Swing

by Zachary Leeman

  When the waiter asked for drink orders, Tom got a water, attempting to make up for the night before, but Hillary ordered a bottle of champagne, which made Tom only more curious. He watched his wife looking over the menu, barely noticing him. He looked around at other couples who held hands or laughed together or stared into each other's eyes. Tom looked back to his wife and tried to remember a time when they were like that. He could, though the memories came less and less as more time passed by. They were warm memories of true love, but that's all they were—memories. Tom often wondered whether that warm feeling of true love would ever come back. He also often wondered whether his wife thought the same things. He would never dare to ask.

  When it came time to order, Hillary got a haddock with salad and Tom ordered the lobster. It was one of the most expensive items on the menu and he wanted to see how his dear wife would respond. She didn't. She began pouring champagne in two glasses and handed one over to Tom. He took it, still curious and with no new clues to hint at the motivation for tonight. But as the champagne hit his taste buds and ran down his throat with the smoothness of leather, Tom decided to stop being so curious and just relax and enjoy the evening. His wife would reveal her true intentions soon enough.

  They mostly sat in silence until their food came. Hillary asked a question here and there about school which Tom answered simply and in a matter-of-fact tone. Hillary spoke of her day and her friends and the newest gossip. What Tom noticed, however, was that Hillary never said any of this with real excitement. She was merely speaking to fill dead air.

  Their food arrived and they both began eating. The food was marvelous. Far better than what the school teacher and secretary were used to eating.

  After getting a good start on their plates, Hillary put her silverware down and wiped her mouth as if she were about to say something. Tom continued eating.

  Hillary sipped some wine and then managed, “Do you remember when we first met?”

  Tom stopped eating, finished the food in his mouth, and put his silverware down. His wife had his attention now. He nodded to her.

  “We were exciting,” she said.

  Tom understood, but he couldn't grasp what she could possibly be getting at.

  “I want us to be exciting again, Tom.”

  Tom looked at his wife. He didn't know what to say, because he had a bad feeling about where this was going. He simply felt it. Call it instinct.

  “Don't you?”

  Tom didn't answer for a few moments until he realized the question was not rhetorical. “Yeah.” Hillary smiled. “Well, I have an idea and I want to run it by you. But, you need to promise not to freak out.”

  “Why would I freak out?”

  “Have you ever heard of swinging?”

  Tom rolled his eyes and immediately felt like leaving. Pure anger was his response. He now knew why she took him here. He couldn't make a scene. He would be forced to sit and listen to this nonsense.

  “Just hear me out,” Hillary chimed, “Please.”

  Tom didn't respond. He just looked her way in contempt.

  “I found out a bunch of girls from the office do it, and they were telling me that their marriages are perfect! I mean, come on. We can give it a try. Most guys would be excited about this.” She let that settle, and when it didn't have the effect she wanted she said, “Tom, we haven't had sex in over six months.”

  Tom gawked at his wife. Who was this woman right now? She certainly wasn't his wife. She had never suggested something as crazy as this before, and hadn't been this blunt with him for years.

  “Tom?”

  Tom said nothing.

  “Tom. Please, say something.”

  Tom couldn't help but feel that this was all somehow appropriate. This was where his pathetic life had taken him. His wife was now suggesting that they start fucking other people. Tom thought about another man, one of his coworkers, plowing his wife from behind. He thought about her taking two of them. One from behind and one in front. She wasn't even completely undressed in his mind as she hurried to take other men. Tom couldn't look at her. He hated her. He wanted to yell things at her, call her names, but he couldn't. Did he even have a right to be angry with her? She had committed no wrongs. Though Tom, like many men, considered what his wife did in sick and twisted fantasies to be real life. He looked towards his wife whom he had fallen madly in love with so long ago and said, “Who were you on the phone with?”

  Hillary looked back, confused. “What?”

  “I said, who were you on the phone with earlier?” He tried to sound authoritative.

  His wife looked angry. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It just does.”

  “It was my boss, if you must know,” she said. “Richard.”

  Tom scoffed and looked away. Typical. Hillary worked as a secretary at a consulting firm and her boss, Richard, had always had a thing for her. He would send her flirty text messages and always invite her out for drinks. Tom hated it. Richard was richer than he was, more handsome, more intelligent. Tom wouldn't be surprised if Hillary had already slept with him. He hated her even more now. “I bet he's a swinger, isn't he?”

  “What does it matter?”

  There was real anger in his wife's voice now. He liked that he was making her angry. He liked that she now looked like she wanted to leave. He liked that the night had not turned out the way she wanted it to. They both sat back in their chairs and stewed.

  “No,” Tom said.

  “Sorry I even brought it up,” his wife said without bothering to look at him.

  Tom wanted to leave and she did as well.

  Hillary called for the check.

  They left in silence. As they walked out, Tom walked three feet behind his wife and felt a familiar mixture of anger and depression settling in. He was angry with his wife, but he knew he was really angry with himself. How had he let his life come to this? This was truly it. It was all downhill from here. His wife wanted to screw other guys, his marriage was officially dead, his job sucked and he'd never write again. It was over.

