Wounds of Time

by Stevie D. Parker

  The bag wasn’t large but must have weighed five pounds.

  “Are we celebrating Thursdays now?” I laughed.

  “No, we’re celebrating you,” he said.

  We sat on the couch and I very carefully tried to untie the ribbon without ruining it. He started tapping his fingers on his leg and rocking back and forth.

  “Just rip it,” he said.

  “It’s wrapped so nice, I don’t want to ruin the bow,” I said.

  He leaned back and watched me as I continued opening the gift. I reached inside and pulled out a beautiful white candle in a glass bottle with a silver lid. The label said Jo Malone London. I opened the top and sniffed. It smelled like a mixture of fruit and flowers, like fresh apples and roses.

  “This smells amazing!” I lit the candle and placed it on the coffee table. “Thank you so much!”

  He leaned in closer. “It does smell nice,” he said, like this was the first time he’d noticed.

  “You didn’t smell it when you bought it? What made you pick it out?” I asked.

  He stood and walked over to the kitchen chair, took off his suit jacket and his slacks, and neatly placed both items on the kitchen chair so they didn’t get wrinkled. There was something about watching him undo his tie that was incredibly sexy.

  “If we’re being honest, I knew you liked candles, so I just asked the girl in the store to give me the nicest one they had. This was her suggestion,” he said, returning to the couch in just boxer briefs and a t-shirt.

  “It does smell beautiful,” I said.

  He leaned in to kiss me. “I’m glad you like it.” He pulled his lips back from mine and took my hand in his. “You look really tired.”

  I let out a deep breath. “I am. I didn’t sleep well last night after the club and then went straight to the matinee today after my work out.”

  “Why don’t you quit the strip club already? I’ll help you out with money.”

  “No, I’m not a prostitute. I am not taking money from you,” I said.

  “Why does everything go back to prostitution? Can’t I just help out someone I care about, without it being some sort of quid quo pro situation?”

  I just shook my head. I couldn’t take money from him. It wouldn’t feel right. I had to do this on my own.

  “You want me to go so you can get some sleep?” he said.

  “No, are you kidding? You’re the highlight of my month!”

  I led him to the bedroom. As I settled on top of him in the bed and lifted his t-shirt up to expose his bare chest, his phone rang. He apologized and then answered. I must have nodded off on him while he was talking because some time later, I woke up with my face mashed against his chest.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I must have dozed off.”

  He pushed the hair out of my face. “It’s okay, how do you feel?” he asked.

  “Like I slept for five hours,” I said.

  “It was four and a half,” he corrected me.

  I sprung up and looked at the clock. The time was 9:45 p.m.

  “Holy shit! Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked.

  “You looked so comfortable sleeping on me, I didn’t want to disturb you. You needed sleep.” He pulled me back down to his chest.

  “How did you get away with not going home?” I asked.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose while he looked down at me, as if he were ashamed to be repeating the lie he’d told his wife. “I said I had an impromptu business dinner,” he admitted.

  “You said that just so I could sleep?” I asked, stunned.

  “Yes, is that weird?”

  I started kissing him. “No, you’re not weird. You’re amazing.”

  Pulling his lips away from mine, he said, “Unfortunately, I do have to go now, though.”

  He got up from the bed.

  “Did you even eat? Do you want something before you go? I can make you a sandwich or something,” I offered, following him into the kitchen.

  “Oh, no thank you. I’ll grab a hot dog on the way.”

  “I thought you don’t eat ‘street meat,’” I teased.

  He started changing back into his suit.

  “Dirty water dogs and street meat are two very different things.”

  He pulled me close and held me tightly in his arms, like he was never going to see me again. “This is the worst part of seeing you—having to leave you.”

  I held him by his tie as he leaned in to kiss me. We kissed for a bit and once he left, I couldn’t help but look up the candle, wondering what qualified it to be the nicest candle they had. I almost dropped the phone when I saw the price—$495! I immediately blew the flame out. With that price tag, the candle would only be lit on special occasions. Luckily, the description claimed it had two hundred and thirty hours of burn time. So far, I had only used five.

  Our affair continued and reached the six-month mark. I couldn’t get enough of him, and I think Vincent felt the same. He was always telling me how gorgeous I was, how it was technically my parents’ fault for making such a perfect woman. How he couldn’t stop thinking about me. When he arrived at my apartment in July for “Happy 4th of July,” I pulled open the door. “I couldn’t wait to see you!”

  He peered behind him, like he was checking to make sure I was referring to him, before turning back to me and holding up a brown paper bag.

  “Craving sushi?” He laughed.

  He went to the kitchen and began setting the table as I pulled the food out of the bag. By now he was so familiar with my apartment and where everything was, he may as well have lived there.

  “I got it!” I blurted. He looked up from the plates, lifting his eyebrows.

  “I got the role!” I repeated. “The lead role in the new show, Wounds of Time!”

  He stopped what he was doing and ran over to hug me. He was sincerely happy and proud.

  “That’s amazing!” he said. “Now what?”

  “Well, I’m going to quit the strip club, because now I’ll be able to make enough money to focus only on the show.”

