That moment. That moment was the moment.
Mischa blushed and said no, thank you. Paid the bartender and took her tray of drinks. Smiled politely at her admirer before making her way back to her table.
But as she took two shots back to back, then chugged down her vodka-tonic, she kept glancing at the bar. Glancing at the man. He would look back every now and then, sometimes wink. Chew on that straw. Misch knew she wasn't going to go home with him, wasn't going to do anything bad.
But not because it was bad.
But only because her friends would see what a horrible person she was.
I am most positively, definitely, going to hell.
*
“You sure you don't want me to come? I could get a ticket,” Mike said, following her through the airport. Mischa rolled her eyes.
“We've been over this, Mikey. I asked if you wanted to go in the beginning. You said no. Now it's too late. You have your job. You're coming to visit me in a month,” she reminded him, hiking her messenger bag up higher on her shoulder.
“I'm gonna miss you so much,” he sighed. She frowned and glanced at him.
“Me, too, babe.”
It was such a horrible feeling, because she would miss him. So much. Just not in the way she was supposed to miss him. Not the way a wife should miss her husband.
Before she could go through security, he hugged her tightly. She pressed herself against him, comforted by his familiar smell, his familiar body. He felt so comfortable to her.
Maybe that's our problem, we just got too comfortable.
He kissed her goodbye, a chaste pressing of lips. No tongue. Nothing overly emotional. Of course not. She clung to him, but he became embarrassed. Pulled away. She wanted to get angry. She was about to climb into a metal tube of death, that could fall five miles out of the sky, dropping her to a fiery grave – couldn't she get a little passion? A little emotion?
Just a little tongue!?
Once she was through security, she waved once more at him. He blew her a kiss, which she caught, then she walked away. Picked up her pace, dragging her carry on bag behind her.
She passed several gates before she realized she was crying.
~Mischa~
You have to understand, I wasn't trying to “have my cake and eat it, too.” That wasn't what it was about.
I was a horrible person, who just didn't want to hurt her best friend.
Of course I had talked to him about it, of course I had broached the subject with him – but when you're shot down at so many turns, you begin to fire back. Sometimes in a not very noble way.
I'm not trying to make excuses. There is no excuse for what I did. I should have broken up with him. Point, blank, period. I know this. I know this.
But when you're looking at your best friend, a person who is a part of the fabric of your being, and you can literally see their heart start to break, well … it takes a lot of strength to smash that heart all the way. To disintegrate it.
It takes someone stronger than I am.
So then you do begin to make excuses.
Maybe I was meant to be a swinger, that's what it is. I'm just in an open relationship … that only one of us knows about …
He'll never know. He'll never find out. My heart can still belong to him – that's all that counts, right? I can get pleasure from someone else, desire from elsewhere, but still belong to him in a way he needs.
Fucked up. So fucked up. But it begins to make sense. Especially right around the time when you stop caring if he did the same thing. Cause that's what stopped me in the beginning, the ol' “well how would I feel if he cheated on me?” trick.
That worked for the first year or two. Then, slowly but surely, it went away. I didn't care. Mike could have gone and fucked half the neighborhood, and I would've been ecstatic – because it would've meant I could do the same. It would've meant my best friend was finally experiencing the pleasure and desire he had been missing out on for so long. It would mean that I could finally experience it, too.
Because experiencing it with each other was no longer a possibility.
He'll never know ...
~Italy~
It was hot and muggy in Italy – murder on Misch's hair. It was also go, go, go! From the moment they got there, she had to hit the ground running. They landed at night, went straight to bed, and she was woken up at six in the morning to get ready for the day. Jet lag was still very present as she muscled through the work, trying to explain coding and filing procedures to a translator.
The first few days took adjusting. Time changes, climate changes, cultural changes, and on top of all that – her nerves. She was a nervous wreck.
How am I going to do this!? I don't even know what flirting is anymore. I haven't even tried to pick anyone up yet, and I already feel like puking. This is such a bad idea. I'm not doing it.
If there was anywhere a woman would want to work on her self-confidence and man-getting abilities, Italy was the place. The men were very aggressive and very vocal. Misch didn't speak a word of Italian, but she didn't need a translator to tell her the kinds of things that were shouted at her, and every other woman on the street, on a daily basis.
Dinner was another exercise in being single. She dined alone, not really having much in common with her boss. She would sit at the bar in the hotel lounge, and men would come up to her and start prattling away in Italian. Same thing happened at the outdoor cafes and restaurants she went to; men would walk up and just start talking to her, switching languages when they discovered she wasn't Italian.
“Are you alone?”
The first couple times she heard that, Misch's standard response was, “I'm married”. She'd been saying it for so long, it was a hard habit to break. Eventually, though, she got to where she could say “yes” back to them. She wasn't going to lie – it was bad enough that she was attempting to lie and cheat on her husband, she wasn't going to lie to anyone else. She wore her rings, and if they asked if she was married, she told the truth.
“I am, but he's not here.”
