by Andrew Kriever (June 2026)
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“I’m a third-year environmental science major,” she says.
Third-year. They sound like Hogwarts students. Why can’t they just say freshman, sophomore, junior, senior?
The white noise of conversation is even, with occasional loud slurrings. The smell of alcohol mists the room. A glass breaks and the bartender mumbles something to the busboy. Just a couple years ago, they wouldn’t have allowed you in here. Unvaccinated not welcome. Now they gladly take your money.
You lean in close to hear her. Many of the patrons are wearing blue and orange, hats and sweaters with UVA insignia. It’s hard for you, being here without the ability to drink. You miss drinking. You’d give up sex the rest of your life if you could drink instead. Part of you wants to be back home, where you can watch Frasier reruns.
She’d messaged you.
Your profile is sparse. Other than references to books you like, you wonder what caught her attention and why she messaged you. You were clearly older, not a college student. You only have a few pictures of yourself. You’ve been told many times by different women you’re attractive, but you still don’t believe it. Maybe there is something more to you women like?
You used to just meet in bars, not preplanned online, but times have changed. Now initial contact is through apps. While apps are easier, you long for the days when you would lock eyes with a woman, she would bite her lower lip, give you that I-find-you-sexy-too look. The first indication she viewed you as an attractive option.
You look at her with feigned interest. You must be careful as you know any wrong move could scare her away.
“That’s fascinating,” you say, with no irony. “Tell me what you hope to accomplish with that?”
You listen as she rattles off all the ways she is going to save the world, all the ways the system is designed to exploit the planet, and how it’s going to be her and her generation who will right all the wrongs of the previous generations. If you were actively listening, you might have felt defensive and ripped apart her logic, but you want to see if you can hook up, so right now, you keep your mouth shut.
“How about you?” she asks.
Shit. You don’t like to talk about yourself, but occasionally they allow you to speak. You have been using the same scripted line for the past few dozen interactions you’ve had with the students.
“I work for Olio, a marketing company downtown, near the mall. We work with many of the local businesses in the city along with ones in the greater Charlottesville area.”
You notice how she watches you as you say this. She’s Asian, and you wonder what her nationality is. She’s beautiful with a rounded face, shoulder length jet black hair, and delicate fingers. Her voice is very soft, feminine, arousing. She’s small, petite, and you imagine her breasts aren’t too large. Hard to tell with the loose-fitting sweatshirt she is wearing. You find this odd, since it’s still hot out, but she and many others here are wearing shorts. The way she looks at you, head tilted up, eyes locked, makes you feel really seen.
She asks some more questions about you, and eventually she gets to the elephant in the room.
“You’re married,” she says, looking at your finger.
“Yeah, I am.” You don’t provide her with an explanation or excuse, instead looking to see where she will take this next.
“Do you love your wife?” she asks.
You used to feel self-conscious when people asked about your wife in public, but now, as someone who has cheated many times, you don’t feel shame. Instead, you speak of your complicated love for her as if stating a fact. No emotion tied to it.
“I do.”
She takes a moment, looking at you for some kind of hint about what else is there. “But you go on dates with other women?”
“Occasionally, yes.”
She shakes her head. Shit. She is a judgy one. You had debated putting married on your profile but left it off hoping to win them over before they found out.
“My father cheated on my mom. He wasn’t a good man.”
Ah, so I remind you of your father . . ..
“I’m sorry to hear that.” You almost are convincing.
“I always wondered, why does someone cheat? I mean, why don’t you just get a divorce?”
Her questions are becoming tedious; you want to ditch out. You could get up, walk away, forget about her. But you still want to see what is going to happen. Maybe, just maybe, something good will still come out of this.
“I just don’t want a divorce. Simple as that. I love my wife.”
She shakes her head again. Your eyes begin to wander to others at the bar. It’s still very loud, and you’re feeling a bit of social anxiety. You think about Frasier’s unsuccessful dinner parties. You know most people here are drunk or at least buzzed, but you still feel self-conscious about their judgments. Why do you do this to yourself?
You have no idea where your wife is right now, but most likely she is at work. She is always at work. You wonder why she works so hard and think it has to do with you. She cannot stand being around you, so she has to stay out of the house as much as possible. You don’t blame her for this, because you can’t stand you either. You want to be as far away from you as possible. But you can never escape.
She tells you she feels bad for you. She asks you why you aren’t drinking.
“Because I have a drinking problem.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you want to get out of here? Maybe we could go for a walk?”
