by Karina Sharp
“Holy shizz balls! I KNEW IT!” Macy moves her hands to the sky in triumph. “What was his name?”
“Mick.”
I smile at the thought of him, but quickly shake my head. “But, look, it doesn’t matter; I’m married.”
Macy skips around me. “Married doesn’t mean you’ve retired to a convent. Besides you dance burlesque.”
“That’s just because that’s something I’m unwilling to quit, and I only perform twice every four months.”
I turn to her and make a point to roll my eyes.
Macy squints her eyes shut and then opens them excitedly. “Come out with me this weekend, and I can show you much fun you can have while married.”
I don’t have to think about my answer for too long. “I think I’d like that, Macy. I’m looking forward to it.”
Macy pumps her fists and does a little spin on the sidewalk. “Make sure you wear something hot and sexy. You have to make the most of your flirty fun!”
I try to play down my interest and excitement, but I’m actually extremely stoked. Aside from Swanks, Macy is the only friend I’ve had in a while. I really miss having lots of friends and hanging out in Taco Bell or at Walmart as those are about the only things to do late at night in a small town. But, as a result of everyone either moving away or moving on with their lives, my support circle has grown smaller over the years. I am filled with glee by the prospect of having fun and making a new friend. I immediately make a mental checklist of what I want to wear and begin counting down the hours until our date to go out on the town.
Chapter 5
Arielle
The week passes with my days becoming more routine: wake up; lead PT at 5:30, 7, 9:30, and 11am; get my fix of afternoon eye candy; go home; talk to Swanks; read; sleep. Today is Saturday, and I’ve been looking forward to this day all week. Macy has been telling me how much fun it’s going to be and how she’s missed going out with someone fun. According to Macy, many of the other officer wives at her husband’s command are either a bit stuffy or have kids. I don’t exactly know what to do or where we are going, but I know we are heading toward Waikiki to eat at some place that has fantastic lamb chops and even better lava flows, which is apparently a drink.
I keep myself busy all day by cleaning up my apartment after last night’s typical weekend festivities. Beer bottles, bottle caps, plastic cups, empty cans, and even passed out revelers lay about the apartment, except Brody. I assume he went over to another friend’s house and passed out there. It’s just as well. Trying not to disturb anyone, I remove heaps of trash from the apartment, scrub down the bathroom, and come to terms with the ever increasing size of Mount Miller, the mountain of beer bottles on my back porch. Originally, it was called Heine Hill, but it has increased in size, so I gave it a more substantial land mass classification.
What began as my stubborn refusal to throw away glass and determination to recycle a few bottles, has turned into a testament of the overwhelming nature of my unhappiness, Brody’s excessive control, and my futility. At least the bottles are all clean and washed out before I stack them.
As the smell of stale pizza and flat beer begins to dissipate out of the apartment, I pull out my sapphire blue halter-neck cocktail dress and nude heels to lay them on the bed. I’ve wanted to wear this dress for some time since I picked it up on clearance and never found a reason to wear it until today. In my bedroom, I remove my pajamas, toss them in the clothes hamper, and wrap a towel around me in preparation for a shower.
Walking toward the bathroom, I hear someone stir in the living room. I peek around the corner to see if it’s someone other than Swanks, but everyone within my view lies in still slumber. Stepping further into the bathroom, I turn on the shower to allow the water to warm up.
When I stand up and turn toward the door, I am startled when I see Brody in the doorway. He’s leaning against the door jamb with messy hair, a stained shirt and jeans, and a sickening smile spread across his face.
My mood instantly plunges into the darkest of places, a place to where not even a million lanterns could aid in navigation. With my head dropped toward the floor, I see him move toward me through the tops of my eyes. I feel caged. Part of me wants to run, wants to kick him in the balls and run away. I feel too powerless and small, so instead, I crumble in his presence.
“What do we have here?”
The stale alcohol lingers on his breath as he looks at me as if he is a lion and I am his prey.
