A Different Kind Of Forever

by Dee Ernst

She started making dinner at Michael’s, two or three nights a week. She would stop by the store on her way back from Merriweather, and come back to his house with bags of groceries. Fred Chu, a Buddhist and vegetarian, never accepted her invitation to join them. He cooked and ate his own meals in the apartment he lived in over Michael’s three-car garage. Diane loved to cook, and Michael would often wander out of his studio to watch her. Seth and David Go would join them. For Diane, it was like cooking for a new kind of family.

  She was careful they didn’t spend a full week together. She found reasons to spend a night alone. She would drive down to the shore to see her daughters, staying at a motel. She would start cleaning her house, pulling closets apart, calling Michael late in the afternoon saying she was going to stay there and finish up. She would catch the bus to Manhattan and spend the night at Rachel’s.

  For the first time in a long time, Diane felt she was slightly out of control. Her feelings for Michael were a complete surprise to her. Her physical desire for him was intense. She would find herself, in the middle of the day, doing something as ordinary as washing dishes or watering plants, when a sudden wave would come over her, beginning as a throb deep in her belly and moving up, a physical jolt, leaving her breathless and wanting.

  But she knew, and not just from the many nights that she slept peacefully beside him without passion, that it was not just his touch that held her to him. He had a boundless energy and enthusiasm about everything that she found a complete delight. They could talk about any subject. They laughed a great deal together. When she was with him, the world was in sharper focus. When they were apart, she found countless things to remember to tell him, to ask him about. Her solitude was no longer a comfort to her. It was just time spent waiting to see him again.

  She thought that she was in love with him. She would turn to Jasper and say the words aloud, trying on the sound of them.

  “I think I love Michael.” Her voice was always in a whisper when she said it. The cat would blink wisely in response. She would take a deep breath and go on with her day. But the thought was always there, crowding out the quiet and carefully planned life that she imagined she would be living.

  “I think I love him,” she would say to herself, driving out to his house. She sometimes reasoned that Michael was so irresistible to her because she had married relatively young. She had missed the sexual adventures of other women her age. She had slept with only a few other men before meeting Kevin, her high school sweetheart and a couple of brief college flings. She had loved Kevin deeply when they married. She was twenty-one, just out of college, and he, being five years older, had not wanted to wait. She continued to love him for many years into their marriage, and had remained faithful to him, despite the attention other men may have paid to her.

  She wondered if she was just another sexually frustrated middle-aged woman responding to the attention of a younger man, but she dismissed the idea, because she realized that the spark that had been there from the very beginning, the thing that had drawn her to him from the very first day, was still going strong. He made her happy. From the moment she met him, it was not just passion he stirred in her. It was more. It was joy. And she had no idea what to do next.

  If she was away more than a day, Michael would drive over to her house, unannounced. She was always there, waiting for him. Sometimes, he would come around the back of her house, and see her in the yard, tending her roses. He would wait outside the gate, not wanting the brass bell to give him away, and watch her as she weeded or raked. Her movements were quick and graceful, her concentration complete. She did not realize he was there, watching her, until he would call to her, or push open the gate. Sometimes he would walk into the house, and she would be in the kitchen, music blaring, dancing alone in front of the stove, and again he would watch her until he could resist no longer, and he would join her, and they would dance together in her tiny kitchen.

  He hated them being apart. Gordon Prescott was bearing down on him, a huge, suffocating cloud that blotted out everything else. Michael spoke to him sometimes four or five times a day. FedEx delivered revised tapes several times a week. Prescott wanted him in Toronto. He wanted to know at every moment what Michael was doing, and Michael, used to the freedom of writing alone, under no restraints, was in agony. Diane was the one cool, soothing presence in his life. The nights she was not with him he spent awake, on his studio, with David Go, or Seth. Without her there, the movie pressed down upon him relentlessly. Her presence forced him to live a normal life.