“Okay.” You follow her out of the bar. It’s late afternoon and there is a lot of foot traffic. You walk beside her, learning she knows the layout of the town better than you. You think of the Paramount and all the landmarks you haven’t visited even after all these years. The brutalist architecture is reminiscent of the lefts beloved Soviet Russia. Some still wear masks outdoors, and you wonder if they even have faces underneath the cloth. Maybe there is just a gaping hole where their nose and mouth used to be.
She takes you to a park you have never been to, and the two of you sit on a bench.
“Is this better?” she asks.
“Yes. Thank you.” You feel like you can breathe again. You’re calm now, and you want to stay in the present with this girl. “So, I take it your name isn’t really Malta Kano? I’ve read Murakami.” You also had used a fake name.
She smiles, “Fumiko, but I go by Miko.”
You give her your hand and the two of you shake. “Nice to meet you Fumiko. My name is Cameron, but I go by Cam.”
“Nice to meet you Cameron,” she says. You both sit there in silence, watching people walk by.
***
You’re surprised by the rising shorts, how they have gone from being just at the point where the butt begins to take shape, to the new acceptable position—right up the butt crack. The shape is a v with wings, little curls downwards on each side. And their parents don’t seem to care. If your daughter went off to college, you would have raised her better so she wouldn’t be displaying her butt-cheeks for every man and boy in Charlottesville.
Each semester brings some new, while some old depart, but the one thing that stays consistent is the ever-changing fashion, the ever-changing acceptable wear for an institution of learning. Back when you were in college, all the girls had a lower waistline, but their midriff wasn’t exposed. Now, like clones, they all have the same high waist jeans moms in the 90s wore and the same short shirts that expose their midriffs. Their hair always seems to be messy, often blue or some other hideous color, letting you know what they think politically without even asking.
Yet, you can’t help yourself. You’re a townie; you only get enjoyment from this bi-yearly routine of students moving in and out. Usually, fall is the big one, but sometimes you’re shocked to see how many new students come in the winter semester. Winter. There is no actual winter here, just a continuation of fall. People all seem to be cold and wear heavier clothes, but for someone like you, winter has the perfect weather. Minus the humidity. You hate the humidity.
Your hair is thinning, you’re on the backside of your thirties, and your wife is too beautiful for you. You wish you had treated her better over the years, but you know what they say. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see what fills up faster. Yes, you have a hand full of shit.
You don’t necessarily like living in this town, but you also don’t hate it. Love/hate relationship would best describe it. You feel out of place, everyone here is far left, further left than Mao—they would make him blush. Occasionally you meet someone on the right, but you must speak to each other in code. You cannot just come out and say it, or if you do, you run the risk of being isolated in whatever setting you’re in.
You lost your career over the vaccine. You remember going to interviews for minimum wage jobs and getting in arguments about not getting the shot. You remember them telling you the vaccine stopped the spread. You remember them saying the vaccine didn’t stop the spread but lessened the symptoms. You remember how fluid the narrative had been but how rigid their hatred was for you and others who refused the vaccine. You will never forgive.
The traffic is continually getting worse. The city planners have no idea what to do; they just sit on their asses and propose solutions that have done nothing to help. They are useless.
This new trend of young women dressing like moms has a weird effect on you. You have always been into older, but now that the younger are dressing like the older, your mind is being fucked with. Some part of you wonders why you’re like this, what caused you to develop such a fetish. In high school, before internet porn had taken off, coming across MILF magazines was tricky, but any time you got one, you treasured the material like the gold it was. There is something beautiful about an older woman with a younger man. She is validating you, giving you peace no one younger has. But now, you’re looking at younger. You’re noticing the college girls with their shorts and their messy hair and their midriffs and their weird piercings. You’re noticing the juxtaposition of them dressing like moms while also looking a mess. You’re fascinated.
Your wife doesn’t seem to have the same problem as you. She seems to be content with you, or at least that’s what you think. Maybe she is having fantasies about college boys the same way you do about college girls. But you’re different, even if she is having these fantasies. You act on them.
You aren’t proud of yourself, and you don’t tell anyone, but you act on your urges, and act on them a lot. Occasionally without prearranged app dates, you go to places they congregate, and you strike up conversation. Sometimes you hide your ring, but many times you don’t. Many women don’t seem to care. You always wonder why they have any interest in you. They never seem to articulate why to you, so you’re always stuck wondering. Could they have the older fetish like you have? Maybe we all want someone older to protect us, to take care of us the way our parents should have?