Unsure of his motives and still not looking directly at him, I say timidly. “Hey Brody. Did you have fun last night?”
“Last night?” He raises his hands above his head, puffs out his chest, and looks around as if there’s an audience. “The party is still going, baby!”
I swallow heavily, taking in the depravity of my situation. I hate how weak I currently feel. Trying to take on a more assertive and supportive tone, I say, “It sounds like you’ve been enjoying yourself. I was just about to take a shower.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he says dryly as he folds his arms across his chest. “How retarded are you? You think I can’t tell when my wife is taking a shower?” He emphasizes my.
I shudder at the thought of any part of me being anyone’s possession, especially his. I feel paralyzed, as though I cannot escape this situation, and I just want it to be over. I want this conversation to be over. I want this day to be over. I want this life to be over.
Not knowing what to do next, I plaster on a fake smile and make light conversation in hopes that he will tire of me and leave.
“I see some people had so much fun, they decided to stay even longer,” I say, gesturing toward the living room.
“Huh? Oh, them... Well, hell yeah they did. I throw the best goddamned parties around,” he boasts with his chest still out. “Aren’t you lucky that you’re with such a popular guy?”
I respond with a weary smile and nod, but not quite making eye contact.
Brody looks down to me, and his eyes narrow in on my chest that I’m covering with my towel and arms. “I’m about to go to bed, and I want you there with me.”
“I was just about to take a shower,” I nervously respond.
He steps in closer and towers over me. “I know that, Ari. I fucking already know that! FUCK! What is it with you? Have you not heard a word I said?!?” His voice bounces off of the tile walls of this tiny room.
In a pathetic attempt to apologize, he cuts me off before I can begin to speak. “I haven’t been home all night. Don’t you miss me at all? I want to spend time with MY wife. Is that a fucking crime?”
I quickly and feebly say, “No, it’s not a crime. It’s just-”
“Of course it’s not,” he interjects condescendingly.
He grabs my elbow, and my heart stings in pain. I feel pressure rise up from my chest that I know I have to swallow back down, because if released, the manifestation would be the cries of a person who’s just had hundreds of pins pushed into her lungs.
“I’m trying to get ready so I will be out of your hair tonight, and Macy will be here to get me in a few hours,” I manage to get out.
Brody pauses cautiously, and I know that he is deciding which option he prefers- sex with me now, but risk my being around to bug him, or sending me packing and on my way.
I feel my breath hitch as I anxiously await his conclusion.
Brody moves his hand away from my elbow and backs away. “I’m tired anyway. Go get showered and shit.”
I exhale in quiet relief.
Pausing in the doorway, he says in a quieter voice, “You know I don’t mean to get so upset with you, Ari. I’m just exhausted and there’s so much pressure on me at work. I don’t know what I would do if you left me. You’re not thinking of leaving me are you?”
Before I can even think differently, I hear the word “No,” generated from my vocal chords in a despondent whisper.
“Of course you aren’t,” he tells me in a way that lets me know I have no other options.
>
I hear him say passively from the bedroom, “Hey Ari, I want to see you in your dress before you leave.”
I know exactly what he means.
Chapter 6
Arielle
Fortunately, Brody is still fast asleep when Macy pulls into my driveway, which is quite a relief. I did not have to deal with him at all during or after my shower since he fell asleep pretty quickly after our encounter in the bathroom.
As I check my face in the mirror one last time, I grab my purse off of the back of the toilet and head toward the door. “Wish me luck,” I say, bidding Swanks farewell, and I exit the apartment only to find Macy walking toward my front door.
“Hey hooker!!! You look a-freaking-mazing! Where have you been hiding that figure?” Macy grabs my hand and spins me around, giving me a once-over with her eyes. “I knew you must have a hot body since you dance burlesque, but damn girl! If I were a guy, I’d totally nail you!”
