Slip of the Tongue

by Jessica Hawkins

  “He’ll eat at the bowling alley—God knows what kind of junk they serve—and that’s one less meal for you at the diner.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “It’s nice to have a friendly neighbor.”

  “Sure, just not too friendly,” I joke and immediately wish I hadn’t. It wasn’t funny, and if anything, it might be misconstrued. Isn’t that why I said it, though? I’ve had too much wine.

  He laughs, though, and picks up his plate. I turn away so he won’t see that my face is red. Partly from the alcohol, but mostly from that comment. I stand up and get the leftovers into a Tupperware container.

  He’s standing at the sink with the faucet on. “Don’t even think about it,” I tell him.

  “The dishes are the least I can do.”

  “Absolutely not.” Nate doesn’t do the dishes. It’s our routine, and I like it that way. The kitchen is where I get to take care of him. Everywhere else, Nathan puts me first. Cooking is one thing I don’t think he’ll ever ask me to stop doing for him, no matter how upset he is. “Seriously. I’m one of those rare birds who enjoys doing the dishes.”

  “Well, then.” He turns off the water and walks over. He stops right in front of me. I have to tilt my head back a little. “Aren’t we just a couple of rare birds?”

  We haven’t been this close yet in here. I still sense the playfulness between us, but I think my bad joke has tipped it into new territory. I’m painfully unable to think of the right response. I like our easy nature. I don’t want to send the wrong message. “I guess so.”

  “You left your hair curly.”

  “You . . .” The wine has made the inside of my mouth tacky. I run my tongue along the roof. I could drink another glass or two. It’s getting a little late for company, though. “You don’t like it straight?”

  “I like it both ways. I just find it interesting. Have you always worn it straight?”

  “More as I get older. It’s no different than wearing makeup or heels. Most women color their hair. I just straighten it.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because that would be weird. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No.” I’m surprised by my response, quick and cold. That simple no is a confession. Knowing your neighbor’s name is a pillar of our culture. To deny it means more than to accept it. I should want his name, and I do. I want to know him better. From the lifted corner of his mouth, he knows it too.

  We stand in silence for a moment. The parts of me closest to him get warmer. His body must run hot, like my husband’s. A noise in the hallway makes me move away. I listen for Nate’s key in the door, even though he wouldn’t be home yet. I wish he would come home now, but Ginger doesn’t bolt for the entryway.

  “It’s Finn,” he says, a hint of beer on his breath. “Finn Cohen.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Sadie.”

  “Sadie,” he repeats.

  “Finn.” I hold out the Tupperware. “Here.”

  He accepts it and walks a few steps back. “Thanks. See you around . . . Sadie.”

  My heart beats too hard to ignore. He stirs something in me, something I’ve been forced to bury for months. I don’t like it. I don’t like the fact that if it weren’t for Nathan, I’d invite Finn for another drink. Let the lines blur, the conversation get intimate. I’ll never know where it would go from there.

  I lock the door behind him.

  THREE

  Nathan makes no secret of his late-night arrival home from bowling. The front door slams. The bedroom lights come on. At first, I think I’m dreaming. I sit up and rub my eyes to see the clock. The red digital numbers sear my eyeballs—it’s after two in the morning. “Nate?”

  He fills the doorway, standing there as if he forgot what he came in the room for. “Yeah?”

  “You woke me,” I say.

  “Sorry.”

  He doesn’t look or sound sorry. His tie is balled in his fist, the collar of his button-down open. He’s been wearing his hair in a smooth wave lately, like a dark chocolate truffle. Different. I like it. It’s almost survived whatever he’s been up to, except that a few stiff pieces sag over his forehead.

  My husband is dark, with olive skin and brown-black hair that matches his eyes. But I don’t think of him that way. To me, he’s idyllic and warmhearted. That’s his personality. Tonight, though, there is a darkness about him.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask.

  “Same place as every other Monday night.”

  Still gauging his mood, I hide my disdain for his snark. “Yes, I know. I meant after.”

  “No after. Just came straight home.”