Parents. What does that mean? You aren’t a parent and won’t be one, no matter how much you want to. You don’t have the opportunity. Your wife is older, and those years have passed. The only way that could become a reality would be for you to impregnate someone other than your wife, and you’re always careful. You will never do that.
As you storyboard , your mind wanders to Fumiko. She has agreed to see you again, despite your glaring flaw. You aren’t sure why, but you don’t ask to avoid reminding her of your marital status. Your creativity’s gone, and you take several breaks. You have never told any of your coworkers anything about your personal life, so anything they know they would have had to gather themselves. Sure, they had all seen the ring, but they don’t know who your wife is, what she looks like. This is good for you, in case someone sees you out and about with Fumiko or whoever will likely come next.
You aren’t sure if your wife knows about the affairs or not. She seems so wrapped up in her career and her own life that she is too busy to notice. She probably has some suspicions because you’re okay not having sex. It’s been a year now, the longest drought the two of you have gone. Before this, you were up to nine months.
The last time you had sex with her you had to fake an orgasm. This isn’t the first time you have done that, but the first time with her. Back in college, you went through a period where you could not come. No matter how much sex you had, you couldn’t complete. You were always on the edge, right on the precipice, but you still couldn’t finish. Sometimes you would downplay it as drinking too much, while other times you would fake it.
The first time you did fake it, you were unsure what to do. You knew if you were a woman, you would get vocal and move your body with jerky movements. You tried similar, and you think the woman knew it wasn’t real. She seemed okay with it, since she had completed. Let’s be honest, all everyone cares about is finishing themselves, not their partner’s completion.
The guilt eats away at you, but you know you cannot stop. You need this, you need to explore all these relationships before you can’t anymore. One day, no one will find you attractive. At that point, you will stop. But until then, you’re going to keep sleeping with any woman who finds you attractive.
Cheating is surprisingly easy. You use encrypted apps, and never message when your wife is in the room. You keep notifications on silent, and you never call. That would be crossing a line.
Fumiko joins you for lunch at a new Mexican restaurant a few blocks from your office. You walk there. Inside, you spot her in a corner booth by herself. She has on nicer clothing this time, opting for a burnt-orange long sleeved dress, with a long, looped belt of the same color. The dress sits right above her knees. The color pops against her complexion. She stands to greet you when you get to the booth.
“How’re you doing?” as she gives you a hug.
“I’m doing okay. Just been distracted today.”
“Oh?”
Should you tell her? No, you need to play it cool.
“Just life stuff. You’ll know what I mean when you get older.” Oops.
She gives a smirk, but something changes at the mention of age. You know you need to be careful, sometimes women like older, but once it’s pointed out to them, they start to question themselves, question everything. Why am I attracted to older? What does it mean about me? You know these questions because you’ve asked them in your pursuit of older women.
The waitress comes over and takes the drink order. You know her. You try to place her. Was she someone you’d hooked up with? Was she someone who waited on you when you were with someone else?
Oh shit. Anna’s. She was the waitress who always waited on you and your wife at Anna’s when they were still open. That was the one place you never took a mistress, the one place just for you and her. And it was taken away. After 46 years Anna’s Pizza No 5, a Charlottesville institution closed. Unlike Frasier, the restaurant had no reruns. Why did nothing last?
You hope the waitress doesn’t remember you, but she does. She gives you a little knowing nod before casting her gaze at your shiny white-gold and silver wedding band. She knows you, she sees who you are. You’re a cheater.
She walks away. You regain your composure. You refocus your thoughts on the sexy Fumiko, who sits across from you.
“Tell me about you, about your family.”
“I’m the oldest. I have a younger sister, Emiko and a younger brother, Yori.”
“Where do they live?”
“My sister goes to Stanford, and my brother is still in high school. He lives with my parents back in San Diego.”
Fuck, she is from California. Yet you find yourself drawn to her.
“So, what made you decide to come to the East Coast for school?”
The waitress comes back with the drink orders. She hands you a Coke Zero, no ice, and Fumiko a mojito. You smile when you see her take a sip. You miss the warmth she must be experiencing now as the alcohol works its way down her throat. You’re reminded of Hemingway and your time in Key West.
“I had to get away,” she says. “My parents are very controlling, and I needed to break away. I got a scholarship here, so that’s why I came. Far away and paid for.” She takes another small sip.
“I understand.” Do you? You had gone to the school closest to your home that would take you. You had not taken risks in your youth, and that’s probably why you take risks now. Probably why you cheat. You want to feel a rush of something.
“What about you?”
