by Mickey Brent
Ten minutes later she entered her favorite hangout between lessons: a local bookshop stocked with used books from all over the globe. She loved the invigorating feeling that hit her every time she entered the shop. The books piled high over all four walls roused her senses as the familiar odors hit her nostrils: ancient printing presses, dusty pages, fresh India ink, even the tangy sweat fabricated by excess literary creativity. Her imagination conjured up images of writers of all kinds: those suffering, others celebrating triumphs, famous ones from faraway lands, or budding novices yet to be acclaimed.
As usual, she made a beeline to the Arts et Nature section. While leafing through stacks of colorful hardbacks filled with poetry, she noticed a young woman in the nearby gay / lesbian section. The woman, wearing a cotton T-shirt loosely tucked into a tight pair of jeans, was leaning against a wall with her long legs crossed, staring straight at her.
Sylvie glanced at the woman’s leather cowboy boots. That seals the deal—she’s family all right. The youthful swimming coach forced herself to keep her eyes on her poetry books, even as she felt the jean-clad woman’s eyes inspecting every inch of her body.
Sylvie’s heart was pounding under her jogging suit. Half of her begged to acknowledge the other woman’s presence, while the other half desperately fought the urge.
Ah, non. I came in here for a book, not another girlfriend.
*****
Cecile’s eyes darted around the picnic table. “Okay, but don’t say I’m the one who spilled the beans.”
Hélène felt tiny hairs rise on her arm. She nodded.
Cecile whispered, “People are saying things about you.”
Hélène frowned. “That’s what rumors are, Cecile. You don’t have to give me the definition. I’ve got enough dictionaries in my office to—”
“They say you’ve got un amant.”
“Quoi? A lover? That’s ridiculous!” gasped Hélène. A chill spread through her body.
“That’s why you look so good.”
Hélène shook her head in disbelief. “What in the—”
“I’m your best friend, so I should’ve been the first to know, non?” Cecile pouted. “Let’s be honest. I’ve never kept secrets from you, Hel. Ever since we—”
“Wait a sec.” Hélène adjusted her glasses. “I can’t believe you think—”
Cecile began carving into the pine table with her fingernail. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she stammered.
“But I don’t have anything to—”
“Maybe I’m not your best friend anymore.” Cecile raised her head. “Ever since you fainted, you’ve changed.” Her voice grew louder. “And we’re not just talking about your diet!”
Hélène reached for her hand, but Cecile pulled it away.
“M’enfin, Ceci, you are my best friend. Would I lie to you? Everything’s fine with Marc. You know I’m not the type.”
“I know.” Cecile finished carving the letter C and began carving an E. “Never mind. It’s just what everyone’s saying, especially the guys. Like Jérôme. They all think you’re so cute now, with your new hairdo and fancy clothes.” Her voice trailed off.
“Seriously?” Hélène lifted an eyebrow.
Cecile fluttered her eyelashes at Hélène’s new silk blouse, which perfectly accentuated her ample bust. “Seriously.”
“No kidding.”
“And they’re right, Hel. Don’t take me wrong, but you are much prettier without all that makeup. Une beauté naturelle.”
Hélène felt her cheeks blush.
“Let’s see. Take off your glasses.” Cecile held out her hand.
“Whatever for?” Hélène waited for an answer. When none came, she set her glasses on the table and wondered what was coming next.
*****
Sylvie snuck a glance in her direction. Sure enough, the young woman’s gaze was aimed straight at the tight, muscular buttocks lurking under Sylvie’s jogging suit. Figures. The swimming instructor began to sweat, recalling only too well that all of her past girlfriends had focused on her buttocks before asking her out.
“That’s what you get for being a jock,” Lydia had said when the topic surfaced on their first date. “A butt like yours is worth its weight in gold, and double that when you’re wearing jeans.”
Sylvie blushed, remembering what had happened after that. Good thing I’m wearing sweats today. If I ignore her, maybe she’ll go away.
As soon as Sylvie kneeled to examine the books on the bottom shelf, footsteps approached her from behind. She grabbed the first book she saw. On page fifty-four, she saw a glossy photo of a tree surrounded by a brown pile of mud, titled Capturing manure with the naked eye.
