Annabelle
A cuckold husband gets what he wishes for. So why isn't he happy?
I've started writing this twice before; third time lucky, I hope. I have no intention of sending this anywhere. I'm trying to write her out of my head. It's three weeks since we last met. I've blocked her calls and emails. Now I can close my eyes and not see her, not hear her, not want her. No, that last part is not true. That will take much longer. I know I'm not making sense, so I guess I should rewind.
I met Annabelle at a yoga class recommended by my physiotherapist. 'Your running career is over for the time being, Max. You need to concentrate on regaining strength and flexibility without straining your legs.' I joined a fancy up market gym with all the facilities. My solicitor was confident we could stick the other party for the expense if it speeded up my recovery and reduced my damages claim. So, there I was one Wednesday, skulking at the back of the class in my tee shirt and trackie bottoms, trying not to ogle the twenty something girls exercising in the lunch break. Their designer yoga outfits were quite something, skin tight Lycra with cut aways and see-through panels. All they needed to do was to change their shoes, and they'd be ready for an evening clubbing.
Annabelle came into the studio just as the class was about to start. She smiled apologetically at the instructor and took her place on the back row next to me. She gave the new guy, a cursory glance.
Even after all this time, I find it difficult to describe Annabelle. She bore more than a passing resemblance to the actress Helen Mirren, but that was the platinum blonde hair, long fringe and cut short at the ears and neck. She was tall and elegant. People noticed her presence when she entered a room. I tried not to look her up and down, but she caught my eyes on her reflection in the mirror and smiled at my embarrassment. Her simple green leotard matched her eyes and black sheer footless tights showed off her shapely thighs and calves. The younger women were also checking her out. Their expressions saying, 'I wonder if I'll look that good when I'm her age.' Even when I knew her better, she would never tell me her age. 'I'm old enough so you'll be impressed, but not so old that you'll cringe,' was all she would say. She was pleased I was thirty-nine. Whether I had ten or twenty years on her, who could tell? Annabelle was well preserved.
On that first day I grunted and moaned, my stiff body struggling to strike the correct pose. My knowledge of yoga moves ended with downward and upward dog, so I watched the others to get the idea. I always came back to watching Annabelle. She seemed so serine, her movements were effortless. She'd see me struggling and take pity by whispering one word prompts to correct my posture. By the end of the class, I was bathed in sweat while she still looked fragrant. I thanked her for helping me and said I would see her next week. 'Are you sure?' she replied. 'I like a challenge,' I said. My attempted flirtation earned a smile and when she got to the door and pivoted, catching me checking out her shapely arse, she laughed.
Three weeks later, I was making progress, aided by practising to a yoga video Annabelle recommended. At the end of the class she said, "Congratulations Max, you didn't grunt once, even though you found it tough going. You'd find it easier if you wore shorts."
"I don't want to scare everybody, Annabelle." I pulled up my tracksuit legs. My shins were a mass of healing scars from the reconstructive surgery. The wounds from where the support brace held my shattered shins were still visible. Annabelle winced. "Sorry, I should have warned you. My souvenir, courtesy of a drunk driver. I was running on the pavement, the bastard mounted the curb to hit me, then he fucked off." A year on, I was still angry.
Annabelle seemed to take my injuries personally. "I'm so sorry, Max. There's me pushing you on to do it better because I thought you were swinging the lead. I feel terrible now."
She looked like she did; I put my hand on her shoulder in forgiveness. The first contact between us and we both felt a static charge. She looked at my hand. I didn't move it. She didn't pull away. We knew in that moment the path we were on unless one of us decided not to. "Well done, everyone. Same time next week." The instructor's voice seemed a long way away. We went for coffee afterwards and talked about our lives. Preliminaries to get out of the way. Me, a heating and ventilation engineer, single again after ten years. She widowed and remarried. Her husband Clive ran an investment company, managing the fortunes of wealthy individuals. I wasn't surprised, Annabelle was way out of my league. I asked why she did the yoga class when she was as good as the instructor. Was she a dancer just toning up?
"No Max, but thank you for the compliment. My mother was a sadist. I did ten years of ballet before even she had to recognise my height would always exceed my talent. I've been feeling low. My doctor thinks I need to meet new people. He doesn't believe in pills for depression. I thought this would be a way that didn't make me look desperate for company. Not sure it's working, though. I'm a bit too intimidating for most people. Except you, that is." She looked me in the eye.
"You have nothing to apologise for Annabelle. You have presence, and I can see how that might unsettle some woman."
"Some men too, Max."
"But some find it attractive. I said I like a challenge. I've also started lion timing lessons at evening classes." Her laugh was rich and relaxed. "See, that felt good, didn't it? We are wonderful therapy for each other."
"Is that what we are, Max?" Her smile said, 'I dare you to proposition me?' I thought about it for a few moments.
"No, Annabelle. You would have to say no. I'll wait until the odds are in my favour."
"You're a very cautious lion, tamer, Max. You'll have a long career."