You think for a moment, trying to come up with something to impress her, hook her, get her to keep meeting up with you.
Before you speak, the waitress is back. She definitely knows you, she’s giving you that look, could it be knowing, or could it be envy?
“Do you guys know what you want?” the waitress asks.
Fumiko goes first, “Yes, I would like chimichangas, corn, fried, with shredded beef.”
“Rice and beans?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“And you?”
You were going to get the chimichangas, but don’t want to look like you’re copying her. “I will get the torta, carnitas and everything on it.”
“Side of rice and beans?”
“That’s fine.”
She finishes writing. “Great, I will put that in now.” She walks away.
“I’m sorry, what was your question for me again?”
She smiles, “Same as yours, do you have any siblings?”
“No, I’m an only child. Was just me and my mom.”
“I used to think it would’ve been nice to be an only child, but now I’m happy I have siblings.”
You try not to reveal too much. “Yeah, it can be lonely.”
She tilts her head to the side. Her eyes are soft, and you can see your reflection in the brown.
You don’t want her to feel sympathy for you, so you decide not to reveal anything else about your childhood, other than what you’ve already said. You wonder if she had been one of the vaccine pushers. She’d most certainly gotten it to attend UVA based on when she started. “So, you’re a third-year?”
She takes a second before answering you. “Yup, I’m excited I will be done in one more year. Although, I may go to graduate school. Not sure at this point. My parents wanted me to decide as of last year, but I’m taking my time. Maybe I just want to get into working.”
“Enjoy your time in college. Once it’s over, real life sucks.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you’ll go out and try to get your dream job, and maybe you’ll be lucky and get it, but even then, you get it, and it isn’t what you thought it would be. Maybe you’ll meet someone, and you’ll settle down, a little part of you giving up your identity for someone else. Then maybe you’ll buy a house, have a kid or two, or maybe, none of this ‘ll happen. . .. Sorry, I think you’ll be successful. Don’t listen to my negativity.”
She looks into your eyes deeply; you can still see your reflection. “It’s okay, don’t apologize for being yourself, Cameron.”
Apologize for being yourself. Wasn’t that what you’ve been doing your whole life? How will you stop this? You don’t see an exit ramp.
You continue to small talk, and you wonder why she isn’t mentioning your wife. Maybe, since she had already addressed it last time, she doesn’t need to remind you again. You’re unsure if she is okay with the situation or if she is just okay with it right now because you two haven’t done anything immoral. Yes, you’re having lunch with her, but you haven’t borne your soul to her, so there is nothing she has taken from you that belongs to your wife and her alone.
The first time you cheated you felt awful, second time not so much, and it’s continually getting easier. Does your wife know? Maybe—and she is okay because it means she doesn’t have to perform sexual duties for you anymore. The one-year lack of sex seems to make a statement about your relationship, one even a moron like yourself can read.
The food comes and you eat in silence.
You smell some awful perfume, something floral.
“Miko, hey girl, what are you doing here?” A redhead with short shorts and a tight halter top is at your table.
“Just getting lunch, this is my friend Cameron.” Fumiko gestures towards you, and you do your best to look handsome, not creepy.
Red looks at you suspiciously. “Hello Cam, I ‘m Alyssa. I’m like Miko’s best friend in C-Ville.”
You look at Fumiko for acknowledgement. You don’t see any.
“Nice to meet you, Alyssa.” She is attractive but seems stupid. You don’t like stupid.
She turns her attention back to Fumiko. “Anyway Miko, I just wanted to let you know we’re all going to trivia night this Tuesday. I expect your ass to be there.” She looks at you, gazing at the ring. “Your ass is welcome as well.” She flips her hair and turns quickly. “Bye girl.”
Just like that, she’s gone.
***
Nights are the loneliest. Even though you have someone in bed next to you, there is never any reaching out or connecting. The closest you seem to get is about a foot apart, never crossing this unannounced demilitarized zone. The cats join you, making four souls in the bed. They don’t seem to know about the demilitarized zone. The cats and your wife seem to be happy, sleeping as if sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
You get up a lot to pee. You average five times each night, but some nights it’s in double digits. You don’t like this about yourself; you’re embarrassed. In your younger years, when you spent the night at a friend’s dorm in college, you played it off as drinking too much beer. You said whenever you drink, you become a faucet.
Tonight, you get up. You get out of bed and go downstairs, bringing your iPad with you. You look online for Fumiko’s presence. Other than one photo of her and Alyssa on Instagram, she fills up her feed with nature pics. Many are local: Ivy Creek, Rivanna Trail, Darden Towe Park, and many shots of landscapes around local wineries and golf courses.