  They went into Manhattan together. Diane went to see Shakespeare in the Park. Michael followed gamely. He was not passionate about theater the way she was, and he did not like New York, but her excitement was contagious. They had dinner with Rachel. Rachel’s boyfriend, Gary, was a third year law student, clerking at a large firm on Madison Avenue. He was also a huge music fan, and he and Michael would get into long, rambling discussions of obscure bands, European bands, and techno-music. Gary was twenty-five. Rachel and Diane slipped back into their old relationship, much to Diane’s relief.

  By the first week of August, Michael and David Go began to try to figure out what Toronto would be like for them. David thought they would need six weeks to record the score, at least. The tracks for NinetySeven were almost complete. Joey and Seth would produce the rest of the soundtrack, so Michael would not be needed for any further recording. Gordon Prescott did not believe in time off. Michael knew it would be a grueling time, not only physically, but he would be away from Diane. Thank God it’s only Toronto, he thought. He could fly back easily enough, for a day at a time. And she could fly up to see him on the weekends.

  “What are you doing?”

  Diane was in his bedroom, on her mat. “It’s called the Gate Pose.”

  “Yoga? I didn’t know you did yoga.”

  “Hey, a girl is entitled to a few secrets, you know?”

  “Sure. Okay, what’s that one?”

  “Downward Facing Dog.”

  “Really? It looks like Take Me From Behind.”

  She collapsed on the mat in a fit of giggles. “Michael, I was trying to focus.”

  “Me too. I gotta tell you, that is a very good look for you.”

  She wiped her neck and chest with a towel that she threw into the colorful tote bag she carried back and forth to his house.

  “You’re taking home your towel? Why?”

  She threw him a look. “I don’t want one of your minions doing my laundry.”

  “Minions? I don’t have minions.”

  “Of course you do. You have a person for everything around here.”

  “No.”

  “No? Then who does your laundry?”

  He grinned. “I take it downstairs, knock on the secret panel, give the password, a blind, one-eyed gypsy takes it, and the next day, it reappears in the closet. Isn’t that how everybody does it?”

  She had rolled up her mat, and now swatted him playfully with it. “You are impossible.”

  He grabbed her. “Maybe. But since you’re all hot and sweaty anyway, want to try that Downward Dog thing again?”

  “Tomorrow night I’ll be staying at my place,” she told him, stretching her legs out in front of her. They were out on the terrace of Michael’s house, sipping wine, watching the sun set over the lake. Diane had cooked dinner for them. “Sharon’s got the girls together. We’re all hitting the town.”

  “Ah. The mythical Girls Night Out. What is it you all do together, anyway?”

  “Well, we’re currently plotting to take over the world by manipulating the stock market to resurrect all the tech stocks, which we’ve been secretly buying up all year long. Then we’ll sacrifice a couple of chickens, and drink and dance naked around a statue of Simone de Beauvoir.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows and nodded. “That’s what I would have guessed.”

  Diane smiled. “We’ll go to Maxwell’s, probably. We can walk there, so we can all drink, and we’ll probably dance, but with ou
r clothes on.”

  “What a disappointment.”

  “Then we’ll sit around and drink some more and talk about our kids and our jobs and complain about men.”

  “Complain about men?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s inevitable.”

  “God. You all are going to crucify me, right?”

  “No.” Diane patted his hand. “You’re the new guy. I promise we’ll be very kind to you.”

  “Gee thanks. I like your friend Sharon, but I would not want to be on her bad side.”

  “Don’t worry. She likes you too. She thinks you’re cute. And besides, you told her you could get her Lyle Lovett’s autograph.”

  “Oh, I did, didn’t I? I’d better not forget. I’ll call him this week.”

  “You’d better, ‘cause you’re right about Sharon. You don’t want to get on her bad side.”

  There were five of them, sitting at an outside table at Maxwell’s, waiting for the band to start playing again. They had met at Sharon’s and walked the six blocks, and were all feeling no pain. Ginny Smith, the youngest of the group at 36, was pouring margaritas from a pitcher. Carol Coopersmith, divorced and always on the look-out, had been flirting with the waiter. Sharon had a fight with Richie before leaving and was feeling feisty. Sue and Diane had been giggling all night.