  IV.

  The next morning Tom awoke before his wife. Somehow they had silently agreed to sleep in the same bed. Though each took a side and avoided touching the other. Tom got up around seven a.m. and left the bed while his wife slept. They hadn't said a single word to one another since leaving the restaurant. Tom figured he'd get some sleep and think clearer in the morning. Now that morning had come, and he didn't think any clearer, he decided to take his weekly run.

  Many years ago Tom had been young and in shape and had run every day. It was a passion of his. He would run for sometimes over an hour thinking about his newest story idea or characters he was struggling with, or he would simply use the time to daydream about the glories of the unforeseen future. Now, he ran once a week simply to have the excuse that he wasn't entirely out of shape and usually he just wanted to blow off steam.

  Tom got in shorts and a t-shirt and got his shoes on downstairs. He tried to keep quiet so as not to wake up his wife. In fact he half-wished she would just sleep all day so he wouldn't have to deal with her. Tom went to the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of water. He thought about last night. He thought about the restaurant and what his wife had said.

  Tom was completely against the idea of him and his wife gallivanting around town sleeping with other people. If they were going to do that then what was the point of staying together? Perhaps Tom was old fashioned. He knew he was. But was that the reason for him being so against the idea? Maybe it would save their marriage. If there was one thing Tom had learned over his years of adulthood it was that he actually knew nothing about anything. It was why he now avoided firm positions of any issue. So why was he so firm on this?

  Tom knew he needed to clear his head so he headed for the door. He would only jog about a mile since that was the distance twice around his neighborhood. He couldn't handle much more these days. He liked to be up early
on Sundays to do his jog because all his neighbors were either asleep or in church. He didn't much care for any of them.

  As he ran, Tom passed houses that looked nearly identical in every way. They were all two stories. All white. All had modest and freshly cut lawns. It made Tom sick. Everything was the same. They even had a neighborhood committee that had to approve of every modification to every house and had to approve of everyone that moved into the neighborhood. Tom and Hillary had, had to apply and be accepted before they officially moved in. Tom had been against it. It had been Hillary's idea. Most of the things they did were. The place cost a fortune and Tom had zero disposable income at the end of every year.

  As Tom was jogging and trying to clear his head he noticed a moving van up ahead. It was a U-Haul and there was a woman and a young boy attempting to move various pieces of furniture out. Tom began to jog slower to get a better look at the woman. She had smooth black hair that touched her shoulders and prominent, rosy red lips. Her short jean shorts showed off her well-built calves and tan legs. Her breasts were prominent and teasing the outside world from her green tank top. Even from a distance, Tom felt an intense longing for this woman and her body.

  He didn't want to jog any closer. He just wanted to stand at a distance and admire this woman. But knowing how creepy that might seem Tom decided to speed up his jog and get closer to the van. Maybe he'd even introduce himself. As he got closer, the woman and the boy—he couldn't have been more than ten or eleven—were struggling to lift a couch together. Specifically the boy was struggling. Instinct told Tom to lend a hand and he did. Tom raced over to the woman and her boy and went to the boy's side and lifted the couch up with her.

  “Let me give you a hand with that,” he said. He was sweating and knew he must look gross but he didn't care. He was getting a closer look at this woman. As the couch leveled, the eyes of strangers met and, for a brief moment, Tom knew there was some sort of attraction there. The woman had beautiful green eyes. She looked at him first in confusion and then with gratitude as he followed her and they brought the couch inside, dropping it in an already modestly furnished living room.

  She smiled at Tom and as she passed him she took her hand and folded her smooth black hair behind her ear. Tom was grateful because he got to get a better look at her face as she passed by. He smelled vanilla and cinnamon. It was a moment he knew he would replay in his head again and again.

  Tom followed the woman back outside. He tried to catch his breath before they got out there and he had to speak to her. When they were outside Tom saw the boy sitting on the ground playing with an action figure. The woman turned around once she had walked halfway down the pathway to the door, smiled at Tom, and said, “I'm Penelope.”

  Tom reached out and shook her hand, though he felt like doing far more. The woman had a Spanish accent and her English was quite good. She had a very light tan on her skin that made it shine. Tom was in heaven. As he shook her hand he replied, “Tom.”

  She repeated his name and smiled. He wanted her to say his name even more. She turned and pointed to the boy playing by the moving truck, “This is my son. His name is Stevie. After Steve McQueen.”

  Tom laughed at this and looked over to the boy who didn't acknowledge the adults.“Your idea?”

  “No,” Penelope said and smiled. “His father's.”

  Tom's heart dropped. He forgot about the man in the picture. “Ah. And where is the lucky guy?”

  “A long way away,” Penelope said seriously. Realizing her mistake she said politely, “It's complicated. But it's just me and Stevie.”

  Tom's heart skipped a beat.“In this big house?”

  “My mother lives here,” Penelope said. “She is in the hospital up the road right now recovering from knee surgery.”

  “Ah.”

