By the time I get to the part of my story where Dr. Mason diagnoses Mrs. Eisenberg’s bathroom fall, Simon’s hands have moved from my left foot to my right, and then they continue up my calves. Now three hefty glasses of wine in, and looser than I have been since I accidentally took two of Zwena’s muscle relaxers thinking they were Advil, my guardedness about Simon’s presence has eased. He moves his body closer to mine to better knead his way from my calves to the meaty place where my hamstrings and glutes meet. I hear a tiny voice, lodged in that part of the brain no woman wants to listen to, reminding me that liquor and languidness are a dangerous combination. I shut that voice down and abandon my God-given common sense.
Nudging my legs open, Simon growls my name so deeply, it sounds like a lullaby rocking my body into giving in to his touch. “Toni, I’m going to kiss you.”
“Hmmm,”is all my buzzed mind can manage. The first kiss lands so lightly, I’m not fully aware if it happened or if I imagined it. I’m in that limbo state right before sleep overtakes wakefulness.
Another kiss lands on my mouth, stronger, more intentional, parting my lips to announce that Simon is indeed there. Here. Home. With me.
We come together in a flurry of lips and tongues, familiarity and forgetfulness of all that has occurred before in a momentary dismantling of the guarded walls I have erected since Simon walked out the door. I’m lucid enough to know this kiss can’t erase the grief he has caused me, but under the sway of the intimacy of these hands on my body and the recognizable taste of his mouth on mine, I give in to the respite his arms offer.
As Simon’s lips move down my neck, my breath quickens and I turn my head left, the full span of my right side exposed, begging for more. It’s then that I glimpse the corner of the manila envelope from my lawyer between the books on the shelf, only now there’s a bowl with crusted milk and Honey Nut Cheerios sitting on top compliments of a teenager too lazy to make the trek to the kitchen sink.
What am I doing?!That voice in the back of my head alarms, working to halt this forbidden pleasure.
Getting’ some action, I answer the voice back as Simon unbuttons my blouse and slips his hand under my bra strap. I bite down hard on my lip, not wanting to give Simon the satisfaction of knowing how much I’ve missed this, but also not wanting him to stop.
But what about the girls?The question nags at me. My body has completely disassociated itself, choosing missed affection over rationalization.This is so selfish. Simon rolls back into town and then what? Really,then what? The girls wake up to find their dad back in my bed like nothing ever happened?
Only twenty more minutes,my libido argues. Or an hour.The girls will never know as long as Simon is out by sunrise.
Perfect,I acquiesce as I shift first my left and then my right arm for Simon to slip off my shirt.Now I’m negotiating hookups with myself.
As Simon leans back in to lock lips while he toggles with a bra he’s unhooked a hundred times before, I push him back to his upright position. I unbuckle the belt around his waist, and Simon’s eyes go wide. I give a sly smile, shake my head, and whisper, “Not yet” with a smoothness that lets him know, soon. Simon will get what he wants, and I will get what I need, what I remember.
Starting at his bellybutton, I ignore the Buddha sitting on top of the slogan “Heavily Meditated” on his T-shirt and tug the fitted cotton blend out the top of his waistband. Two smooth muscles peek out at me, urging me to find four more just like them. As my hands roam around Simon’s lower abs, he begins to wiggle, simultaneously pulling away from too much pleasure and begging for more. As my hands slide up his sides, bringing the blue T-shirt with me, Simon lets out a guttural moan and impatience gets the best of him as he rips his own shirt up and over his head.
“Thefuck?!” I cry out and then freeze, praying my voice could not possibly wake two teens deep in sleep. “What are those?!” I hiss, pointing at Simon’s chest.
“The nipple rings?” Simon states in the form of a question. Clasping his hands behind his head, he flexes his manscaped chest for my benefit.
“Yes, those!” I emphasize, shock laced with horror in my voice.
“I got them in Bangkok at a twenty-four-hour tattoo parlor all the expats go to.” Simon flicks one of them and smiles with pride.
I’m pretty sure when it comes to getting tattoos and piercings, those expats, including Simon, would be better off waiting until they return home and return to their senses.
“Stop flexing!” I insist and shake my head to force my brain back to sobriety. “What are you, twenty years old again? And what kind of health standards exist in Thailand that inspired you to allow someone to mutilate your nipples?!”
“The guy who owns it is British. The Aussies go there too. The owner even offered me green tea while I chose my rings,” Simon explains, like he’s listing off the amenities of a five-star spa. I throw up in my mouth just a little.
“What? Don’t you like them?” Simon asks, genuine surprise in his voice, like we’ve just met through Tinder, and he knows nothing of the science-nerd germaphobe that I am. “They’re a real turn-on when you pull them.” He reaches for my hand, trying to recapture the mood. “Give it a try.”
“Hell no, I’m not stretching your nipples,” I say, and recoil, face contorted and full-on judgy. “What if a ring pops loose or falls out with your skin still attached.” I stick my tongue out in disgust. “Not to mention they look terrible.”
“On me? Come on. You know I look tight for forty-five.”
“On anyone,” I assert and cover myself up with the blanket across the back of the sofa. Bad-judgment time is over. Well, obviously not for Simon, but for me.
“So, I guess you don’t want to know what I’ve done below the waist. It’s ...”
“Nope. Nope. No, I don’t. That’s it, we’re done,” I declare, handing Simon his shirt.
“Come on, Toni, you have to admit we had fun tonight,” Simon works to convince me, redressing slowly so I can take in one last look at his yoga-cut arms and torso.
“Some people are saved by the bell. Tonight, Simon, I was saved by a couple of silver rings,” I deadpan and point to his shoes by the front door. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“I’ll go for now, but I’m not leaving for good. We are husband and wife, Toni,” Simon vows earnestly, hand over heart and nipple ring, slipping on his Birkenstock clogs as he opens the front door. I have to get up in four short hours to take the girls to a debate tournament, so I am not going to get into it with him that for me, the wife, any vow Simon makes, particularly his marital vow of “till death do us part,” means nada.
“Muscle memory, Simon. You’ve left before. Shouldn’t be too hard to do it again,” I remind my halfway husband before hopping up to double bolt the door behind him.