  He blew out a sigh of relief. “That’s great! For numerous reasons!”

  “I still have off on Mondays and then on Wednesday nights, but I’m required to do the matinee on Wednesday. Every other day, I’ll be working. Both shows. My workout routine is going become more intense, so I’m required to do an hour of massage therapy twice a week.”

  “I can help you with the massage therapy!” he said, rubbing my shoulders before we sat down at the table to eat. “What’s the show about?”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s about a woman in a love triangle. She’s having an affair and torn between the both of them.”

  He swallowed his sushi and made a face.

  “Most of the show she doesn’t know what to do,” I continued. “Her husband isn’t the same man he once was, and she feels more wanted by the other guy.”

  He stared at me before bowing his head down a little. Then, he peeked up at me, his mouth slightly open. I knew what he was thinking—basically, I was playing him in the show.

  He put his chopsticks down. “How does the story end?”

  “Turns out her husband realizes she’s having an affair and feels a tremendous amount of guilt. He blames himself. He starts doing all the things he did when he was younger to win her over again.” I shrugged. “I guess in the end, the affair essentially makes their marriage stronger.”

  He jumped up from his chair.

  “That’s completely unrealistic! He just forgave her after having an affair? No—it’s stupid. I need to get with your writers and help them rewrite the ending, what bullshit.”

  He was quite aggravated, like the entire storyline was a personal jab at him. I hadn’t even realized the similarities of the show to us until I said it out loud. His little outburst was honestly adorable.

  “How do you propose the story ends?” I asked.

  He started pacing the kitc
hen like he was thinking of ideas.

  “Okay, I got it. She’s about to tell the husband she’s having an affair, and in love with this other man. But then the husband gets hit by a car and dies, and she doesn’t have to tell him, and she and the boyfriend live happily ever after,” he said.

  I put my hand over my mouth, horrified.

  “Vincent! That is a terrible thing to say!”

  He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “No, you’re right. That’s a bad idea… um…” He began pacing again.

  “Okay, okay, I got it!” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing up, excited at his new idea. “Turns out, he, the husband is also having an affair, and he too met a woman that he is madly in love with. They’re afraid to tell each other, but in the end, the husband and the wife are relieved that they both found who they’re supposed to be with and part the closest of friends. Like that Billy Joel song where they get married really young, but when they get divorced, they are still friends.” He started singing the lyrics.

  I cut in and sang the next part.

  He turned very animated, singing right to me like he was trying to convey a point.

  We both stood there in the kitchen, singing the rest of the song.

  By the end, Vincent was getting very silly, waving bye, and playing air guitar. Singing, like he was on an audition to play Mr. Joel himself. By the time we finished, he had his arms around my waist. He suddenly got serious.

  “You know this is just one of the many reasons why I love you,” he said.

  My heart literally skipped a beat. He’d never told me that he loved me before. I almost didn’t know what to say. “Because I know Billy Joel?” I asked.

  “Yes! What twenty-seven-year-old knows who Billy Joel is? Let alone the lyrics to ‘Brenda and Eddie?’”

  I looked directly into his eyes, gazing as hard as I could the way he did to me. “It’s called ‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.’”

  He started laughing. “Oh…I’m sorry! Is that what it’s called? All of a sudden, you’re the Billy Joel expert?” he asked

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and stood on my tippy toes to kiss him. We didn’t make it to the bedroom. He took my clothes off right there.

  On opening night, Vincent was there, front and center. Luckily, I never looked at the crowd until the end with the bows, or else I’d be super nervous. I was worried that maybe he wouldn’t even think I was a good actress. After the show, he met me with a massive bouquet of flowers.

  He started showing up so often, the whole staff knew who he was. I wasn’t quite sure they knew his title, but they assumed he was my boyfriend. I was okay with that. I mean, in a way, he sort of was my boyfriend. Now that I’d quit the strip club, he came to my apartment every Monday with lunch. We would eat and have sex. He called me often, as any boyfriend would.

  A few times a week turned into every day on his way to work. I knew exactly what time he’d be calling, and that was when I took a break from my workout routine and waited for the phone to ring. We’d talk about everything a real couple would discuss: work, friend drama, kids, social lives. The only difference was that he had a wife he went home to, and that wife wasn’t me. I knew he was going to be trouble. Especially as the months went on, and I fell for him harder and harder. It was difficult to date other men with a man like Vincent in my life. No one seemed to come close in comparison.

  Soon, it was the Monday right before Thanksgiving week. Vincent had asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving. I’d explained that since my father passed away, my mother and I had a tradition where we would get all dressed up, go to a fancy restaurant for a prix-fixe Thanksgiving meal, and then see a movie. She lived in Brooklyn and hated taking the train so I would meet her there, and we’d always find a new trendy place to eat. Never the same restaurant twice. Brooklyn was very up and coming, so it was easy to keep things interesting.

  I immediately regretted asking Vincent what he was doing.