  “You got this wasted at a bowling alley?”

  He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried telling you, it isn’t just a place you go roll a ball. It’s—” He sighs. “Never mind. I’m not wasted. We had drinks. Is that okay with you?”

  “It’s fine. When have I ever said you can’t go out drinking?” I glance at the clock. “I mean, it is late for a Monday night, but . . .”

  He throws his arms up in frustration and goes to our walk-in closet. His tie and suit jacket end up on the floor before he undoes his belt and begins to undress. Nathan has always had a nice, solid ass. The first time I watched him walk away, my friend Jill called me out for staring. That was before he worked out consistently. Now, he’s in the gym four days a week, and I’m definitely not the only woman enjoying the view.

  “Nathan . . .” Considering our up-until-now healthy sex life, I still have a hard time accepting the fact that we’ve slept side by side for this long without touching each other. “Come to bed.”

  “I am,” he says over his shoulder.

  “I mean now. Like . . . right now.” I take my bottom lip between my teeth. Our high-thread-count sheets are suddenly silkier. The hour is no longer of any importance to me. Two months is a strange amount of time to go without sex. After a week passed, I started to go a day or two without even thinking of it. But sometimes, out of nowhere, my need will burn me up from the inside out. Two months isn’t long enough that I’ve forgotten how good it is with him.

  Nathan keeps his back to me, piling his clothes at his feet. “I’ll take care of this in the morning.”

  Even drunk, Nate is worried about making a mess. I’ve never had to beg him to put his socks in the hamper or pick up the dry cleaning like some of my friends do with their husbands. He’s tidier than anyone I know. “I don’t care,” I say. “You have plenty of suits. Come to bed.”

  “I said I will,” he says shortly.

  We both go quiet. Nathan’s head is over his shoulder, but his eyes are on the floor. I slouch back against the bed. It doesn’t concern me that Nate goes drinking with friends. I encourage it. He’s social. I’m not as much. When he’s happy, I’m happy. Tonight, though, there was no text or phone call like I’d assumed there’d be. Nathan and I used to be in continuous touch—virtually and physically. He’d text me just to say hi or tell me something about his day. He’d take my elbow when we crossed the street and leave me love notes in unexpected places. He got hungry for me at unexpected times. We were always in touch.

  To go from one extreme to another is jarring. Before now, when Nathan went out with his friends, it was with reluctance. He didn’t want me to be lonely. He wanted me with him, but when I’m there, he goes out of his way to make sure I’m having a good time. None of his friends do that with their wives, and that’s part of why I stay home two nights a week. He should have fun with them, not worry about me.

  When it becomes clear Nathan isn’t going to apologize for his tone, I slip back under the covers and pull my pillow under my head. “Excuse me for wanting my husband to fuck me.”

  He says something under his breath. My temperature rises as I try to guess his comeback. I think it’s “give me a break.” Uncalled for and unoriginal. Neither of us is good at
fighting. We don’t do it often. I should be better considering my parents did it on a weekly basis when I was a kid and still do. My dad started drinking when I was a kid, and his unhappiness soon spread through the family. My mom picked up the addiction next. She was a shy drunk. During a fight, she’d run into their bedroom. It was the scrape-click of the door’s deadbolt that would send my dad over the edge. When my brother was older, my dad picked fights with him. Andrew would barge into my room and lock the door. Although Dad never came after me, Andrew’d find me under the bed or in my closet. Coloring when I was younger. Playing music or reading magazines when I was older. Escaping. He’d kiss me on the forehead before climbing out my window and speeding off on his motorcycle. Like my mom, I hid until it blew over, which it always did.

  I turn to my side, away from Nate, and take a meditative breath. I don’t want to go there with him. He’s sensitive, and I’ll probably say something I don’t mean. “Turn out the lights, please,” I tell him. “And don’t touch me tonight. Or any night until I say you can.”

