She didn't move.
She was the quiet eye of a swirling storm. The low afternoon sun diffused her slim silhouette, creating a halo around her hair. She wore a dark business jacket over a tight skirt that left her knees and calves free to run all the way down to her heeled pumps. The sun made elongated shadows run away from her feet; they seemed to extend her legs, making them look endless. One knee was locked, pushing her calf out; the other bent slightly forward.
Standing at the corner of two intersecting streets, she was like a statue. Traffic roared by, but it didn't affect her. She stood motionless, holding a cell phone, staring at its display while the world passed her by.
He didn't move either.
He stood at the center of a hallway, oblivious to the multitude of people streaming past and around him. Colleagues hurried by to get home, tugging at their coats, swinging their briefcases. They wished each other great weekends - and tried to avoid the frozen figure obstructing their way out.
The low afternoon sun slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hallway was deserted now, but he still stood there in his dark blue suit. A raincoat hung over his arm - his hand held a phone. One last girl hurried past, wishing him nice days.
He didn't respond; he just stared at the display.
Prue Gascoyne Hawkins was 24 years old. Her skin still had the glow of youth, like the fresh, blushing tan of a day at the beach. It was two years now since Prudence Felicity Gascoyne added the name Hawkins to her own. It happened in a small chapel. Family and friends watched her do it, a priest too, but most of all Peter Hawkins, 24 then.
He'd been her fiancé since college.
His vows happened to mirror hers. They were about 'forever' and 'death do us part.' But death was still too far away to have meaning for them. And forever was vague enough to live with. 'Forsaking others' seemed ridiculous: they were still so besotted with their new love that there wasn't even a concept of 'others' in their minds.
That was two years ago.
Now there were these few hastily typed words on her cellphone. "He cheats," they read. And they made her world come to a screeching halt.
Peter Hawkins was 25, almost 26. He had the dark, unruly hair women love to touch. He also had clear blue eyes under thick eyebrows, an eternal tan and the stubble of fashionable rebellion. Peter knew he was on his way to become a great architect; it was just a matter of time for the rest of the world to agree, he was sure - even his father in law.
Peter loved his wife Prue.
Most of all: he knew she loved him. She'd been The Prize at university - cute, clever and popular. Falling in love with her had been a thrilling rollercoaster of feelings he'd been too pre-occupied to analyze. Peter wasn't a great analyzer of feelings anyway, like most men. Assured of her love, he basked in a sense of certainty, a warm bath of comfort.
Peter never knew that love is the eternal antagonist of comfort.
And now there were these two little words on his cell phone's screen, clawing at the foundations of his cozy life: "She cheats."
***
Reality kicked in and Prue Gascoyne Hawkins returned to life.
First thing she moved was her head, shaking it left and right - like waking up. Her hand rose as she dropped the phone in her purse. Finally taking a step, she scattered the halo of diffuse sunlight around her.
She wasn't aware of anything, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
"He cheats," her brain said, copying the message. "He" was who - Peter? Who else? And about what did he cheat? What secret could he hide? Who sent the message anyway? And why?
Peter Hawkins started moving too.
He closed his phone and put it away. Looking around he noticed the empty hall. He walked to the exit, nodding at the security guard without really seeing him.
Stepping into the slanting sunlight he blinked his eyes.
"She cheats?" he thought. About what? What secret could she have? He had none, did she? He planned on surprising her on their anniversary; that was a secret of sorts, maybe. But it was still months away - he didn't even know yet what the surprise would be.
He shook his head and walked to the subway.
***
"Hi darling, how was your day?"
She hugged him as always - no, not like always. There was a hesitation, ever so tiny, he thought. She was an all-out hugger, always had been - arms and breasts and belly; warm, soft and intense. He loved her for that.
But now there was tension; not much, not obvious, but there was.
"Same old," he said. "Glad it's Friday."
The words sounded like always, didn't they? But it had taken him a conscious effort to make them sound that way. Why was that? And did she notice? Was that why she blinked and looked away? Her smile was there - her usual smile, causing dimples and showing off her white teeth.
And yet...
"What about yours?" he asked as he let go of her.
"Nothing special," she said, already turning away.
He wanted to reach out and stop her, but he didn't.
***
The hot water fell like a curtain.
He put his head under it, feeling the stream hit his brow and run over his closed eyes. "She cheats." What the fuck did it mean? Did it mean anything? There was no name, no number, just the two words. Should he ask her? Yes, he should. But why had she been so nervous?
Had
she been nervous? Or had he?
Fuck.
Prue heard the shower go.
She might be naïve, spoilt or even shallow. But she wasn't stupid. She knew the cheating wouldn't be about mere little secrets from the past. Not things like old lovers, or a lie about his education or his career.
"He cheats," the message said and she knew it was cheating
now
and on
her
.
But Prue was brought up in a home where bad news wasn't welcome. Pretending everything was fine was the rule until reality left no way out anymore.
So she shook her curls and went looking for a smile.
***
He dried his hair and body.
Then he put on shorts and a t-shirt. Walking from their bedroom he saw her sit at the kitchen bar, sipping white wine. She still wore her blouse and skirt, but had kicked off her heels. Stocking-clad toes curled around the metal bar between the legs of her stool. There was a second glass on the counter, red wine - as usual. He approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her.
She stiffened, if only for a second - a fraction of a second.
He smelled the scent of her hair. Then he let go of her and lifted his glass, standing at the corner of the console. As he sipped he saw her watch him. When he looked back, her eyes escaped. He should ask. He
should
, but could he? "She cheats." What does it mean?
Ask
her.
Seconds passed and she beat him to it.
"Kuric wants to have a talk with me, Monday," she said, finding safety in the banality of work. He tried to hold her fleeting eyes. Kuric? Her boss, almost forty, tall, dark, very successful - hero of quite a few of her stories.
"Oh, does he? What about?"
"Don't know. Maybe the new project. Maybe they want me to coordinate it?"
Look
at me! he screamed in the privacy of his mind.
"Wow," he said instead. "That would be something."
"Nothing special," she'd said when he'd asked about her day. Wasn't this special? Peter's mind ran down the stairs of his memory, stopping at each moment he'd seen the two of them together, Kuric and she; their looks, their interaction - each word he recalled her saying about him. She admired the man, she laughed at his jokes.
He remembered her touching the man's forearm, once.
Stop this!
Prue let her slim finger run around the rim of her glass, finding another excuse to not look at her husband. The growing awkwardness seemed to strangle her throat, making her words sound forced.
"Yes, wouldn't it?" she said. "Just two years and already doing a project. Scary!"
She laughed - or tried to. Looking up she saw a smile touch his lips but it never reached his eyes - the clear blue eyes were dark now. "He cheats on me," she thought. He doesn't care. He stopped caring. He doesn't love me anymore.
Did he ever?
Stop this!
"Did you see Karen today?" she asked.
Karen Samuelson was tall, blond with blue eyes. She had great taste, great tits too. She was an award winning architect, and Pete's boss. Did his eyes shift at her question? Did hers?
"No, why?" he asked, and she knew her question had been silly - and obvious. Damn.
"Oh, nothing," she said, sliding off the stool. "Let's start dinner."
***