The footsteps stopped directly behind her. Sylvie stiffened.
“Naked eye?” whispered the woman in a sexy voice. “Cool.”
The woman kneeled next to her. Sylvie flipped the page. The space between their bodies grew smaller. Sylvie could feel her earlobes growing hot. The woman’s perfume had a honey-like aroma that made Sylvie dizzy it was so sweet. She glanced at the woman’s attractive face and awkwardly stood.
The young woman stood as well. She smiled at Sylvie and leaned closer, which made Sylvie feel even dizzier. She noticed the younger woman’s teeth—only inches from her own—perfectly white and straight, and her luscious brown eyes with long, silky eyelashes.
Sylvie felt hungry all of a sudden. Should’ve had lunch, she decided, peering into the mouth-watering eyes. What was I thinking?
*****
Cecile nodded enthusiastically. “Much better.”
“What’s much better?” Hélène squinted in her friend’s direction.
“I can finally see your eyes, now that all that blue gunk is gone.”
Hélène blushed. “Merci,” she mumbled, reaching for her glasses. “I think.” She glanced away. “If only Marc thought the same. He hates my new look.”
Cecile’s jaw dropped. “No way. He should be thrilled.” Her eyes hovered over her friend’s deep neckline and the smooth, sexy dimple between her breasts. “Anyway, who cares? Men never say what they think. We just have to judge them by their actions.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. You’re depressing me, Ceci.” Hélène bit into her sandwich.
“Come on, chérie. Don’t be so coy. Your man can’t keep his hands off you, can he?” retorted Cecile with a loud slurp of coffee.
Hélène nearly choked as she chewed. “Are you joking? Those hands have never been farther away. They’re either holding a pencil, a newspaper, a remote control, a dumbbell,” she took a frustrated pause, “or a can of booze.”
Contrary to her nature, Cecile was speechless.
“And he hasn’t stopped criticizing me since I lost weight and bought my new clothes. It’s so frustrating!” To illustrate her point, Hélène waved her sandwich, flinging its contents. Alfalfa sprouts and a cherry tomato landed on Cecile’s plate.
“Good idea. Let it all out!” encouraged Cecile, popping the tomato into her mouth.
*****
The two women in the bookstore stood unusually close to each other as they introduced themselves. In the tension-filled air, created by the proximity of two people noticeably attracted to each other, this was no minor feat.
Sylvie learned that the woman was getting her master’s degree in women’s studies. The woman made a point of informing Sylvie that her university was just around the corner. Then she scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sylvie. Their hands touched for a brief moment as she took it.
“Call me,” said the woman, fluttering her long eyelashes. She turned to leave, hesitated, and swung around. “By the way, I moved out of the dorm last year.”
She winked at Sylvie and turned on her boot heels.
Flattered and confused, Sylvie shook her head. I really should’ve had lunch, she mused as the young woman’s perfectly molded derrière marched its way out of the store.
*****
“Très
bien.” Cecile gave Hélène a pat on the hand. “Now that you’ve had your little veggie tantrum, let’s get down to business. I want you to listen carefully to what I have to say.”
Noting the unusual graveness in her friend’s voice, Hélène nodded solemnly.
Cecile looked straight into her eyes. “You say everything’s fine with Marc, eh? Well, that’s the wrong answer, ma fille. It’s time I put you straight.”
“Spare me the details, Ceci,” blurted Hélène.
Cecile shook her head. “You need to hear this.” She took a sip of coffee. “Have you ever considered he’s…eh bien, to put it crudely, bangin’ someone else?”
Just then, a skinny girl in her early twenties with funky dark glasses joined their table. Her outfit looked like a uniform straight out of a Girl Scouts catalogue from the sixties. Her fake blond pigtails shook when she plopped on the bench next to Cecile. In a squeaky voice, she uttered, “Ahh, sounds juicy. Who’s bangin’ who?”
Cecile cast her a dirty look. “Stay out of this, Therese.”
