by Mickey Brent
*****
Sylvie opened the crumpled piece of paper. The phone number was written in a purple felt pen and underneath, there was a small heart next to the name: Nadine. After that, it said: Call me.
Sylvie fingered the paper, pondering what to do. If she’s still in school, she can’t be older than twenty-three. I’m way too old for this kind of game. She crumpled the paper into a ball and aimed for the trash can.
Then she stopped. But she was cute. And that gorgeous figure, in those jeans, and…Non. I can’t. She ripped the paper into ant-sized shreds.
There’s no way I can piece these together, she reassured herself, flinging the bits into the trash can.
“There’s got to be someone else out there. N’est-ce pas, Goldilocks?”
The orange cat looked up from her kibble and meowed in consensus.
*****
Later that evening, Hélène found her kitty huddled under the kitchen table. When she crouched down, Chaussette licked her mistress’s chin. The rough little tongue tickled like mad, but Hélène was hardly in the mood to laugh.
“What do I do now, bébé? He says he doesn’t know me anymore. But I don’t even know me anymore. All I know is I’m messing up my marriage. And I have no idea why. Things were better before, weren’t they, ma puce?” A fat tear trickled down Hélène’s cheek.
As she sniveled on her kitty’s fur, she noticed Marc’s things lying on the linoleum.
When will he ever grow up?
Standing, she tossed his suit jacket over a chair.
A moment later, her eyes ventured back to Marc’s jacket. Guess it can’t hurt to check.
She sniffed at the starched collar. Beurk! She wrinkled her nose at the manly, sour odor. This is going straight to the cleaners.
Then a short black hair caught her eye. She plucked the hair from the collar; her fingers trembled as she inspected it. “Whose is this?” She gulped.
Chaussette rubbed against her mistress’s ankles, meowing.
“Not now, bébé. Maman is trying to figure out—”
“Meow,” insisted the cat.
Hélène flashed her an annoyed look. “I’ll pet you as soon as—”
“Meow, meow,” insisted the cat, even louder.
Hélène bent down. “What is it, bébé?”
She peered at her cat. Then she looked at the short, black hair in her hand.
Then her eyes went back to the kitty. “Mon Dieu, bébé, I’m such an idiot!” she whispered, draping her arms over Chaussette.
“Voilà.” She stuck the black hair into her cat’s furry neck. “Maybe it’ll grow back if I plant it just right.” She bit her lip as a tear of relief tumbled down her cheek.
Hélène tiptoed back to Marc’s jacket. Hesitating, she weighed the pros and cons of her actions. What would Cecile do? After a millisecond, she knew. Of course she would, she decided, sliding her fingers into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Hmm…Wonder what this is? she asked herself, holding up a few neatly folded pages.
She glanced at the kitchen door. The noise from the living room was reassuring: screaming soccer fans. He won’t be in here for a while…unless he runs out of beer.
She unfolded the pages, revealing sketches of racing cars and engines, except for the last one—a detailed drawing of a man’s torso.
“What the heck is this?” she uttered under her breath as she inspected the drawing. Wiry muscles, thin shoulders, scant chest hair. When did he start sketching himself?
Hélène’s heart was racing. And naked, of all things!
A disturbing thought popped into her head. Who is this for?
Her shoulders sagged. Evidently, it wasn’t for her. Otherwise, he would’ve given it to her, instead of stashing it in his pocket. This brought up another unsettling question. When was the last time she saw him naked?
She remembered the spring weekend they had spent together in Namur, for a distant cousin’s wedding. Non. The walls were too thin, and the bed was miniscule.
Her mind reeled further back, to the summer at Ostende beach. Oui, that’s it. Nearly two years ago. Her heart sank at the thought.
Just then, the soccer fans quieted down. Hélène glanced at the door, quickly folded the sketches, and shoved them into Marc’s breast pocket. All but the torso sketch, which she stuffed in her apron pocket before cranking up the radio. The melodious songs helped tune out the nagging question: Who is this for?
Even Chaussette couldn’t help with this one.
