My Time in the Affair

by Stylo Fantome

  “I don't like me very much, either,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes.

  “Is he … do you still … are you …,” Mike stammered. She shook her head and stood up.

  “No.”

  She didn't elaborate.

  “I'm seeing someone else,” he offered up, his voice nervous sounding. She refilled her tumbler with water and sat back down.

  “Really? That's great. Really,” she gushed, and she meant it.

  “Well, just a couple dates. Just going slow. You know?” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. A nervous habit he'd had since they were nineteen.

  “Of course. Slow is good. Slow is probably for the best,” she assured him.

  “Yeah. My therapist said I should talk about that with you, too,” he went on, now rubbing his hands together. She thought it was cute, that he was nervous to tell her about his new girlfriend.

  “Whatever you want, only if you're comfortable,” she told him. He took a deep breath and she took a sip of her water.

  “He's a music teacher named Dennis that I met while -,”

  Mischa spit out her water. All of it, straight out. All of it, all over his face. They blinked at each other, water dripping from his nose and her chin. She gaped at him, and he stared at her like he was terrified.

  “Um …,” she began, mopping at her chin. “I'm sorry. I must have misheard. Denise, you said?”

  “The whole forgiveness thing covers this, too. I got mad at you for lying, and what you did was shitty, but I've been lying, too,” Mike was almost whispering.

  “About this? About a music teacher?” Mischa glanced around, like said music teacher was going to jump out of a dark corner.

  “Yeah. I've … for a long time now … hell, since before you and I even hooked up, I've known I liked guys, too,” Mike confessed in a rush.

  “What the fuck!?” Mischa shrieked.

  “I know, I know. I didn't know how to deal with it! You know how my mom is! And then you came along, and god, Misch, you were so hot and so perfect, I just loved you so much, so quickly. So I figured nobody ever needed to know. We'd get married and be together forever, and it would be enough,” he explained. She gasped.

  “Are you saying it wasn't? Mike, were you sleep-,”

  “No. I'm not the cheater here,” he growled, and she was immediately chastised.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “But I did think about it. Fantasized about it a little. Not that you weren't enough. You just …,” his voice trailed off. She smiled sadly and placed her hand on his leg.

  “Wasn't enough,” she finished for him.

  It was wrong and fucked up. Mike had kept everyone in the dark about his sexuality. It had effected their relationship and driven a wedge between them. Mischa had used that wedge as an excuse to explore her own sexuality.

  We were so fucked up. We were doomed from the start.

  “Do you hate me?” Mike whispered. She gasped.

  “God, no! How could I? I mean, I feel bad, that all those years, we could've been having awesome threesomes,” she joked, humor her ever-present armor. He laughed long and loud.

  “Oh god, I missed you, Misch,” he struggled to breathe. She smiled.

  “I missed you, too, Mikey.”

  “Don't get me wrong. You were my wife. I never stopped thinking of you that way. I loved you. I thought … I thought we were going to grow old together. I still can't wrap my brain around it. When I wake up in the mornings, sometimes … sometimes I reach for you, like you're still next to me. Or I'll call out to you, thinking you're just in the kitchen. It's like someone died. You killed me in Italy, but then I came home, and you were the one who was dead. It's been awful. You were my wife. My wife,” he repeated the words, his voice trailing off. She worked hard to keep her tears at bay. She didn't deserve to cry, to release the pain. She wanted to bottle it up, remember it whenever she was feeling sorry for herself.

  “I'm so sorry,” Mischa whispered. “I don't think I'll ever stop being sorry. I do love you. I just wish I could've loved you the way you needed.”

  “I think we spent too much time talking about shit that didn't matter. Maybe we should've talked more about what we really wanted,” he suggested.

  She decided it wouldn't be helpful to point out to him that she'd done just that. Several times. All the time.

  “I always thought of you as my husband, Mikey. I still do most of the time. I don't think it'll go away for a while,” she told him. He chuckled.

  “The Mikes.”

  A nickname given to them by friends – Mischa could be Russian for “Michael”.

  “Mischa. Russian, 'Who is Like God'.”

  “I love you, Mikey,” she sighed, then panicked. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Am I allowed to say that?”

  “It's okay. I love you, too, Mischa. That's the worst part. Loving you so much at the same time as hating you,” he told her.

  “Tell me about it. I go through that every day when I look in the mirror.”

  They laughed together again, and she thought maybe, just maybe, they could get back to that place where they were good friends again.

  “I gotta go,” he sighed, pulling himself into a standing position.

  “Okay. Just … I gotta double check. Dudes. You're dating a dude. You like dudes,” she clarified. He blushed a little.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I like 'dudes',” he answered.

  “And you like girls?”

  “Very much.”

  “Wow. You're so … progressive.”

  “Shut up, Mischa.”

  Old habits die hard, and he playfully smacked her on the ass. They both froze for a second, then laughed some more.

  Maybe even best friends.

  “Stop by, anytime. Whenever. All the time. Or you know, take your time,” she rambled.

  “Time. Will definitely take some time,” he nodded as he opened the front door.

  “Thanks for coming over. Really,” she told him. He stopped in the hallway.