  They had spent the first part of the evening catching up, comparing vacations, the kids, and the heat. When the band had started playing, they all got up on the dance floor. Maxwell’s was a popular spot with all ages, and they were not the oldest people dancing. During the seven or eight songs that played, Diane was asked to dance by three different men. She declined the offers. When the set had ended, and they were back at the table, Diane gulped another drink.

  “Okay,” she announced loudly, “I have been coming here for years without incident, and tonight I get hit on three different times.” She looked around the table. “I need somebody to explain this to me.”

  Carol Coopersmith leaned forward. She was very attractive, sleek blonde hair, tall and thin, brilliant blue eyes. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger.

  “I have a theory,” she said. “It’s because you’re in love.”

  Diane blinked as all four women looked at her. “What?”

  Carol nodded. “You know how, in nature, when a female is ready to mate, she sends out something, a phoneme or something-“

  “Pheromone,” Sue corrected.

  “Thank you. So anyway, the female sends out this pheromone thing and every male in the neighborhood knows she’s ready for sex and comes a-calling. Well, I think it happens to us. When a woman is in love, and knows she’s going to go home and have great sex, she sends out her own little pheromone and every guy in the room smells it, and figures he might be able to get a first crack. That’s why women who aren’t dating never get approached. But women in a hot relationship are like magnets.” Carol shrugged and took a drink. “And that’s my theory.”

  Diane looked around the table. Sue and Sharon were grinning. Ginny raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you?” Ginny asked.

  “Am I what?” Diane sputtered.

  “Going home and having great sex?” Ginny kept a straight face, but Sue was starting to giggle.

  “Of course she is,” Carol announced. “We all know who she’s been seeing. How could she not? Besides, what do you think they do together? Play chess?”

  Diane was annoyed. “Now, wait a minute, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Carol shrugged innocently. “Listen, Diane, I say more power to you. If you can keep somebody like him waiting up for you, that’s great. But don’t try to tell us there’s actually something going on aside from sex. He’s what, not even thirty? What else could you have in common with him?”

  “WHAT?” Diane leaned across the table as Sue reached over and took hold of her arm. Diane glared at Carol.

  “Listen. Michael and I have tons in common. We both love Aretha and hate Prince, we both like Spanish films, we both read Eastern philosophy, and we hate pro football. We have a great time together, and I can’t believe you would think that.”

  Carol blushed and looked closely at Diane. “Well, I guess I stand corrected. I didn’t think you actually, well, dated.”

  Sharon had been looking at Carol critically. “What did you think, Carol? That she had him stashed in a motel room somewhere and just dropped in for servicing?”

  The women all laughed as Diane rolled her eyes. “God, Carol. I mean, yeah, he’s younger, but so what? Would this be a big deal if he were twenty years older? No.”

  Ginny waved a pretzel in the air. “If he were twenty years older, we probably wouldn’t be so interested in the sex part,” she said.

  Sharon burst out laughing, burying her face in her hands. Sue looked at Ginny and patted her hand. “Well, Carol might still be interested,” she told Ginny soothingly.

  “It’s just that dating is so different at our age,” Carol said. “Diane knows what I mean. In your twenties, you’ve got all the time in the world to date around, and you can spend time with a guy who may or may not be the one.” She shrugged. “In your forties, especially with kids, you don’t have time to fuck around, unless you want to just fuck around, you know? Come on, Diane,” she waved her glass. “Tell them. You know by the third or fourth date if a guy is going to be a wash-out. You can’t afford to waste time on a maybe. So, if you stick with a guy for any length of time, it’s either sex, or it must be pretty serious.” She tilted her head and leaned back in her chair. “So tell us, Diane,” she asked, smiling, “is it serious?”

  Diane scrunched up her nose, making a face, and stared into her drink.