After a while, Hélène slumped into a chair with her new recipe book. As she pondered innovative vegetarian dishes, her mind kept returning to the notebook.
She had a beast of a time keeping her paws out of her apron pocket.
Chapter Fourteen
Dr. Duprès took Hélène’s hand. The warm touch of the doctor’s fingers had a pacifying effect.
“You’ve come so far. Franchement, I’m impressed. You must continue with the dieting and exercise.” The older woman gazed into her patient’s azure eyes. “I’m sorry to learn your husband isn’t supporting you in this.”
“He bought me a bike. That’s about it.”
“C’est étrange. You’d think he’d be proud of your efforts. You look younger and more confident.”
“That’s what he hates the most.”
“That you seem younger?”
“Non. More confident.”
“Maybe he’s the jealous type?”
“Marc? Jaloux?” Hélène snickered. “That would be the day. He hardly looks at me.”
Dr. Duprès raised an eyebrow. “But you said he doesn’t like your new look.”
“He only notices what he doesn’t like; he’s always been like that—he’s always on the defensive as if everyone were out to get him.” Hélène took a deep breath. “But don’t get me wrong, Docteur. So far, he’s never even cared enough to be jealous. Besides, there’s absolutely no reason—”
Just then, a young nurse knocked on the door to request Dr. Duprès’s assistance.
The doctor rose. “Sorry, Hélène. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She left her alone, to reflect on their conversation. That’s when Hélène started to notice a bitter taste in her mouth.
As Hélène waited for the doctor to return, her thoughts were racing. There’s absolutely no reason why he would be jealous because…Then, abruptly, Hélène’s mind shut down. Everything grew fuzzy in the small office. The medical files swelled as if they were alive.
Turning toward the window, Hélène spotted two yellow and gray dots on a branch. She squinted until the dots sprouted into two tiny birds, pecking at each other’s feathers with pointy beaks. They stopped pecking. One started stroking the other.
She strained her ears to hear their baby chirps through the glass. But instead of chirps, she heard gurgling sounds near her belly. Her hand went to massage her stomach, until she spotted the fish tank. Tiny bubbles were popping up to the surface, making the gurgling noise in the tank.
Giggling at her mistake, Hélène watched the pair of goldfish swimming around each other. One was hovering behind a clump of seaweed, hiding. The plumper one kept darting behind the seaweed to chase the other.
Hélène leaned against the wall and shut her eyes while her imagination took over her senses.
The two women are bathing in the ocean, off the Belgian coast. They are holding hands and laughing as they jump against the waves. All of a sudden, a massive swell hits them, and Hélène loses hold of Sylvie’s hand. After the wave crashes, Sylvie makes her way to the surface. When Hélène doesn’t reappear, Sylvie dives under to search for her.
After several minutes, she finally brings Hélène, unconscious, to the surface. Although Sylvie is struggling to catch her breath, she places her ear over Hélène’s mouth to see if she is breathing. She isn’t. She pries open her mouth to make sure there are no obstructions—no seaweed preventing her from breathing freely. The air passage is clear. Next, she grips her tigh
tly and flips her over. Seawater streams out of Hélène’s mouth. Once her lungs are empty, Sylvie sweeps her up and runs to shore. Kneeling next to her unconscious student, she listens again for air. Then she seals her mouth over Hélène’s cool lips.
Just when Hélène feels Sylvie’s warm lips over her own, and her strong hands on her chest, she hears a distant “ahem.”
Hélène opened her eyes, but instead of a sexy lifeguard rousing her, she saw a familiar pair of sturdy shoes under a white lab coat.
“Therapeutic, n’est-ce pas?”
“Excuse me?” Hélène stared blankly at Dr. Duprès.
“The bubble sounds.”
Hélène turned her attention to the goldfish tank. The fish were nibbling at each other. “I wonder what it’s like to live underwater.” She scrunched her nose to the glass. The bigger one’s seducing the little one. “Must be heavenly,” she added, closing her eyelids halfway as her thoughts returned to her daydream.
“It’s the newest in air filters. Hi-tech—straight from Japan.”