  “I talked to your dad the other day,” he said quickly.

  “Oh yeah? That's good,” she guessed, though she couldn't be sure.

  “Yeah. We talked for a while. It was actually good, which is weird, considering we didn't talk a lot when you and I were together. He told me a lot of stuff,” Mike said. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, that is good, I guess,” she laughed. Mike took a deep breath. Wouldn't meet her eyes.

  “You should call him, Misch.”

  “Huh?”

  “I fucking hate him and I hope his dick rots off,” Mike snapped, surprising her. He wasn't prone to being nasty. “But … he made you happy. And I know you, and I can't imagine how lonely you must have been, to have done what you did. So yeah. Call him.”

  “You're an amazing man, Michael Rapaport,” she whispered, blinking away the tears.

  “Ah, too late now. Now someone else is experiencing this awesomeness,” he teased, but she could tell he was trying not to cry, as well.

  “They better be worthy of you,” she teased back.

  “I hope so, too.”

  He nodded and walked off down the hall.

  Wow. Wooooooooooow.

  Mischa shut the door and immediately went into her bedroom. She went to lay on her bed, but saw that her cell phone was blinking with a new text message. She opened it up as she stretched out on her back. It was from Lacey.

  Hopefully by the time you read this, he's come and gone. I hope it went well. Enjoy your freedom for the night. The tiny terror and I will be back in the morning. CALL ME if you need me.

  Mischa laughed and cried a little at the text. She had the most amazing friends. That she could do what she'd done, and they still stood by her, still took care of her. Amazing people.

  There was a little symbol in the upper left hand corner of her phone. A little envelope. A little picture, she'd been avoiding looking at it for weeks. Couldn't bear the thought of it.

  “... he made you happy. Call h
im.”

  She pressed the button before she knew what she was doing. She wondered if maybe it had been psychological – she'd been avoiding the voicemail because she'd been waiting for absolution. Forgiveness for her sins against her husband. Her anger at Tal had long since cooled, and she liked to pretend she had moved on into indifference.

  “Pining” and “depression” were better words for how she actually felt.

  The minute his warm voice filled her ear, she felt the tension wash away. The days, months, all the time. She was immediately back in that timeless space.

  “Hey dancer lady. Well, I guess it's official. You really don't want to talk to me. But I hope you'll listen.

  “Whenever you hear this, I hope it finds you well. I hope you're dancing, because you were built for it. I hope you're smiling, because your mouth was made for it. I hope you're laughing, because it's the most incredible sound. And I hope you're being loved by somebody, because you deserve it.

  “I know we lied a lot. To other people, to each other. About a lot of things. About most things. But I never lied about the most important thing – how I felt about you. I was always honest, from the very beginning. I didn't want to be attached to you. I kept pretending I wasn't. But we couldn't stop it. Your heart swallowed me whole. You know my real name, you've been to my real home. You always saw the real me. Not that guy on the job. I should've told you that when I had the chance.

  “That's what you didn't get – you did fall in love with me. I AM that guy in Rome, not the agent in that interrogation room. You ARE that girl in Rome, not the insurance agent from Detroit. Those are who we really are, and I think that's why we found each other there.

  “Fuck, I don't know. Maybe you'll never even hear this. Maybe you deleted it. Maybe you're listening to it right now, picturing that I'm next to you. If it's the last one, then please, please hear me.

  “I'm in love with you. Right now, this moment. Back then, when you were here. In the future, whatever happens. It's love. I should have said that more. I should have touched you more, held you closer, never let you go. I should've quit my job, should've begged you to stay, should've come home with you. Gone anywhere with you. I would live my life in a thousand hotel rooms, a thousand double beds, if it meant getting to be with you.

  “You changed me, Ms. Duggard. You made me come alive, and I didn't even know I was dead. I was just some guy, before you. You made me a man.

  “Please say you haven't forgotten us. Please say you'll never forget. Please say that sometimes at night, maybe sometimes, you remember what it felt like when I got to touch you every night.

  “Never forget. Always remember. And when you do remember, when you're ready … come find me.”

  Mischa. Lost. Her. Shit.

  She stumbled out of her bedroom, sobbing and crying, not even sure what she was doing. She rooted around in the closet, then finally found her laptop. She hadn't used it in a while, because she didn't have internet – couldn't afford it anymore. But she could steal it, so she went out onto her fire escape. She could pick up a neighbor's signal from out there. She sniffled and snorted, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and quickly turned on the computer.

  Come find me.

  She tried to call him, but he'd pulled a “her” - his number no longer worked. Fuuuuuuck. She googled his name, but hardly anything turned up. She found the Ansuz website, and he was actually listed in their employee directory, which kind of shocked her. Even more shocking was the branch he was listed under.

  Ansuz. Office #349-A. 820 Lafayette Street, New York, New York, United States.

  He's in America. Holy fuckballs, he's in America.

  *

  Mischa got up early the next morning and called the phone number for his building. She didn't get anywhere. He wasn't there, and they absolutely would not give out his private number or address.

  Come find me.

  He wasn't there the next day. Or the day after that, either. Or at any of the sixteen random times she called throughout the day.