  I expect a retort, maybe some more muttered, passive-aggressive attitude. It doesn’t come. The floor creaks. Nathan turns out the light but doesn’t get into bed. Seconds later, I hear a burst of voices in the next room before it gradually lowers to a soft hum. TV glares flashes into the bedroom. My side of the mattress sags.

  “You’re like the goddamn princess and the pea,” Nathan told me once over breakfast. We’d been dating a month or two and had slept in the same bed a handful of times. “I had to hug you all night just to keep you still.”

  I blushed, smiling. “How do you know I wasn’t faking so you’d cuddle?”

  “Because you already know I don’t need any excuse to cuddle with you . . . Princess.”

  “Princess?” I asked, surprised. He’d never called me that before. “Says who? I’m no princess.”

  He grinned. “Then I guess that makes you a pea.”

  Six months later, when he affectionately referred to me as ‘pea’ for the third time, I stopped him. “I don’t like that nickname.”

  “Why not?” he asked, serious. “You don’t want to be a pea?”

  “A shriveled green ball that people pretend to like but actually hate?” I stuck out my bottom lip.

  He laughed and laughed. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. That’s you.”

  Every few months, after I thought he’d mercifully forgotten about it, he’d call me pea out of nowhere. “More wine, Pea?” he’d shout in a crowded restaurant, or, another time, when we were alone, “My dear Pea, I took out the trash so you won’t have to.”

  Tonight, I stare at the wall, unable to sleep. My problems are little green veggies under the mattress. I never could get him to shake that dumb nickname, but now I can’t remember the last time he used it. It’s just one more addition to a growing list of things I took for granted.

  I get out of bed. Now, I’m not just hot for him, but nostalgic too. It’s a lonely combination. I stand in the bedroom doorway. It’s dark, except for the flash of the TV, and I know he can see me from where he lies on the couch in his boxer briefs. There are tools I haven’t used on him yet, and I think it might be time to get them out. When he looks over, I strip off my dowdy pajama top, then slowly peel my panties off.

  “Nathan,” I try again. “Come to bed. You know what I want.”

  He stares. If he doesn’t answer, I might have to beg. I’m not above it. Nathan’s never made me doubt his attraction to me until now, and two months isn’t enough to extinguish my confidence.

  After a moment, he responds, his voice raspy. “What do you want?”

  “You know,” I repeat. I run a hand between my breasts, down my stomach. As I reach my mound, ready to do whatever it takes, he rises fluidly from the couch.

  Briefly, I think of Finn, who sat there not hours ago. His beer-breath, later, as he told me his name.

  I forget all about him when Nathan stalks toward me.

  Suddenly, I’m nervous—to have sex with my own husband. He stops in front of me. The only sound is our breathing. I can’t wait any longer. I rise onto the balls of my feet and press my lips to his. I wait there. Finally, he slides his hands in my hair and kisses me back. I hug his neck. And he thaws—right there in my arms. This is the Nathan I know, the one who adores me no matter what’s going on his head.

  On an inhale, he picks me up by my middle and walks me backward toward the bed. “Christ, baby,” he says between frenzied kisses. “You taste so—”

  I moan, “Nathan.”

  He stops. Without warning, he releases me like my skin’s on fire.

  I stumble to catch my balance. “What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.

  I can see his expression darkening. I don’t want to lose him, but he looks at me as if he doesn’t know me. The silence grows uncomfortable. He engulfs my shoulders with his large hands and slowly turns me around. “Are you sure?”

  I keep my gaze forward and swallow dryly. “Sure . . . about what?”

  He steps forward, pulling my back to his front. “You sure you’re ready?” he asks hoarsely into my ear. His rigid length jabs my lower back. There’s no question he’s ready. “Because two months is a long time to stay away from something I want. I’m going a little crazy.”

  I nod breathlessly. “I’m ready. You don’t have to hold back.”

  “All right. I won’t.” He pushes me. It catches me off guard, and I fall forward onto the bed. I grip the comforter. He’s so hot for me, I barely recognize him. Even his voice is different. And I fucking love it. I’m right where I want to be, at Nathan’s mercy. Months’ worth of desire courses through me. I’m almost trembling with anticipation. He feels me between the legs. I’m wet. He’s hard. We don’t need foreplay. “Fuck me,” I demand.