Hélène lifted an eyebrow.
“But we’re not here to chat about fish, are we?” inquired Dr. Duprès, limping toward her. “It might sound strange to you, but perhaps you should consider that some men are just like that. You know, different than women.”
She’s right about that one, thought Hélène, remembering Sylvie’s lips on hers. Even though she had only imagined this for a split second, they seemed so real. So soft. Marc’s lips never feel like anything, except prickly. All because of that stupid mustache he’s always trimming and tweaking, like some sort of bonsai bush.
Hélène had never liked mustaches, and in all these years, she hadn’t revealed this to her husband, who was so proud of his.
The doctor’s voice droned on. “They don’t always understand our feelings, our emotions…and they can be so stubborn. It might just take some time for your husband to come around. The newness needs to wear off first.” Dr. Duprès placed her hand on Hélène’s shoulder. “You know, husbands protest, but after a while, they always give in. So don’t worry. He’ll get used to the new you. And in no time, he’ll be treating you like a princess.”
“Let’s be realistic, Docteur.” Hélène grimaced. “You’ve already met Marc. I can’t imagine him loving my new look. Or even accepting it, for that matter.”
Dr. Duprès glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Hélène, but our time is up. I’d like you to get a blood test tomorrow on an empty stomach. We’ll have the results in a few days.” She pulled out a form, checked off the items to be analyzed, and handed it to her.
As Hélène exited the hospital, she inserted her fingernail into her mouth.
She was about to chew but stopped. What are you doing? You gave this up on your wedding night. It grosses Marc out, remember? She pulled her finger out of her mouth.
Then a naughty look swept over her face. It’s never too late to change your mind.
Ever so gleefully, Hélène chomped on her first nail in two decades.
*****
After another disastrous, unromantic evening, the couple learned their lesson. For the rest of the week, Marc stayed downstairs to flip channels on the tube, while Hélène scrubbed dishes and escaped with Chaussette to work on her poems in the bedroom.
On Thursday night, Hélène sat in her nightgown, squinting at the words she had just typed on the screen. The room was pitch dark except for a string of light from the mini lamp clamped to her desk. Chaussette’s head bobbed at her mistress’s illuminated knuckles as they rose and fell over the keyboard.
All of a sudden, the words appeared fuzzy. Hélène tapped the keys a few more times and peered at the screen again. She could barely make out the sentence: A vivid sunburst from the horizon…
She scowled at the dictionaries strewn over her desk and piled around her fluffy slippers. Her mind was focused on Marc rather than her writing. Tonight, instead of rugby, football, or wrestling, BBC News was blaring downstairs. Each time she tried to tune out the newscaster’s forceful voice, it grew louder.
She glanced at her watch. Already ten. So he wants to learn English. Fine. But why now?
After a pensive minute, Hélène forced herself to resume typing. To her delight, her thoughts tumbled onto the keyboard, fashioning the lushest scenes she’d ever imagined. The deeper she let her mind go, the more seeds her imagination sowed. Finally, it led her to a secluded green spot surrounded by the wildest forms of nature—just what she needed to revive her soul.
“Exotic, tropical trees, flowers, butterflies…A gorgeous mountain, bright blue sky, a marvelous pond,” she whispered to Chaussette.
After working nonstop for thirty minutes, she felt drowsy. “I’ll just shut my eyes for a minute,” she mumbled, crossing her arms over the keyboard.
Instantly, Hélène’s mind drew her into a world of homespun poetry bursting with adventure.
Her eyelids serve as the movie screen as her poem comes to life: tropical trees swaying in the breeze, exotic flowers beaming at the sun, butterflies flitting in the air. Hélène is standing next to Sylvie in a deep pond. Ducks and water lilies surround their naked bodies. Over Sylvie’s bare shoulders looms a stunning mountain. Both women are smiling at each other. Hélène doesn’t want to interrupt this peaceful moment, but the pair has been soaking in the water for over an hour, and her fingertips are soggy. She swims toward the grassy edge of the pond. As soon as she lifts her foot onto a rock, Sylvie places a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Attends…We’re not done yet. I want you to swim a bit longer. I’d like to check your style again.”