She has over a thousand followers, but she only follows a dozen accounts. You look through the accounts she follows, and they are mostly art related, but a couple are people. One is Alyssa, who of course posts tons of pictures of herself. Another is of a young guy in his early twenties. He looks like a typical Charlottesville resident, maybe a UVA student. He is wearing Patagonia sweatshirt in many of his outdoor pics. He wears a mask in several of the pictures and has different women in the photos with him. There is one with him and Fumiko. Doesn’t seem like there is anything romantic between them, but you still feel some jealousy.
You look to the wall behind the TV, noticing the photo of you and your wife on your wedding day. You looked happy, and so did she. You remember thinking contentment would last forever, you would never want anyone the way you wanted her, you would never desire another. You had been young, naïve. Of course you would want another, then another; you’re human after all.
The clock on the iPad says it’s three thirty am. You know this is considered a bad omen in Christianity. You remember the guilt the church instilled in you over sexual attractions. You can watch Frasier but worry the TV will wake your wife. You want to message Fumiko, but messaging her now feels dirty. You don’t want to send her texts at this hour, when your wife and cats are upstairs sound asleep, not knowing how dishonest you can be.
***
You go to trivia with Fumiko, and the night goes as you expect. Her friends are all loud, drunk, and you’re the strange old man who doesn’t belong. You never belong. You aren’t much of an advantage to them since most of the pop culture questions are based on current times, not twelve years back when you were relevant.
You go to the bathroom and splash water on your face. On your way out you bump into an older woman. She is maybe in her fifties. She is very attractive, has deep eyes, and you apologize for being so clumsy. Your words become clumsy, and she laughs. She gives you a little smack while you try to talk without sounding like a fool. She likes you.
She tells you her name is Michelle, says she was brought here by her daughter, who she is visiting. You continue talking and make your way back to the main room. You see Fumiko’s group is having a great time without you. Michelle points to her daughter, and you see the resemblance. Both are brunettes with curly hair, green eyes, and hourglass figures. Her daughter is dressed more conservatively than the others in her group, and you wonder if this is for show. Is she showing her mother what she wants her to see?
You talk a little more before you go your own ways. You exchange numbers with Michelle, and you hope she will text.
Back at the table, you sit down next to Fumiko, and she is buzzed. She says she wants to leave, and you walk her out. The air is sticky and everything downtown smells like weed. You ask her if she needs a ride, and she says yes.
The drive is nice, the traffic sparse. You try staying present, in the moment, but a lot of what Fumiko is saying isn’t registering with you. She isn’t slurring her words, but she is more relaxed.
“I wonder, if I get married, I wonder if my husband will be like you.”
“You mean a cheater?” She sees you for who you are.
“Well, yes. I mean, it didn’t happen instantly with you, right? Like, it took some years before you did it?” She looks at you with concern. You don’t want to disappoint her.
“You’re right,” you lie.
You remember the first time, shortly after you were married. You had been working in a job you despised, but there was a married woman you became friends with. Her husband didn’t want kids but didn’t tell her until after they were married. You felt bad for her; you wished he had been honest with her when they first met. You knew she was trapped, and you wanted to save her.
Your conversations went from work related to casual. One time, the two of you were in the back room lying on some boxes talking. Her shirt had pulled up and her navel was exposed. You kissed her belly softly and held her. She looked at you with those big, sad brown eyes of hers and gave you a kiss on the lips. Warmth spread through your body, and you knew you should stop but you couldn’t. The two of you made out for a while before someone came in and you had to stop. A few days later you met up at a park and had sex in her car. When you went home, you worried your wife would smell her on you, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Anyways, I don’t think it will happen to you. I think you will fall for someone better than me, someone honest and loyal.”
“But I’m falling for you,” she says.
“But you aren’t married to me. You’re too smart for that.”
“Am I?”
You let her question sit there. You turn on the radio and the rest of the drive is background noise. At her apartment you walk her to the door. She is still buzzed and asks you to come inside. You oblige.
Her apartment is a large townhouse near the hospital. She must be paying double what you do. It gives off the upscale vibe of the Elliot Bay Towers from Frasier. You wish you lived here. You ask if she has any roommates, and she says no. Her parents must be paying.
The apartment is fully furnished and has an open concept first floor. Her kitchen has a very large island, and the living room is three times the size of yours. She asks if you want anything to drink.
“Do you have Coke Zero?”