Shockingly, this didn't deter most men. If anything, they became more aggressive. She wondered if it seemed like a challenge to them. Mischa didn't like it. She wasn't a prize to be won. She felt cheap enough as it was, she didn't need a man making her feel that way, too.
On top of that, the idea of actually cheating on her husband made her feel kind of sick to her stomach, and she was also simply too nervous. A man would sit close enough to touch her and she would practically jump out of her skin. Laugh like a nervous donkey, then scoot away. Finish her drink and run away. She would share drinks and laugh, and one man went as far as caressing her bare thigh, but she always psyched herself out. Found herself making excuses to get away, begging off for the night.
Maybe I can't do this.
Having sex with another person was all fine and dandy in her mind. But when it was time to put her “plan” into action, she had a realization. She couldn't do it. She just couldn't. She had planned and schemed and worked for a year, and when the “prize” was right in front of her, she didn't want it anymore. She had totally overthought it, watched too many rom-coms, read too many romance novels. That wasn't real life, this was – a boring, shadow of a marriage that she was too weak to get out of. She had to learn to deal with that, because she clearly wasn't able to be a heartless, cheating vixen.
How did I think I could do this? I'm not that person. I can't do that to him. I made my decision when I married him. I made my bed, and now I have to lay in it. For better, or for worse.
And so her first week in Italy went. Amazed at her surroundings. Overwhelmed by her job. Scared of her future. Regretful of her feelings. She was all over the place – definitely not the right frame of mind to start something that might ruin her life.
Oh, and the tiny fact that actually doing it would make me the worst. Person. Ever.
At the end of that first week, she felt better about herself. Better than she had in a long ti
me. She wasn't going to cheat on her husband, she wasn't going to become that person. She was going to do her job, Mike was going to visit, and maybe being in Europe would reignite that spark. Reignite something, anything.
Life was good. She was a good person. Nothing bad was going to happen.
“You are alone?”
Mischa sighed and looked up from her manual.
“Yeah, but I'm busy,” she replied, her voice terse. Her plan was over – no more flirting for her. No point in being a bundle of nerves all the time for no good reason. She hadn't even bothered dressing up, was just wearing a simple black sundress and sandals.
“Surely not too busy for a drink,” the man in front of her said, a cheesy smile spreading across his face before he slid into the empty seat next to her. She put her manual aside.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I really am working,” she tried to explain. He snapped his fingers in the air, summoning a waiter.
“Ah, just one drink. You can spare time for one drink,” he insisted, his accent thick and his gaze heavy. The waiter approached and her unwelcome-guest ignored her, speaking Italian and ordering a drink.
“I'm sorry, I don't want to sit with you,” she pressed.
“See? Is too late. Now you must drink with me,” the guy teased.
Misch was tired from a long day at work. Tired from a long life. She glared at the man.
“I don't want to drink with you. I don't know how to get that through your head. So you can leave, or I can leave,” she informed him.
“Or we can stay and you can get to know me, I am very fun guy,” he assured her.
Misch snorted, stood up, and began collecting her paperwork. The man stood up as well, and next thing she knew, he was pressed up against her side. She started to pull away, but he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“What are you doing!?” she was shocked.
“The night is young, and you are very beautiful. Come, let us get to know one another,” his voice was low as he leaned down towards her. She practically bent in half trying to get away.
“You're about to get to know my fist! Let go of me!” she snapped.
“American women are so feisty, I love it. I will show you -,”
“Babe! Sorry I took so long!”
Misch turned her head and stared in shock as a second man came up to her other side, grabbing her free hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing the backs of her fingers.
Am I releasing pheromones or something!?
“Excuse me!?” she squeaked. The new guy was tall, and though he blended in with the local scenery, his accent was American. He didn't look at her, just held her hand and glared at the other man.
“Can I help you?” he demanded.
“You know this woman?” the Italian guy questioned.
“I should hope so, I fucking married her,” new guy snapped, then grabbed her left hand, holding it up so the other man could see her wedding set.
“I am sorry. She said she was alone,” Cassanova began sliding away.
“Well, she's not alone anymore, so get the fuck out of here.”
Misch's mind was blown, and she didn't say anything as the American man hugged her close to his side. She watched as the Italian gentleman glared at them for a moment longer, then walked away, cursing in the other language. A deep voice chuckled from above her, and she was let go.
“Did you just save me?” she asked, moving away from her new friend.
“Yeah, you looked like you needed it,” he informed her, smiling down at her.
Oooohhhh, wow. And I picked tonight of all nights to not dress up ...
“I'm sorry, who are you?” she blurted out.
“Your savior.”
He was smiling, but she didn't feel like he was joking. His voice was low and his smile sly. He had incredibly thick, black hair, which almost shined and had waves on top of his head. His eyes were so dark, they almost looked black, matching his thick eyebrows and heavy lashes. His lips were on the fuller side, and he easily had two days worth of stubble on his jaw. Her heart started beating faster.
No, no, no. This can't be happening. I'm not doing this. I don't want this.
“I'm sorry,” Misch said with a dry laugh, putting a hand on her chest. “I'm a little … uh … thrown off, by that guy. Am I missing something?”