Hélène ignored the intrusion. “He’d never do that, Cecile. He’s the faithful type.”
“That’s what I thought about my last husband, right before our divorce. Remember?”
Therese stopped slurping her soda. “Let’s get this straight. Your husband was bangin’ someone else, eh, Cecile? And yours too, Hélène?”
“I said stay out of this, Therese.” Cecile leaned toward Hélène. “Ma chérie, listen to me. I’ve been through this. Let me give you some precious advice. When he comes home at night, you’ve got to inspect his clothes for clues. You know, go through his suit pockets. Look for anything suspicious: traces of lipstick, perfume, blond hair.”
“Attention!” Therese slammed down her soda. “I resent that. Blondes aren’t the only ones stealing husbands.”
“Calme-toi,” barked Cecile, inspecting her colleague’s pigtails. “I was talking about real blondes.” Chuckling, she turned to Hélène. “Go through his pockets.”
“You’re such a witch! You’re…just jealous.” Therese aimed her peanut butter sandwich at her colleague’s face.
“Butt out, Therese,” Cecile continued.
“Très bien,” retorted the girl, grabbing her sandwich and storming off.
Once the Girl Scout uniform was across the yard, Cecile whispered, “You deserve to know the truth. Even if it hurts. What’s wrong with him, anyway? Why would he want you to stay ugly?”
Hélène’s face fell when she heard this. Averting her best friend’s eyes, she focused on her half-eaten sandwich, trying to hide her trembling hands.
After an uncomfortable pause, Cecile added, “Désolée, ma chérie, I meant homely. And why on earth isn’t he tempted to get into your—”
“Shh, Ceci. I’ve had quite enough,” Hélène glared at her colleague, “of your speculations. Not only are you insulting me, by insinuating that Marc’s cheating on me, but you’re imagining I have the indecency to take on a lover.”
From across the yard, two pigtails swung around. In a squeaky voice, Therese queried, “Vraiment, Hélène? You mean you don’t have a lover? But everyone in the office says—”
“Do us a favor, Therese. Go out and sell some cookies,” yelled Cecile, flinging alfalfa sprouts in her direction.
*****
After popping her range-free chicken in the oven, Hélène smiled at Chaussette. “Think we have time for another fashion show, bébé?”
Chaussette meowed.
“Super, that’s what I thought.” Hélène raced up the stairs. One by one, she donned all her new outfits. Chaussette watched the show, bobbing her head to the background pop music.
All of the outfits were soft and sleek, with gentle colors, accentuating Hélène’s new natural, carefree style and slimmer figure. Discreet earrings, light makeup, and a dash of lipstick were all she needed to feel feminine and sexy. She ran her fingers through her fresh, sleek haircut and smiled at herself. This is true bliss. Why didn’t I do this years ago?
She slipped on the last of her purchases: a tight, low-cut raspberry top, with fitted black pants. Chaussette watched with wide eyes as her mistress transformed herself into a femme fatale. Hélène blushed at the seductive woman staring at her in the mirror. Her hormones were racing as she dabbed French perfume between her breasts. Feeling their tips harden, her eyes lingered on the two buttons poking out of her thin cotton top.
I can’t resist. Cupping her breasts, she blew kisses to herself in the mirror. “Ouais, ouais,” she purred, drawing full circles with her boobs. She drew a few circles clockwise, then counterclockwise. “Ouais, ouais, I feel so sexy…”
Just then, a naughty grin spread over Hélène’s face. Ever so slowly, her fingers gravitated south. Just as she unfastened her belt buckle, the front door slammed.
Hélène gasped, fixed her belt, and snatched a tissue. But she could only rub off half her lipstick. She rubbed harder. Mince, it won’t come off.
Oh well. She started ripping off her sexy top. Then she remembered her talk with Cecile. Adrenaline spread through her body. Je m’en fous. The heck with it!
Sticking her fingers under the faucet, she raked them through her hair.
“Home already, chéri?” she hollered, bounding down the stairs, cradling Chaussette in her arms like a baby.