“Sorry, I don’t drink soda. I have sweet tea, coffee, seltzers, and beer. Oh, also water.”
“I will take a coffee.”
She pulls out her K-cups. “Okay, I have medium, dark, decaf, and half-caf.”
“Half-caf.”
She puts the pod in the machine. You hear the water heating up, the pressure spraying into the mug. “Do you want cream and sugar?”
“No, black.”
She smiles when you say this. “I also drink black. Only have cream and sugar for guests.” She starts another one for herself, you assume half-caf also, and she brings them both over when hers is complete. You take a sip from yours.
She sits next to you on the couch, and you smell the scent of jasmine. Your phone buzzes, and you see a text from Michelle.
<What are you doing>
Fumiko asks who texted.
“Just someone I was talking with tonight at the bar.”
She smiles. “Oh, the brunette lady?”
Shit, she noticed. No reason to lie.
“Yes.” You’re unsure where this is going to go.
“You don’t need to explain to me.” You study her face and can tell she means it.
You put your phone back in your pocket without responding. “I’m here with you. My focus will be on you.” You take another sip.
“How generous of you,” Fumiko says, with a little giggle. Both her hands are cupping her mug. She hasn’t taken a sip yet.
“So, this is all yours, huh? It’s a very large house for one person, especially in Charlottesville.”
“Yeah, my parents pay for it. I feel like they are trying to get me to forgive them. They are being overly nice now, ever since I left.”
“Forgive them?”
She thinks, then speaks. “Yeah, but we won’t get into that tonight. I just wanna be present.” She takes her first sip.
“Okay, me too.” Can you be present?
You talk a little more, and move closer to the center of the table to place your coffee on a coaster. She sets down her mug and scooches towards you. She is so close to you, and you to her. You lean in and kiss her, and she kisses back. Her lips are soft, this feels right. Feels like the two of you were meant to do this, like your lips were made to connect with hers.
You make out for a while, feeling her tongue in your mouth, massaging hers with yours. You touch her breasts over her shirt. They are firm, and you want them. As if reading your mind, she takes off her shirt, leaving her bra. You continue to kiss her, and then she takes off her bra and you see before you two beautiful breasts, and they look at you with their sad nipple eyes and they say please, touch us. Please, acknowledge us. You oblige.
She has reached down your pants and has pulled you out, and you go through the motions with her, but your guilt is building up. Why are you cheating on your wife? Why do you always do this? You have someone who loves you, and yet here you are, again with a new woman. You will never be satisfied. She is using her mouth, and you’re not able to get hard. You help her finish undressing, and she helps you, and you try to have sex with her. You’re soft and you’re embarrassed, and you apologize, and you know what you must do. You tell her something is wrong, you’re sorry, and you leave.
***
You’re ashamed of yourself and can’t believe what happened with Fumiko. You still haven’t responded to Michelle’s message, and you worry the same will happen with her when you get to that point.
You go home and you sneak into bed. Your wife is out cold, and the cats are taking up most of your side. You put on your CPAP mask and breathe deeply. You worry you won’t ever be able to perform again. The catastrophizing is exhausting and puts you to sleep faster than you imagine.
When you wake, your wife is already gone. There isn’t a note or anything. She used to leave a note each day, but had stopped at some point. You decide to finally message Michelle.
<Hey, sorry, I was asleep.>
She replies promptly. <It’s okay, I was a little drunk and lonely…>
<I’ve been there before>
You start your coffee and sit on the couch while it brews. You want to message Fumiko to smooth everything over, but you’re scared. This hasn’t happened before, and you don’t really know what to say. You start to type a text to her but decide to let it go for now.
Michelle responds again. <Are you free tonight?>
You think of your day. After work you have no plans but are hoping to reconnect with Fumiko. You decided you will do that another time. <Yeah.>
<Great, let me cook you dinner.>
<Sounds good.>
***
Michelle’s Airbnb is a large house in Albemarle County, and you wonder why she rented such a large space for just herself. She answers the door quickly after you knock, giving you a feeling she has been waiting.
She’s beautiful, her curly hair in a tight bun, green eyes sparkling as she smiles at you. When she walks, her hips sway from side to side.
She has two glasses of wine poured, but you tell her you don’t drink. “That’s okay, more for me,” she says, with a little wink. She’s fun.
She pours you a glass of water, and you talk with her while you wait for the oven timer to go off. She doesn’t tell you what she is making, but you smelled dinner when you came in. Lasagna. You would never not know that smell. That and garlic bread.