  Sue explained. “Diane is having a hard time reconciling her two selves, the staid professor and respected mother by day, crazed groupie by night.”

  “I am not a crazed groupie,” Diane said stoutly. “I’m the keyboard player’s hunny bunny.”

  Ginny frowned. “Do musicians in rock bands have hunny bunnies?”

  Sharon shuddered. “No. And that sound you hear is Jim Morrison rolling over in his grave. I can’t believe you still haven’t figured this out,” she said to Diane disapprovingly. “Jesus Christ, why are you so wishy-washy about this? Why don’t you just admit that you’re crazy about him?”

  “Okay,” Diane said happily. “I am crazy about him.”

  “Oh good,” Ginny chirped. “Can we get shots now?”

  “Yes. We need to celebrate.” Sharon said as she looked around for the waiter.

  “And is he crazy about you?” Carol asked.

  “Shit, yes,” Sharon answered. “You should see them together. He’s a doll. He laughs at all her jokes.”

  Diane looked at Sharon haughtily. “I happen to be a very funny person.”

  “Not that funny, sweets. And he stares at her.”

  Diane looked at her in surprise. “He does?”

  Sue nodded in agreement. “Yep, he sure does. But you stare at him too, so it’s okay.”

  “I do?”

  Sharon was emphatic. “Oh, yeah, all the time. Face it kiddo, you’re in love.”

  “Wait.” Diane felt panicked. “God, that’s what this is, right?” She chewed her lip as a shot glass of tequila was set down in front of her. “I don’t know. Maybe. Do you think? Maybe I’m in love?”

  “It’s an age-old question,” Carol said sadly. “Is the sex great because you’re in love, or are you in love ‘cause the sex is so great?”

  “I think the pheromones have spoken.” Ginny said, reaching for the salt shaker.

  “Let’s just drink up in a hurry. The band is about to start again.”

  It was after two in the morning when they left Maxwell’s. They walked back slowly, laughing and singing. They dropped off Ginny first, then back-tracked toward the street where Sue and Diane lived. As they approached Diane’s house, she could see Michael’s truck in the driveway.

  “He’s here,” she said happily. “He drove down to see me.”
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  Sue squinted. “Does he have a key to your house?”

  “Yep.” Diane nodded. “He sure does.”

  Sharon looked at her sideways. “Do you have a key to his place?”

  Diane shook her head. “I don’t need a key. He has an electric pad thingy to get in. I know the code, but Fred is always there. Fred lets me in.”

  Carol had her arm around Sue’s shoulder. “Who is Fred?”

  “The butler,” Sue said carefully. “Michael has a butler.”

  “Ooooh, really?” Carol made a face.

  “Yep.” Diane giggled. “I think I’m a little drunk,” she whispered loudly.

  “Me too,” said Sue, “but we’re almost home.”

  They went up Diane’s walk. Diane fumbled in her purse for her keys, and Sue leaned against the doorbell. Diane made shushing noises, giggling as she tried to fit the key into the lock. She was leaning her head against the door, fumbling with the lock, when the door opened and Diane stumbled forward. Michael caught her, straightening her up.

  She broke into a wide smile. “Honey, I’m home,” she sing-songed.

  Michael stood, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, squinting at the women. He had obviously been asleep. He looked at Diane, then at her friends, and smiled groggily.

  “So, I guess you had a good time.”

  Diane walked around, stood behind him, and put her arms around his waist, head on his shoulder. “We were celebrating,” she told him.

  He chuckled. “Celebrating what?”

  “My rhizomes,” Diane said distinctly. Sharon and Sue began to laugh. Carol held out her hand. “Hi, Michael. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’m Carol.”

  Michael shook her hand, then looked over at Sue. “Okay, what do I do? I’ve never seen her this drunk before,” he said.

  “Well,” Sue explained, “luckily, the situation is not dangerous, only embarrassing.”

  “Am I embarrassing you?” Diane asked him in a loud whisper.

  “Of course not,” he said with a smile. He looked sideways at her. “You’re adorable.”