  He removes his hand, and his cock takes its place. The blunt tip presses against me. He folds over my back, sliding in slowly. I turn my head to kiss him just as he thrusts into me.

  I cry out, dropping my forehead to the mattress. “Yes,” I groan as he drives into me.

  “Yes?” He pulls my hair until I’m looking up at the headboard. He takes me fast, greedy, knocking the bed against the wall. “You like that?”

  “Oh, God, Nate—”

  He clasps a hand over my mouth and with his hot, whispered shh, my skin pebbles. He breathes on the curve between my shoulder and neck. He feels too good. It’s been too long. Neither of us will last when he’s going at me like an animal. I want it. I want to explode into a million pieces and when it’s over, I want him to sweep me up like shards of glass and put me back together.

  His grunts come louder in my ear. My own orgasm builds, within reach. He slaps me firmly on the ass. With the unexpected sting, I shudder around him. He’s rougher tonight, unbridled from staying away. Nathan can make love to me for hours, but the fact that I can still make him lose control in minutes turns me to jelly.

  He tightens his hand in my hair. “You love getting fucked from behind, don’t you, you little slut?”

  I bite down on my lower lip with a sharp gasp. Nathan’s never in his life called me a slut. Out of pure shock, my pussy contracts around him, drinking him deeper.

  “Fuck,” he bites out.

  With two more thrusts, and with my face hot as the sun, I come—already—and I come hard. More intensely than I thought possible for so little time.

  “Someone likes to be a slut,” he murmurs appreciatively from above.

  There’s no hiding how turned on I am by the new pet name. I’m speechless and gushing on his cock. I could come again. “Uh-huh,” I breathe.

  He straightens up, takes my hips in his hands and pulls me onto him fast and brutal. Another orgasm closes in on me already. Before I can catch it, he plunges deep and releases into me, filling me with everything he’s got.

  We stay that way a few seconds. He continues to move in and out of me, slower now, leisurely. He touches my lower back. My eyelids droop. This—the burst of a long-contained climax fo
llowed by a lover’s touch—is true bliss.

  Nathan pulls out of me. I drag myself up the bed as he flops down next to me. We lie there, panting in the darkness. My body’s still thrumming. He was raw. Carnal. I’ve never been his little slut, and after seven years together, a surprise in the bedroom can be a turn-on.

  It can also be alarming.

  Why did he call me that? Does he want a slut? Should I ask?

  I wait a few seconds to see if he’ll speak. “Nate . . .?”

  He just hums. His breathing slows. I understand—it’s late, and he’s had a lot to drink. It isn’t the best time to bring up anything serious. If it’d been any other night, I would ride this kink wave. I can be his bad girl. But considering he’s been different lately, I’m not sure if it’s cause for concern.

  I get beneath the covers. Maybe the spell is broken, and tonight was a breakthrough, and tomorrow will be different. I tuck into my pillow and release any anxiety with my exhale. Even though nothing has really truly changed, I cling to the hope that tomorrow will be a new start.

  FOUR

  The next morning, Nathan wakes up before me. I touch my hair, tangled from his fingers in it. I want today to be fresh. A clean slate, as if the last two months never happened. I won’t even make him tell me what all this was about, not right away at least. Marriage isn’t easy. Everyone goes through rough patches.

  I get up and put on my robe. His side of the bed looks undisturbed. I find him in the kitchen, already showered and dressed. When we were younger, it was a struggle to get him in a suit. Now, he wears one during the week, and the girl in me finds him grown-up sexy. “Morning.”

  His back is to me. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

  My mug waits on the counter as it does every morning. No matter his mood, Nathan is smart enough not to cut off my caffeine.

  I pick a question that will let him lead the conversation. “How do you feel?”

  “I drank too much last night.” It sounds like an apology—but for what? Snapping at me, or sleeping with me? I hate that I can’t tell. For so long, he was an open book.