She talks about her failed marriage, her daughter, life post-divorce. She doesn’t ask you much, not seeming all that interested in you. Instead, she seems like she just wants someone to talk at.
The timer goes off, and she takes out the lasagna. She lets the food cool for a few minutes while she tosses a salad and puts the garlic bread back in the oven for a quick warm up.
You tell her you have to use the bathroom, and she points down the hall. You look at your face in the medicine cabinet mirror. Will you be able to have sex this time? If not, what’ll you do? You think of your wife, of the hurt you’re causing her, even if she doesn’t know. You’re disrespecting her, and you know you need to just end it. Decide: either end your affairs or end your marriage.
Returning, she has the food already on your plate. You thank her for making such a savory meal. She tells you she bought the lasagna premade at Food of All Nations. You wish she hadn’t told you this. You liked the idea she had made the meal special for you.
The foods good, and she continues to talk. You don’t say much, instead thinking of Fumiko and your wife. Which one will you choose? Is Fumiko still an option at this point? You’d failed to perform as a man, and she’s young and could be with anyone. She didn’t need to get tied to an impotent old man.
Slowly you savor the lasagna, remembering being a kid. You remember your mother telling you your father wasn’t coming home that night. You remember the tears in her eyes, and how she had prepared an extensive meal just the two of you ate. You remember the storm that night, the loud thunder, and the fort you made of blankets. The dog going crazy when she heard the noise, and the loss of power that evening. You remember waking up the next day and realizing your father still wasn’t there. Just you and Mom, only the two of you from now on. You remember her making you promise you would not be like him, that you would be loyal, that you would stay with whoever you married.
After dinner, you and Michelle sit on the couch. She talks some more, but the TV is on now. When she gets up to get more wine, you ask for some coffee. Black. She tells you she’ll have to brew a pot, since they don’t have a Keurig machine. This is odd. Keurig’s are an Airbnb staple.
When she’s out of the room, you text Fumiko.
<Sorry about last night. I don’t know what happened.>
You smell the coffee, and know you only have limited time. Read and three dots.
<It’s okay Cameron. I just think you need some time to figure out what you want. Reach out when your head’s clear.>
You think about her words, and Michelle sits back on the couch with the coffee in hand. You grab the mug and take a big sip. It is good, strong, most likely a French or Italian roast. Your favorites.
“So, you’re married,” Michelle says. You pause, and she points to your left hand. You thought about taking off the ring but are used to the college girls not caring much about it. You never thought she would bring this up.
You try to picture your wife, try to picture her when you were deeply in love. How long has it been? Why is it hard for you to think of her? You sleep next to her every night. Yet, it’s as if you haven’t seen her in years.
“Yeah. I’m trying to figure things out.”
Michelle thinks. “So, do you do this a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Get with other women? Does your wife know?”
You think about your inability to have sex with Fumiko. “Not a lot,” you lie. “And no, she doesn’t know. Or at least, I don’t think she does. But I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Your face is hot, and you feel tingling in the corners of your eyes. You can’t hold it back. Your nose runs, and Michelle presses a tissue to your nose. You blow. Tears burn your cheeks.
Michelle leans in and holds you, letting you know you will be okay. You know you have ruined any chances of having sex with her.
***
After your emotional tsunami at Michelle’s, you pull back from going out. You spend more nights at home. Your wife is never around, eating your dinner alone, spending your evenings with the cats. You watch Niles confess his love to Daphne before falling asleep.
You text Fumiko back and forth, but don’t make any definitive plans to hang out. You tell her you need time to figure out stuff, and she says that’s okay. You ask her if she is seeing anyone else, and she tells you she has been going out on a few dates. You’re jealous, but you know you have no right to feel this. She’s not yours, you could’ve had her, but you failed. You couldn’t do the one thing a man should always be able to do.
You spend many evenings just thinking about your wife, remembering first dates, how you felt when she was yours. You remember the pride, the feeling she was the woman who would save you from yourself. But that wasn’t fair, and you knew deep down she couldn’t. Only you could save yourself, and you weren’t even trying.
You had initially been uncomfortable lying, but you somehow adapted. You craved more than your wife could give you. Had you been the one to pull back sexually, or had she? You think it was she, but maybe you contributed to the estrangement as well.
When you moved to Charlottesville, you noticed all the attractive college girls. You noticed the looks you would get, and your confidence grew. You became too confident, someone you don’t like, someone who exploited their charm to get whatever they want. But that confidence is gone again.