  They both stood there for a moment, enjoying each other's company. Tom knew she had some sort of attraction towards him. He could feel it. He even saw her eying his wedding ring. Or perhaps it was all in his head. Perhaps the attraction was one-sided and not mutual. Either way, she was stunning.

  “Do you need any more help?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “No. I think we'll be alright.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Tom.”

  Tom attempted to savor her flavorful Spanish accent and the way his name rolled off of her tongue. “Sure,” Tom replied. He headed to the curb and continued his run. He told himself not to look back because he knew she'd be watching. He tried to keep his back straight and make his strides smoother.

  Between two houses in the neighborhood was a large open space, filled with trees and forestry. It was a walking path that some of the older couples used during midday walks. Tom headed into this forestry, deviated from the walking path, and hid himself behind a tree where he couldn't be seen. He pulled out his penis and thought about Penelope. He thought about the way her breasts teased him when he and she had talked, thought about her rosy red lips doing things to him, thought about taking her on the couch he’d helped her move into the house.

  Finally Tom came, and it felt marvelous. For just a moment he felt pure bliss. His wife never brought up the swinging thing, and he and Penelope were holding each other in a bed somewhere. Tom opened his eyes to see endless green and trees and was shot back to reality. He pulled up his pants and felt dirty. He needed a shower. He got back to the road and walked the rest of the loop. He didn't take a second one around.

  When Tom got home Hillary was still sleeping. He hadn't run for as long as he had hoped. And though he had left the house with the intention of coming back with a clear head, his mind was more clouded than ever. He went upstairs to take a shower.

  Tom tried to remain quiet as he stepped into the shower. He hoped Hillary wouldn't wake up. He felt the need to be alone with his thoughts now. Tom turned the shower on as hot as it could go. The water burned his skin and made him flinch. It needed to be hot. He couldn't get the thought of himself in the woods out of his mind. He felt dirty and ashamed. He winced as he pushed himself further under the water. His skin turned bright red. He deserved it.

  Tom thought about the woman and the boy. He’d caught his eye wandering before, but he'd never been so drawn to another woman.

  When Tom got out of the shower, he heard his wife downstairs clanking dishes around. He closed the door to the bathroom to try and drown out the noise.

  Tom wiped the mirror with his hands and looked upon himself once again. But his mind wasn't on his own being, it was on another person's. He closed his eyes and pictured Penelope. He pictured her wearing black fishnets buckled to small panties. He pictured her with no shirt. Looking at him with those eyes. Longing for him. Tom felt his blood quickening. He opened his eyes to see the shameful grown man that jerked off in the woods to a total stranger, the man who couldn't keep his marriage together, the man who had failed everyone including himself. Blood quickening, anger rising, Tom smashed his fist against the glass. He felt immediate sharp pain in his knuckles. Blood ran down his hand into the sink. The mirror was cracked only in the center.

  “What was that?” he heard yelled from downstairs.

  Tom didn't answer. And he didn't look in the mirror again. He dried himself off and got dressed.

  Tom walked slowly downstairs. He had bandaged his hand. Hillary was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal watching a morning news program. She immediately looked to him and his bandaged hand when he entered the living room.

  “You ok?”

  “Yeah.” Tom sat down on a couch diagonal from Hillary.

  “What happened?”

  Tom looked at his hand. A little blood had soaked through. He didn't have the energy to come up with a good excuse. “I punched the mirror.” He didn't look to his wife, but he knew she was looking back at him.

  “I'm sorry,” he heard.

  “There's nothing to be sorry for.”

  “You're angry,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “
At me?”

  “No.”

  They both sat in silence. Tom's wife got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen. Tom watched her. He put his head down and looked at his hand. The bandage was even more covered in blood than before.

  He was a fucking piece of shit. He deserved it. He couldn’t make his wife happy. She was the only thing he ever did right, and he couldn’t even make that work. Tom felt like leaving. Getting in his car and just leaving. Giving Hillary the freedom she deserved. He brought her to America with the promise of fame and fortune and now she was a glorified paper pusher who wanted nothing more than to blow her boss guilt-free.

  Maybe that was all he could give her now. Tom felt like he had nothing left. He couldn't write, he couldn't fuck, he couldn't be a husband or a father. He had nothing left. He wasn't a man. He was a shameful waste of space. Tom slowly made his way to the kitchen. He stood in the doorway as his wife washed dishes. She turned the water off and looked over to him.

  Tom marveled at how beautiful his wife managed to look in the morning with nothing but a robe on. No make-up, her hair undone. It didn't matter. How did he fuck this up?

  “Are you happy?” Tom asked.

  “Are you?” Hillary responded.

  Tom thought about the question. He knew the answer. But he also knew there was little hope for him. “It doesn't matter.”

  Hillary turned to face Tom curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “I'm happy if you're happy.”

  Hillary got silent and stared at the ground. They both knew the answer to the original question.

  “Are you?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  Tom let that settle in. He didn't feel like crying or feel any heavy wave of emotion pass through him. He was used to disappointment and self-hatred. He had become an expert. This blunt statement would just be added to the pile of misery. “Then let's do it,” said Tom.