*****
Sylvie stood in the dimness of her darkroom. Aside from the red light casting shadows around her, she could barely see her fingers. As usual, the chemicals floating in the cramped space made her head spin. She was hanging the last photo when her cell phone rang.
She reached for her backpack but stopped abruptly. Non! You’ve got to get Lydia out of your mind and out of your system. She’s no good for you.
To distract her thoughts, she peered through the darkness at the dozen glistening photos of Goldie hanging before her. As she was wiping her hands on her jeans, she felt a lump in one of her pockets. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
Squinting in the dim, reddish light, she saw a phone number written on it.
Grabbing her backpack, she left the darkroom, shielding her eyes from the piercing light of the outside world.
*****
Hélène sashayed into the kitchen and dropped her precious kitty. Chaussette darted to her dish to gobble her kibble. “Go on, ma petite. Attack time!” Hélène had always relished those familiar crunching noises. She leaned against the counter, trying to appear relaxed.
Marc unceremoniously entered, dumping his stuff on the floor. He cast a glance at Hélène, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her trousers.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s up?”
“Ah, nothing. Just some new clothes I bought on sale.” She performed a pirouette. “What do you think?”
Marc twisted the tip of his mustache.
Hélène took a step back. I hate it when he twists that stupid thing. Wish he’d just shave it off.
“Go ahead and waste your money.” Marc glanced at the oven, pinching his nose. “And what’s that awful burning smell?”
“Mince, the chicken!” When Hélène opened the oven, black smoke filled the kitchen.
“Mon Dieu, every time I come home, I get another great surprise. Bravo, Hélène. You hit the jackpot tonight!” Marc groped his way out of the smoky kitchen.
After an interminably long meal of half-burnt chicken, Hélène stood at the sink, contemplating a dirty dish in her hands. She watched the yellow grease slide off.
Beurk. Her hand went to her aproned belly to calm her nauseous feelings.
Chaussette, curled comfortably on a kitchen chair, meowed at her mistress.
“At least Maman never burns your dinners, n’est-ce pas, bébé?”
The cat yawned.
“I thought he’d at least say something about my new clothes. Maybe Cecile’s right. I’m just too naïve.” Hélène sighed. “Anyway, who cares? I bought them for me.” She touched Chaussette’s nose with a soapy finger. “And you, bien sûr.
”
Just then, Marc entered and grabbed a beer from the fridge. When he popped off the cap, Chaussette pounced on it.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” he announced, taking a big, sudsy swig. “I can’t stand your new look.” He stared long and hard at Hélène’s tight, black pants. “You’re way more attractive in those long skirts of yours.”
Marc began pacing. Shaking his head between generous sips of beer, he broke into a rough, home-spun song: “Twenty years ago I married a woman named Hélène Dupont. Basically, a shy, pleasant, and kind person. Nothing extraordinary, just pleasant, kind, and rather quiet. The kind of wife all men want. Don’t they? Then she faints at work and falls off her chair. And what in the heck happens? Overnight, this woman becomes a total stranger in my household. C’est incroyable. She wakes up and turns into—”
Hélène couldn’t suppress the amusement on her face, so Marc raised his voice: “A granola-eating, feminist jock.” He ended his speech with a bang as he slammed his beer bottle on the kitchen table.
Hélène and Chaussette, both at the table, jumped up at the same time.
“Aaaiiee!” yelped Hélène. “Isn’t he ridiculous, bébé?”
Hélène looked disbelievingly at her husband. Somehow, his face had transformed. Even with the mustache, it resembled a little boy’s more than a grown man’s. She held her breath when he took a swig of beer and began reciting another poem:
“My wife, Hélène, only eats greens, despises caffeine, gets up at dawn to stick her derrière in the piscine—God only knows why—and dresses like a drag queen. Just to please herself and her retarded cat.” Ever so proudly, he flashed a mouthful of teeth at his wife and her pet.
Hélène snorted with laughter, while her black-and-white cat scurried out of the kitchen in horror. “I’m impressed. You’ve got real talent!” burst Hélène. “Maybe I should start drawing, since it’s evident that you’re the one who should be writing poems around here.” She gave a final snort for emphasis. But her smile soon faded.