You call your wife who’s still at work. She doesn’t answer initially, but after several rings she picks up. She sounds tired, exasperated. You ask her if she will be coming home soon, and if she would like to go out for dinner.
She pauses, then tells you she has a lot of work to do. You tell her you love her, and she hangs up without saying it back. She must know, this must be how she deals with it.
Your alcohol cravings are increasing. You want to taste the warmth, feel the relaxation, the quiet alcohol provides. Looking online at cruises, you consider booking one. Maybe you can get your wife away from here, to a place where she will love you again? You wonder if your marriage would have been more successful if you had children. You think they are the glue in a lot of relationships. This is probably why you’re failing.
Where do lovers go? The Mediterranean? The Caribbean? South America? You aren’t sure, but you know whatever you select will need her approval first. You text your wife and ask if she would be interested in a cruise.
The cats are sleeping together, paws intertwined. One is a calico, and the other is a tortoiseshell. You originally had wanted a Siamese, but you heard they are loud in apartments. You didn’t want your neighbor to complain, so you went with the calico. The tortoiseshell was older. You and your wife had gotten her when you were still sleeping together. You remember when she was a kitten, the way she would hide in your closet. She had been so scared, yet now she had a friend. Her age is showing, her eyes are heavy, and she looks almost defeated some days.
You look at your phone and see your message was read. There is no response, no three dots. She is ignoring you.
***
Halloween night, you and Fumiko go to the Alamo to watch A Nightmare on Elm Street. They play the movie every year along with other horror classics. The theater’s packed, and you’re happy to see you aren’t the oldest one here. There are several people in their fifties and sixties, but mostly the audience is made up of UVA students. You remember when the theater was off-limits to your kind. Good times.
Fumiko sees a friend and says hi, but she doesn’t introduce you. You’re grateful for this. Fumiko told you she was a little surprised by you reaching out to her again. She says she got the feeling you weren’t that into her. Because you couldn’t complete the task. You tell her no, you’re into her, you were just going through some tough times.
She notices you’re no longer wearing your ring.
“Is this recent?” she asks.
You look at the spot where your ring used to be, the place where your skin was forever indented, where the hair on the back of your finger had worn off for good. The ring was supposed to represent a love that would last, a love that wouldn’t die.
“Yes, happened a couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She takes your hand and holds it.
You think of your wife and how you have thrown it all away. You gave her the ring back but told her she could pawn hers. You don’t need anything from her; you have already taken so much. Will you do the same with the next one? Who will be the next one? Fumiko’s replacement? You know there will be one; it’s only a matter of time.
The previews start, and you think back to that night as a child with the lasagna and your mother telling you your father wasn’t coming home. You remember the look on her face, which burned itself into your mind. Loss, pure loss. Fear. Shame. Devastation. She had puffy eyes, and her makeup ran from her eyes. Her hair kept falling into her face, but she stopped pushing it behind her ears after several tries. She had asked you about school, and you told her about gym class and how the teacher had mocked you when you weren’t able to hit the baseball. You told her how the other kids had joined in, and how you didn’t want to go back. She listened to you without speaking. Her mind was elsewhere.
The movie begins, and you watch, disconnected from the other people watching and the theater itself. Nancy’s life is about to change in horrible ways, and everyone is here for the show. You see yourself sitting with Fumiko, your hand in hers. You see all the other couples, lovers on a date night. You wonder how many of them are faithful. You wonder how long their relationships will last, or if they are just moments in time, brief and meant to be forgotten. You feel the warmth from Fumiko’s hand. She squeezes your hand during tense scenes. She squeezes hard when Glen, played by a young Johnny Depp, is murdered. You like that she puts her trust in you.
“Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper to her.
“What?” She is too engrossed in the movie. You suspect this is her first time seeing it.
“I was just saying thank you for coming with me.” Blood is shooting up from the bed. People are gasping and cheering.
She gives you a side glance. “Sure thing.”
You wonder where she’ll be when she’s your age. Certainly, she won’t be like you. She’ll do great things; she’ll move on in life. She won’t be observing others, trying to be a part of their stories. Instead, she’ll carve her own path. She won’t stay in one place, stuck in a dying relationship, and she certainly won’t become a townie.
–
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Andrew Kriever is an author currently residing in Charlottesville, Virginia with his wife and two girl cats. He has been published in the Wilderness House Literary Review. Outside writing he enjoys swimming, bouldering, pro wrestling, Carolina Hurricanes, and dining out. Follow him on Instagram @andrewwritesstuff
Follow NER on Twitter @NERIconoclast