Her savior finally held out his hand.
“I'm Tal,” he introduced himself as she put her hand in his. She held still.
“Your name is 'tall'?” she asked, surprised. He smiled, showing a wide expanse of pretty, perfect, white teeth.
“Tal,” he corrected her pronunciation. “T-A-L. It's Hebrew. Means 'dew'.”
She felt stupid.
“Oh. I'm Mischa,” she finally shook his hand, realizing she'd been holding it the whole time. He squeezed her palm and she felt her heart rate increase.
“Mischa. Russian, 'Who is Like God',” he informed her.
“Are you a collector of names?” she tried to joke. Lamely. He let go of her hand.
“No, I've just been around a lot. Knew a Mischa. Please, sit,” he offered, before pulling out her chair. Misch was sliding into her seat before she even caught on to the fact that she'd just been invited to sit at her own table. But she didn't say anything as he sat across from her.
“Where are you from?” she asked, wondering what she should do, what she should say. He obviously knew she was married, and he had saved her from a creeper – surely he wasn't hitting on her, as well.
“All over. And you?” he returned the question, then lifted his hand. Snapped for a waiter.
It didn't seem offensive when he did it.
“The states. Michigan,” she told him.
“Ah. Detroit. Nice. Never been.”
And that was it. A waiter came, and Tal ordered in what sounded like perfect Italian, albeit with an American accent. Then they sat in silence. He stared at her, his dark eyes wandering over her face. Misch shifted nervously in her seat.
“So, uh, what brings you to Italy?” she tried another question.
I sound like such an idiot. What am I still doing here? Thank him for saving you and go home, Misch.
“A little work. Mostly vacation.”
“Oh, I'm here for work, too.”
“I know.”
That threw her for a second.
“How?” she asked. He gave a tight smile as a waiter came and set a cocktail in front of him.
“Your technical manual here on the inner workings of the insurance world,” he commented, tapping a large binder which was sitting on the table.
“Oh, yeah, obviously,” she laughed at herself, and some of her nerves abated.
“But I've seen you before.”
Nerves made a U-turn.
“Huh?”
“I've seen you around, knew you weren't local. Clearly not a student. But I gotta say, you don't look like an insurance agent,” Tal explained.
“Oh? What do I look like?” she was curious.
“A dancer.”
“Really?” she asked, feeling short of breath. One year. It had taken her one year to get her body back. Mike had never said anything except 'good job', right after fist bumping her.
Fist. Bumping.
“Yes. You have amazing legs, good arms. And the way you hold yourself. Very graceful. Screams dancer.”
Oh, this man. I'm in trouble.
They sat and chatted for a while. Mostly superficial things. The weather, the sights she'd seen. He managed to wiggle information out of her, but remained surprisingly tight lipped about himself. Misch ordered two more vodka-tonics, sucking them down quickly to help calm her nerves. Mr. … what was his last name? He'd never said it. Tal seemed to notice her nerves, and he kept giving her that sly grin, those dark eyes burning into her.
It got later, and he surprised her by calling for the check, then paying for the whole thing. It was just as well. She was slowly turning into a basket case. She felt like she was going to throw up, her wedding
ring felt like it weighed a ton, and she was positive she was sweating everywhere. She kept telling herself that she wasn't doing anything wrong, that she wouldn't do anything wrong.
But that sly smile ...
“Well, thank you for saving me, and for keeping me company,” she sighed, walking out of the cafe with him.
“It was my pleasure. I live to save damsels in distress,” he assured her, grinning down at her. He was all that was right with the Mediterranean – tall, dark, and handsome. She blinked rapidly and forced herself to look away.
“Good, that's good, cause a lot of us damsels need it here. I hope you -,” she tried to say goodbye.
“Oh, you're not going anywhere.”
She looked back up at him.
“I'm sorry … what?”
“The night's still young, who goes to bed at this hour?” he asked her. Misch glanced at her watch.
“It's eleven,” she pointed out.
“Early in Italy – look at all the people,” Tal instructed. There were a lot of people about, dining and drinking and walking around. Rome was a busy place.
“I usually go to bed at this hour,” she replied.
“How boring.”
“Excuse me!?”
“Boring. Your life must be boring, if you always go to bed at eleven,” he repeated himself.
She wanted to argue, but she couldn't. He was right. Her life was beyond boring. Had bored her all the way to another country, and what did she do once she got there?
Went to bed by eleven every night.
“What did you have in mind?” she sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears. His smile made a reappearance.
“Walk with me,” he suggested, then he began strolling down the street.
They walked for a while. Tal was somewhat easy to talk to; or at least, he would have been, if Mischa hadn't been so anxious in his presence. She didn't know what it was – he hadn't hit on her, not really. He stared at her in a way that made her panties want to run away, and he was very charming, but he hadn't said anything to indicate he was attracted to her. Hadn't touched her since that first encounter.
Maybe he was just an American, happy to spend time with another American in a foreign country.
My Time in the Affair Page 2
