. Women are built different than men, and the wiggle in their walk is an inevitable result of biology. The pelvis has to rotate to allow a woman to walk. That said, some women have a pronounced wiggle, some women have an average wiggle, some have a diminished wiggle, and some have practically no wiggle at all. Leslie had a pronounced wiggle, and you just had to love it.
I began to work on my third Scotch. What a strange construction, I thought, "began to work on." More appropriate might be that I began to enjoy my third Scotch. The problem was that, as I was dealing with the shock of events the day had brought, Scotch seemed more like an anesthetic, than an enjoyable beverage. Leslie continued with Sherry Wine.
"I'm sorry if you think I pried too much vis à vis you and Vinnie. If you don't mind, can we talk about my wife Marcy, now?" I asked.
"I was wondering when you'd get around to that. Marcy is, after all, the elephant in the room, now, isn't she?" Leslie rejoined. "Let's see, what should I say?"
"Why don't you start with what you think of Marcy?" I offered.
"As a person, as a woman, or as a wife?" she asked.
"As a woman, at least to begin," I said.
"Okay. I'll start with the obvious. She's pretty, and sexy, and it's no wonder men are attracted to her. She's also smart, and ambitious. She's raised two lovely children, who seem to be well adjusted, to boot. She's obviously a talented homemaker, and from the little I've experienced, she's a good cook, to boot," Leslie began. I was nodding as she spoke.
"Also, however, she's been frustrated living in a modified "Mommy Track." She has talent, and my guess is that she wishes she had done more with her life. She has middle-aged angst." Leslie saw my face, and quickly added, "It's not your fault, Rick. Surely, you've heard of mid-life crisis? Men get a young mistress, or a sports car, or something. Women don't have those options, or at least not without a huge cost. Marcy knows that, but she's doing it anyway, and since she respects you, she's being open about it," she said.
I spluttered my Scotch when Leslie said Marcy respects me! "A fine way to show respect, making me a cuckold!"
"Haven't you cheated on Marcy during the last 25 years? Or are you some kind of a saint?" Leslie asked. "I'm counting prostitutes, buddy."
"Men have needs, Leslie. It's different," I said. "I was overseas, lonely, and horny. I still loved Marcy with all my heart, and all of my soul. You can't compare that with what Marcy is doing!"
"Why not?"
"Because she's a woman, goddam it! It's different for women. They're the ones who give birth, for Christ's sake. You want me to raise someone else's children? I'm humiliated by her actions."
"Marcy is no longer the age of bearing children, unlike me, for example," Leslie calmly said.
"That's not the point!" I was screaming in frustration at this point.
"No, you're right. The real point is that you think of your wife as property. More precisely, as your own property. If she gives herself to another man, it's a betrayal," Leslie said.
"Damn straight," I replied.
"Whereas, if you dip your wick in another woman's honeypot, that's a totally different thing. It doesn't mean anything, because you're not Marcy's property," Leslie said. She omitted saying QED.
"That's a false symmetry, Leslie," I replied.
At this point, with near perfect timing, my phone dinged. Automatically, I looked at it. I had a text from Marcy. Jesus. Why? I opened it:
Marcy:
