by Alexis Angel
The martini glass makes a definitive clanking sound as I set it down hard, kind of like a judge banging a gavel to regain order. The idea is to demonstrate that I’m upset with myself for the way I just reacted to my wife’s touch.
But she also recoiled, shortly after I did, and my attempt at making a point may be pointless by now.
A strong moment of tenderness overtakes me. Seeing Margarita’s eyes uncomfortably scanning the floorboards, all I want to do is care for her, to take her dejection and discomfort away.
It feels kind of familiar—not passionate the way that it once was not too long ago, but warm and loving. I think that’s a good sign. I’m compelled to hug Margarita.
At least hold her tight and absorb…I don’t know.
She comes into my embrace fairly easily. Still clutching her own martini glass by the stem. She doesn’t wrap her arms back around me, but she leans in.
Okay…this is okay, right?
This is what it’s supposed to be about.
This is comfort.
Margarita’s not looking too comfortable after she backs away, though. She’s still studying the grains in the wood of our floor with a distressingly keen interest.
Now I need to win back her attention. And I don’t know if I have it in me.
Quick, think of something before you lose her for good.
“Hey!”
She looks up—that’s a start.
Now what?
Jesus fucking Christ.
The one thing I’ve fought for, since the moment I first caught this woman’s cloudy hazel eyes in the scarf section of Bergdorf’s, was to earn her attention and keep it.
And that script we seemed to be reading from, that easy way I could talk to her…I just lost it.
Quick, think of something else.
Maybe I can try to erase the damage by repeating that out-of-nowhere moment of shoulder-based intimacy.
Okay, take a deep breath, lean in nice and slow, take a good look at that pastel shawl she’s wearing. There’s a loose thread just above her shoulder. Bingo.
“Hey, mon cheri amour, you’ve just got a little something on your…allow me to get that for you.”
My eyes take a leisurely trip to find Margarita’s hazel bits of beauty, and my hand moves gently, smoothly towards the tiny strand by her shoulder, reaching delicately, almost grasping it…
And she jumps backwards.
“Ah! Ah! What are you doing? You startled me!”
The look we share in the next, tense moment is one of confusion, fading into a sort of understanding.
“Thomas, I-I’m…sorry. I’m just not used to you, out of nowhere, coming up to touch my clothes like that.”
“I’m not used to you trying to touch my clothes, either, oh dearest and loveliest one,” I say with a half-smile, trying to inject something light into this sad attempt at conversation.
Margarita shakes her head with just a touch of franticness.
“Okay, well, we won’t be trying that again, I guess.”
“I don’t see why not,” I shrug, “now that the shock has…”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”
This time we both jump at the sudden, thunderous roar coming from the hallway.
Our curious, mildly fearful eyes find each other, and Margarita and I do a quiet, tandem little trot to the door to get a closer listen.
The hallway floors are carpeted to prevent neighborly footfalls from disturbing the peace, but there’s a pair of feet outside that just won’t be denied. They’re loud, slamming insistently against the carpet, clomping their way past our door to the other end of the hallway…
Then back.
Margarita and I choose the exact same moment to look at each other.
“Is it…more performance art?” She’s whispering, and she gets even quieter with those last couple words.
“You don’t need to whisper.”
There it is.
There it fucking is.
Wherever the fuck I left that script, I’ve fucking found it.
Margarita’s eyes are peering into mine, and what I need to say and do—and not say—could not be fucking clearer.
As the angry feet stomp past our door again, I tear that thread right off Margarita’s shawl, and when the yelling outside starts up again, our lips collide and our tongues entangle like fucking crazy.
“I can’t believe he…I can’t believe I…how could I be so fucking stupid? Again?” the woman outside shrieks.
“I don’t think that’s performance art.” We’re both panting, frenzied, after ending that mad fucking kiss. I’m taking the opportunity to explain whatever the fuck might be happening outside. “That’s a young woman going through some shit.”
“Fuck!” More shrieking.
“Young woman?” Margarita whispers. “You’re young! We’re young! At least too young to be acting like…like…”
She doesn’t need to think of the words, because our tongues are already working with each other again to invent a new kind of language.
“What are you doing on this floor? What are you so upset about?” There’s a man’s voice now, but I couldn’t fucking care less.
“I’m not ffff…I’m not falling for any of this shit, anymore,” the girl says. “It’s such clear bullshit.”
“This is so out of nowhere,” the man continues. “Weren’t we just…”
“Okay, I’m still whispering, because I want no part of whatever that is in any way.”
“They can’t hear us, my love, they don’t ca—”
“What on Earth is going on in this building today?”
“Just people living their lives,” I reply with a shrug. “The same as any other day.”
Margarita’s eyes dart towards the window across the living room, and then back at me. “What if I don’t want this to be like any other day?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, Thomas. Let’s go into the other room so we can get some peace and fucking quiet and talk about things.”
Three
Margarita
“Come on, Emilia…”
The one voice is fading, thankfully, down the corridor.
“Fuck! I mean f...I mean, I don’t know.”
But her voice—I’d assume she’s named Emilia, but who even knows anymore—stays fixed just outside our door. Even after she finishes yelling, her voice is so loud, it’s making the entire hallway quiver. The latest in a series of realizations to hit me is that our bedroom isn’t going to be far enough to escape this little show being produced in the hallway.
“I need to deal with this, Thomas. Just meet me in the other room.”
“It’ll deal with itself. And which other room?”
“Oh, for…never goddamn mind.”
For the second time in the last half hour, I throw open the apartment door to deal with whatever bizarre scene is trying to play itself out outside. If the last one was wearing pajamas, I fully expect to see an even weirder costume in the hallway this time—if not a full-on goddamn Halloween parade.
“The peephole could save you a lot of trouble next time, my love.”
“Other room, Thomas.”
While growling that response to the lurking spouse behind me, I come within a mohair scarf’s breadth of gasping at what’s in the hallway in front of me.
“Oh, I was expecting to see something much less normal.”
The young w…the woman staring down the corridor turns her head to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Sigh. I apologize, dear. Things have been quite...lively around here lately. I’m sure I’ve seen you around here before. How good to see a familiar face!”
Maybe-Emilia, who I have seen around the Bradford lobby before, is now looking me up and down—and trying to suppress a laugh.
“Are you in character for a play or something? Tony and Tina’s Wedding or some kinda shit like that?”
“Oh…no, is that what was happening earlier out
here?”
“Uh, no. I was just having a fi—an argument with this guy…I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore. I can’t help but assume that it’s always gonna be bullshit, you know? Like, I can’t let myself keep falling for the same old…”
“It’s not part of the pajama thing, then?”
Emilia can’t suppress her laughter anymore. “Lady, I appreciate the laugh right now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means I can close the door without being too rude. Which is exactly what I do.
“She’s the one doing the performance thing, right?” I ask Thomas.
“I’m quite confident that was real and also that you just slammed the door in her face. But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”
The smile sneaks up on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from grinning, feeling the mischief spread across my face. That roguish feeling is taking over me entirely when I turn to my husband, a bit amused himself with my behavior.
“So, Thomas, as the French say, are we going to go into the other fucking room or not?”
“It’s quiet now. We can talk here.”
“Can we, smart guy?”
“Now you think I’m smart?”
“Not smart enough to spot sarcasm…”
“You know our martinis are still waiting for us, right? Why don’t we make that Step One?”
There’s that feeling of mischief again. It’s like it’s in the air, and it has us both captured. It’s clear in Thomas’s smile—and I’m sure in mine, as well.
“Step One in what? Towards what?”
My curiosity is, admittedly, overwhelming—to the point I may be running a slight temperature.
Is that a normal symptom of curiosity? No wonder it’s so dangerous to felines.
Yet my husband’s refusing to indulge my question. Silently, he takes a single step towards me.
That isn’t helping to solve my curiosity one bit. In fact, my feverishness is suddenly getting worse.
“Goddammit, Thomas.”
Out of frustration, I grab that smiling face of his and pull it towards me, not stopping until my lips are softly touching his ear.
“Don’t like answering questions, do you?” I whisper, before giving his earlobe a firm little bite.
And my husband still doesn’t answer the question. All he does is lean down slightly to adorn my neck with slow, lingering kisses. Thomas is holding both my arms as his lips float up towards mine, and we spend a lengthy few moments returning to where we were before the last hallway interruption.
My curiosity-induced fever is at an all-time high by the time we stop, but I don’t feel ill in the least.
“To answer your question,” Thomas whispers, at long last, “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Wouldn’t you?”
“I think so, Thomas. I think so.”
“Our cocktails await, my love.”
“And your olives…”
“Oh! How could I forget?”
Thomas lets go of me and makes a beeline back towards the bar.
“I’m quite pleased to learn how olives still interest you above everything, and I do mean everything else.”
To be fair and honest, I’m very much looking forward to returning to my own drink as well as I drift to the bar.
“I’m smart enough to spot that sarcasm, my love. Or am I?”