I lean my head back and fan myself with my hand. “Macy, I do declare that is the most romantical thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say in my best dramatic Scarlet O’Hara voice.
Laughing, she scolds me, “Don’t expect me to be too romantical. I wouldn’t want you getting a big head and stealing all of the guys away from me.”
I put my hands over my heart and playfully gasp, “Well, I never!”
Our laughter continues in the car as we creep along in the perpetual bumper-to-bumper traffic on H1, the route to Waikiki. We blast a variety of music, but mostly songs worth dancing to. I’m energized and can almost forget about the emotional black hole that is my apartment.
Macy hands the valet of the Diamond Head Grill her keys and winks at him at the same time. He is pretty cute, and he seems appreciative of the extra attention she gives him. I walk behind her to the elevator, taking in all of the sights of the ornately decorated and beautiful hotel lobby. I notice the attention Macy receives in her black, strappy, off-the-shoulder dress and even strappier black heels. Men’s heads turn from far and wide to gape in appreciation of her physical beauty, and I swear I can hear their thoughts of admiration as we pass.
Sipping our cocktails at our table, I take in the gorgeous and sweeping view of Waikiki and Diamond Head. The sweet and icy beverage feels wonderful in my throat and cools me down as I look at the contrasting landscapes outside the window. I begin to feel strong pangs of hunger move throughout my stomach and wonder why I am so hungry.
As I am trying to remember when the last time I ate was, our waiter delivers two martinis and says, “Compliments of the gentlemen at that table over there.” He points to a small table in the corner with a few men sitting at it.
Responding in unison, Macy and I plaster large, overly grateful smiles on our faces; flip our hair as we turn toward the men; and say, “Thank you.”
Realizing how well-rehearsed we are in responding to what I believe are vapid gestures from men, we look each other in the eye knowingly and giggle like smitten young girls.
Macy clears her throat and pushes her glass out in front of her. “How sweet of them. A toast!”
“To what?” I ask.
Macy looks up for a moment, then back to me. “Well since you’re new to the island, and we are new friends, how about to new beginnings?”
Noting how appropriate that sentiment is, I nod as I raise my glass. “Sounds perfect. To new beginnings.”
“And a little fun,” Macy adds as we clink our glasses together.
“A LOT of fun,” I return, lifting my glass in acknowledgement before I take a large drink of a sweet, precisely chilled, and shaken martini.
On what I think is my third cocktail, our waiter delivers our Caesar salads, and I am fairly certain that if I could fit the entire thing in my mouth in an instant, I would. The salad is delicious to me, with the perfect lettuce to dressing ratio, which is very important in all salads.
Watching me shovel the tastiest of all rabbit food into my mouth, Macy asks, “How did you meet Brody, again?”
Trying not to allow the subject matter to take away from the delictibleness of my first course and the fun of our evening thus far, I answer simply, “We went to high school together.”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember you telling me that,” she recalls in between bites of her salad. “And you said he’s on a surface ship of some kind?”
Trying not to answer with food in my mouth, I give a short, “Mmm hmmm.” Swallowing my bite of food, I continue, “They’re in port right now, but he should be in and out pretty soon when RIMPAC, or whatever it is, starts, and then they’re going on an EASTPAC, I think.”
“It’s RIMPAC which stands for Rim of the Pacific. It’s when a bunch of countries get together and have war games. Honestly, Ari you have a lot to learn about military life, but don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it. I know what it’s like to be lost in all the acronyms and titles and navigate all of the rules,” she assures me as she trades the fork in her hand for a glass. “Also, EASTPAC stands for East of the Pacific. They usually visit places like San Diego or even join a carrier group.”
“I think I manage fairly well,” I retort.
“Sure, but do you even know the difference between an officer and an enlisted sailor?” she asks, eyebrows raised, before she takes a swallow from her cocktail.
I put my fork down and think about my military knowledge. “Isn’t it self-explanatory?”
“In a way, but there are rules for the service members regarding fraternization, and what uniforms to wear in what season, depending on your installation. Did you know that if you’re on base when they play the National Anthem in the morning, you have to stop your car and wait? If not, you can get a ticket.”
I’m a little surprised by that rule. “For real? I guess I never really thought all of the rules pertained to me since I’m not in the service.”
“Trust me, servicemen, especially officers, are judged by their behavior- in and out of uniform -who they’re friends with, and even how their wives act.”
I try not to appear surprised or even a little offended by that rule. I don’t really understand why service members are defined and judged by the actions and company of their spouses.
“Harsh.”
“Insanely so.”
I can tell by Macy’s face that she agrees with me, but only to a degree.
I pause for a moment to take in the seriousness of this new information, when I realize the mood has shifted and not for the better.
“Macy, you’re kind of killing my buzz here, and I’ve been looking forward to getting one all stinking week.”
“Are you calling me a buzzkill?” Macy asks as she chews on a bite of a roll.
I purse my lips and tilt my head as I reach for my cocktail. “If the shoe fits.”
In a playful fit she says, “I SO am not, and I’m going to make you eat your words, hooker.”
Macy gets the waiter’s attention and orders more alcoholic beverages as well as some fruity shots.
After eating what I truly believe to be the most delicious macadamia nut encrusted lamb chops in the universe, I am stuffed. My stomach is full, my cheeks are warm from cocktails, and I am feeling pretty bold.
Thinking of how I not only need to burn some serious calories, but also that I have a lot of energy, I decide our night should continue.
“I think I’m in the mood for some dancing.”
Surprised, Macy lifts her eyebrows and squeals, “Really?”
“Absolutely! I am a dancer after all, and it’s been a long time since I’ve schooled people on the dance floor,” I tease her with a fake confidence.
“EEEEEEEE!!!!” Macy hops up and down in her seat from excitement. “This is going to be the best night EVER!”
I can feel a little of my old self peeking through the cracks of the shell of a person I have become, and it is relieving.
“You are with me, you know. I don’t allow my friends to have anything but the best night ever. In fact, I originally set the standa
rd for which you can claim a night has been the best,” I goad her. “And then I raise the bar every time.”
We finish our meal and pick up Macy’s car from the valet. We head to a club where Macy insists we will have an awesome time dancing and drinking. I watch the reflections of street lamps and car lights pass over the car window and think to myself that this is the best time I’ve had in a really long time. I am so happy I agreed to go out with Macy tonight, and I am a little proud of myself for my suggestion of going out to dance. I think this might shape up to truly be one of the best nights ever for me.
Chapter 7
McCrary
I am so relieved that this week is over so I can get out for some much needed down time. I’ve had a few major cases I’ve been working on and after going through much of the discovery documents, I realize the massive scope of the work I have ahead of me. Today, I paused my research long enough to run a few miles, shower, and come out to wish one of my buddies farewell before he transfers to DC.
We are at a bar in Waikiki that I haven’t been to before. I generally opt for smaller places, but this one isn’t too bad. At least we have a table to the side of the bar and not too close to the loud dance floor.
I leave my seat to grab a beer from the bar, and I see a silhouette very much like the one I’ve seen every time I’ve closed my eyes since last Friday night. I think I am probably just wanting to see it so much, my brain is willing my eyes to do so. This time, it’s draped in shiny blue fabric that hugs the curvaceous perfection about which I’ve fantasized running my hands all over. As I near the silhouette and it comes more into focus, I see it adorned with long, sweeping, chestnut colored hair. Fixing my eyes on the profile of her face and inspecting all of her features, I confirm that I am indeed feasting my eyes on the dancer named Marta.
I know more than likely that Marta is not her real name, but I have only been introduced to her as Marta, so that’s the name I moan during my fantasies about her. I find it interesting, or perhaps very lucky, that for two weekends in a row, we happen to be in the same place at the same time.