  She was suspicious. Something wasn't right. The receptionist was either lying, or not telling the whole truth, or something, but it was becoming increasingly clear that Mischa was never going to reach Tal over the phone at that building. Maybe he wasn't even really there ...

  Think. Think. He always knew how to find you. You should at least be able to find him.

  She went to her parents house.

  “Hey Dad,” she called out, walking down into the basement. He was sitting at his workbench.

  “What's up, sweetie?” he asked without looking up.

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, praise the lord,” her dad chuckled, twisting around to face her. “Took you long enough!”

  “Yeah, yeah – where is he?”

  “Was it Mike? I thought that would do it.”

  “Less gloating. More talking.”

  “Well, honey, I haven't talked to him in over a month and a half. Last I talked to him, he was in New York, but he said he was gearing up for a big job,” her dad told her.

  “Big job?”

  “Yeah, some long term gig. Something to keep his mind occupied, you know,” he told her.

  “Long term ...”

  “Yeah. But I don't think he's gone quite yet.”

  “Why? Dad, if he told you anything, I swear I'll -,”

  “Nope. Just a hunch I have. New York. That's where he was last.”

  Then I guess I'm going to New York.

  *

  Staying with him, staying in Istanbul, wouldn't have been right. She'd been telling the truth, she'd needed time to heal, to get over what he'd done and forgive him. Needed time to find herself, for once.

  But Tal had been right, too. They had been in love, and not just for a moment between seconds. Not just in some timeless space. In the real world, in the now, in every moment. She should've trusted that, should've trusted him.

  Now she had to trust that same love would help her find him.

  Mischa wore her nicest power suit, did her makeup extra nice, put on her most expensive shoes, and she marched across the lobby of Ansuz Office #349-A, New York, New York.

  “May I help you?” a pleasant sounding secretary asked.

  I hope she doesn't recognize my voice.

  Misch knew Tal wasn't there, because she'd called before going down there. She asked to speak with someone about hiring a security team. After five minutes, she was called into an office. A tall guy with blonde hair smiled big at her.

  “Hello, Mrs. …,” he fished for her name.

  “Duggard. Ms. Duggard.”

  She gave him the story she'd practiced all week. She was the assistant for a famous country-singer – who also happened to actually be her second-cousin, so she figured it was okay – and was looking over security companies, trying to find one that would suit them.

  It wasn't normally the kind of security Ansuz handled, but the man seemed slightly enamored with her. Or her low cut top. He prattled off figures and numbers and success stories, listed off impressive clients they'd had in the past.

  “I'm sorry, this may seem odd, but a friend of mine was involved in an incident in Turkey. Horrible situation, but I've heard nothing but praise for a certain agent …”

  Yes, Mr. Canaan was an excellent agent, Misch was informed, but he simply didn't handle jobs like hers. He was originally a field man, though he'd been working a desk for the past couple months.

  They put him behind a desk!? That's like keeping a tiger in a cage.

  She replied that she didn't care. If he was the best, she wanted the best. Arguing happened, though she tried her best to keep it flirty. She pushed the man just far enough for him to snap at her. Just far enough to give her what she wanted.

  “Look, I'm sorry, but Mr. Canaan simply can't work for you. His desk is here, but he's been working out of a field office.”

  And that's all he would say. He became a rock after that, wouldn't utter a word, and eventually asked her to l
eave. But that's all she really needed from him, anyway. She thanked the man for his time, then left.

  She walked around for a while, frowning at the ground, dragging her feet. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it had been too long. Surely, if he wanted her to find him, Tal would've made it possible. But this was impossible. He had no family, no friends in America. His job wouldn't say where he was, for obvious reasons. He'd changed his phone number. A call to her father revealed that he genuinely didn't know where Tal was, either. He was just … gone.

  All pretty clear cut signs that he'd given up on her. That things were over between them. She couldn't blame him, not really. After all, she gave up on him. It was kind of fair. It was … karmic. Misch was sad, but she was understanding. She had tried her best, but it was too little, too late. He couldn't be expected to wait forever.

  She'd fallen in love with him in Rome. She'd been in love with him when she'd left Istanbul. She was still in love him, right then and there. And she would still be in love with him tomorrow. And the day after. All the days. All those moments between those seconds. Timeless. Their love would always be alive; a living, beating heart, but just caught in a moment. Caught in their time. Maybe that's all they were. Just a time in love.

  Just a time in an affair.

  She wanted to hate herself. It was a feeling that typically came easy, after she'd left Turkey. But Tal had told her that she wasn't a horrible person. That her bad decisions didn't define her. She tried to think of what he'd say if he was there, and she was pretty sure he'd tell her that loving him, that him loving her, was proof enough that she wasn't horrible.

  She would honor his memory, honor his words.

  Don't forget us, he'd asked her. She wouldn't.

  Remember me, he'd told her. She always would.

  And she was still dancing, still smiling, and still laughing, just like he'd asked. Life wasn't so bad, and she could make it better. Being without him had already been hard when she'd been feigning indifference. It was going to be harder, knowing what she knew now about his feelings. About her feelings. But she could get through it. She would get through it.