  “We have a tradition since the kids were little. We go to the same resort in Aruba every year for the week,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but be envious of his wife. She got to do the real stuff with him. Go out to eat in public, go to the movies, sleep in the same bed as him, go on vacations.

  “Is your wife pretty?” I asked.

  “Yes, very,” he answered honestly.

  He spoke about his kids often; he was so proud of them. He spoke about them so much that at times, I felt like I knew them. He never really talked much about his wife, though. Almost like he thought I would be jealous, and he would be right—I was. But I was so into him, my infatuation outweighed my jealousy. I just wanted him in my life no matter what the capacity.

  “Why don’t you talk about your wife?” I asked, on that Monday as we were eating lunch.

  He glanced up at me—surprised, I guessed, that I would even want to know. “What do you want to know?”

  “What does she do for a living?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Nothing. Not anymore. When we were younger and trying to make it in New York, she would waitress or bartend—mostly jobs to keep the lights on in the house, at night when I could stay home with the kids. When I started doing so well, she stopped working.”

  That surprised me. Nowadays, everyone worked, even women. At least every woman I knew did.

  “What does she do all day?” I asked curiously.

  He looked down and bit his bottom lip, like he was searching for an answer.

  “Not sure. I know she belongs to a country club with her best friend and they, I don’t know, do whatever women do in a country club.” He laughed.

  “Do you think she cheats on you too?” I asked.

  “Okay, let’s stop talking about my wife,” he said, lifting his hand to halt the conversation.

  “Why? Would you be upset if she cheated on you? I mean, you—”

  He interrupted me. “I’d rather not know about it. You’re right. If I were to get mad over my wife cheating, it would be a complete double standard. So, if she is, I would rather not know.”

  I stopped the conversation. If he didn’t want to talk about her, I wasn’t going to make him.

  My mother was impressed with the restaurant I chose for Thanksgiving this year. I’d picked a very high-end Italian place, well decorated with cloth tablecloths, and waiters who sounded like they were really from Italy. My mother was typically very plain and modest. She didn’t even dye her hair, kept it gray. She looked a lot older than she was. But she really enjoyed dressing up for our yearly dinner.

  During our meal, she couldn’t stop talking about the show. She’d watched it twice already—she was so proud of me. She loved bragging to her friends about her daughter, the Broadway actress.

  “Are you dating anybody?” she asked.

  “No,” I lied. The last thing she would want to hear was that I was dating a married man.

  “What about that guy from the show? The one who plays your love interest? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I think he’s smitten,” she said.

  “Matt? No, Matt’s just a really good friend,” I answered. I didn’t have the heart or the guts to tell her that Matt was gay, that wouldn’t go over so well. My mother was so religious and judgmental. When I’d started dating my last boyfriend, she’d bought me a Bible and a crucifix. There wasn’t much about my real life that I share. She wouldn’t approve of any of it.

  SAMANTHA

  “Earth to Samantha, you there?”

  I looked up from my wine glass. I was having brunch with Lisa at the country club and I must have zoned out. Throughout the years, fitting in became easier, but it was a struggle at first. All these women, sitting there with their designer bags, toy dogs, and diamonds that sparkled so much, you could spot them from tables away. Even the waiters wore tuxedos at noon. Lisa and Jimmy were such a good match; they played the power couple well.

  “Yeah, I’m here,�
� I whispered, afraid to let other women hear me. “Can I ask you a personal question? Do you and Jimmy still have sex?”

  She looked at me like I had three heads. “Of course. Too much if you ask me—you and Vince don’t?”

  “No, we do, it’s just lately it’s different,” I said. “Like he’s distant, not too into it. Last night it was taking him like an hour, literally an hour, moving me around, changing positions. I finally had to stop him, it was exhausting.”

  The week before we’d been in Aruba and had only had sex once. Not that we’d ever really had sex every day, but we usually tried to at least a couple of times a month.

  “No passion anymore?” she asked.

  I took a sip of my wine. “Anymore? I wouldn’t have ever called us passionate. He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. He became my whole family, just us and the kids. Even when we have sex, it’s, you know, just sex.”

  The waiter came over to us with a tray. “Tuna tartare?” he asked.

  “Yes please.” Lisa accepted a napkin holding the tuna covered cracker.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

  “You must have had passion for him when you were younger, no?” Lisa asked while slowly nibbling on the cracker.

  “When I was sixteen? I don’t know if I’d call it passion. I was undoubtedly infatuated. So much so that I lied about my age. I never in a million years thought I’d get pregnant. I told him I was nineteen. He was older, a great talker, very charming. Completely different than he is now. Kind of a bad boy. Although I will admit, he’s still a good talker.” I reminisced, smiling.

  “Of course, he is, that’s what makes him so successful. It sounds like you were a little bit of a bad girl yourself—lying to a guy about your age to get laid,” Lisa said.

  “Not really, more like extremely naïve and rebellious. I used to sneak him into my house when my parents weren’t home. I would make my little sister be my lookout,” I said, laughing. So hard to believe how different we both were now.

  “Vince, a bad boy?” Lisa said. “I can’t even imagine that—he couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, he did the right thing and married you, even after you lied to him.”