Slowly, Hélène turns around. Sylvie’s eyes are glistening as much as her breasts, which are dripping with water, and just as luscious.
Hélène whispers, “You push me really hard, you know.”
“But you like to be pushed, non?” teases Sylvie, whose voice is so raspy it sounds like it has gravel in it.
Her Greek accent is even sexier in the water, Hélène realizes, feeling her cheeks sizzle. Before she can react, Sylvie yanks her off the rock, and she falls back into the water. Sylvie dives under the surface and swiftly retrieves her victim. To keep her buoyant, she pulls Hélène to her bare bosom, causing her student’s nipples to arch toward the sky. Hélène’s chest, safely nestled in her instructor’s muscular arms, rapidly rises and falls.
“Super, you’re still breathing,” says Sylvie with a chuckle. Gradually, her student’s body relaxes in her arms. Everything grows soft, except for Hélène’s nipples, which are now as erect as tiny thimbles.
“Let’s check to see if you’re conscious,” whispers Sylvie. With a sly grin, she draws a figure-eight in the air and exclaims “Aha!” as she pokes her student’s nipple.
“Aaaiiee!” gasps Hélène, knocking the offending finger away.
Sylvie chuckles. “Just routine testing. Oui, the victim’s still alive.”
“Help!” Hélène yelps. “I’ve been rescued by the nastiest lifeguard in the pond.”
She presses her bare body against her instructor’s moist breasts. “Somebody save me!”
Sylvie laughs as she leans toward her victim’s mouth, with her hand on her…
Firm fingers shook Hélène’s shoulder.
“Ah, you’re so bad…” murmured Hélène with pleasure.
“It’s time for bed.”
Hélène woke with a start. Marc? Her mind was still fuzzy. She shook her head.
The room was bright now. She rubbed her eyes and swiveled in her chair. Her husband was standing near her, bending down, inserting a skinny leg into his pajamas. It was him all right—she recognized his elastic underwear strap and the tiny hairs trapped underneath.
Reality sucks. Dragging her slippers along the carpet, she headed into the bathroom to throw some icy water on her hot cheeks.
Hélène gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. As always, those same blue eyes were staring back at her, but this time, something deep inside seemed a
ltered. It was hard to tell if they were glistening with excitement—or just plain scared. What now? She splashed cold water on her face. Its coolness was soothing. Keeping her eyes shut, she focused on the pink light filtering through her eyelids—her portable movie screen.
To her surprise, the Greek goddess reappeared, teasing her in the pond. She doused her face with more icy water to cleanse the image lurking in her mind. When at last she lifted her soggy head, a sheet of wetness trickled from her chin. As it drenched her thin nightgown, she felt her nipples moisten, then grow hard. To her embarrassment, the tightness of her tender, intimate flesh trapped under wet cotton excited her.
Before she could stop it, Hélène’s finger rose in the air as a strange grin spread over her face. The finger drew a figure-eight in the air.
To her surprise, Hélène heard herself exclaim “Aha!” before poking herself in the nipple.
“Aaaiiiee!” she yelped in pain.
A groggy voice erupted from the bedroom. “What’s going on in there? Your brush caught a snarl again?”
She ignored her husband’s snide remarks. Even though her nipple was smarting, her finger rose again to give it another poke. Ah, non! Hélène’s other hand knocked the offending finger away. This is just like in my dream, she realized with horror. What’s wrong with me?
To stop her thoughts from pondering the imponderable, she donned a fresh nightgown and slathered night cream over her face. The cool white cream entered her pores, temporarily soothing her nerves. Then she tiptoed to her side of the bed and slid under the soft covers.
For the first time in years, Hélène snuggled up to her husband. She pressed her forehead against his warm, bony back, hoping it could somehow shelter her from danger.
None of this was very convincing, so she went a step further. Pinching her lips together, she inhaled deeply. The familiar odors impregnating Marc’s pajamas hardly aroused pleasant sensations—on the contrary. But she was relieved they didn’t downright disgust her either.