My feverishness recedes, and a sense of comfort washes over me as we retake our usual spots at the bar.
“Are you asking about the nature of my comment?” I ask, picking up my martini glass by its stem.
“If I were, what would you say?”
My drink is still nicely chilled as I take a sip. So much is happening in such a short time.
“I suppose I was being straightforward, Thomas. I do enjoy your quirks, and I’m always finding new ones.”
Thomas demolishes the last of his olives in one bite.
“Good to know I’m not a bore.”
“Ohhhh—I didn’t say that.”
My husband startles me, again, by letting out a few forceful coughs before gulping down everything that remains in his glass.
“I just choked on my fucking olives. That’s not boring, I hope.”
“No. Nothing you do is boring to me.”
“But that’s not what you just said, dearest.”
“What can I say? I think what I think, but sometimes...”
“Sometimes you think I’m boring?”
“Sometimes shit just comes out all fucking weird when I try to say it.”
Thomas drops his empty glass. It shatters on the Brazilian walnut floor.
And he stares at me, wordlessly.
“That’s…that’s my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”
“Really? That?”
“I’m in love with you.”
“I should hope so.”
“And I’m tired of being a bore, so...”
“Okay…wait. Do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m ready to try some new ways of expressing it. You’ve still got that leather overnight bag, right? What were you keeping in there, again?”
“Let’s go to the other fucking room already.”
Four
Thomas
So that’s what I was fucking afraid of this whole time?
“That’s from Bloomingdale’s, right?”
Margarita’s walking out of the walk-in closet, smiling in a way I never see her smile. Her pale, hazel eyes are focused on mine even more penetratingly than they were in the wood flooring in the living room earlier.
“It’s the only place you can get a Pan Am bag these days.”
Yes, that’s what my wife is carrying, and the thing I was afraid of. A blue leather bag.
With the logo of the defunct airline on it. From a fucking department store.
Of course, I’m not sure what’s inside the bag.
Margarita’s tried to tell me once or twice, but…
“I’m ready,” I announce aloud.
“You fucking better be. I didn’t reach up and grab this shit from the top shelf for nothing.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, my heart rate feels like it’s starting to get a bit…swifter than usual. And my ol’ ticker really shoots up towards the stars when Margarita drops the bag on the floor with a weighty thump.
It’s a thump that means something, and I’m about to find out what.
“Seriously, Thomas, that cardigan’s getting frizzy. Take it off.”
Look, it’s a comfortable fucking sweater. The last thing I thought I’d be doing at this point in the evening is…
Fuck that shit. My hands can’t move fast enough to tear the cardigan off my shoulders. I’m starting on the buttons of my dress shirt when I hear a zip. Margarita’s opening the bag, and her fiery grin is now focused downwards at whatever she’s grabbing through the open zipper.
My heart hastens, my mouth parches, my breathing becomes heavy and slow—and so does time for a moment. It’s like I’m watching a series of vivid, brilliantly colored still frames as Margarita’s hand emerges ever so slowly from the piece of luggage.
Holding a small, purple and white squeeze tube with a plastic cap.
“Is that...toothpaste?”
“I know you’re not joking, Thomas. But you’re not charmless, either. Why’d you stop undressing?”
With the mystery and the anticipation tearing me in a thousand different directions, I finish slipping off my dress shirt, and I start pulling off my undershirt while Margarita opens the tube.
The second I pull the shirt up over my eyes, I hear a couple rapid footsteps then the sudden sensation of greedy, eager hands pushing me down onto the mattress. There’s the feeling a warm balm of some sort being voraciously rubbed into my chest with one hand, while another grasps the top of my shirt and rips it off my arms.
The first thing I see once my shirt is off is Margarita’s hands—both of them now—massaging a vi
olet gel across the muscular expanse of my chest, moving up towards my shoulders.
“I’m confused, is it toothpaste or not?”
“It’s concord fucking grape flavored, okay?”
“That doesn’t answer the...”
The feel of Margarita’s teeth digging lightly into my shoulder, followed by her tongue and her lips polishing off all the gel she left there, is enough to stop my words in their path.
“It’s edible massage gel,” I hear her voice snarl softly into my ear. “I mean…fucking hell, dude.”
Those wonderful words are followed by Margarita’s teeth grazing my earlobe once again, leading seamlessly into the tip of her tongue sliding slowly down the side of my neck, returning down to my shoulder, and ending its journey on the border of my sculpted fucking pecs.
The tip of her tongue, providing a riling sensation like a trail of carnal fire in its wake, becomes the side of her tongue as Margarita moves across my chest slowly. Her tongue maneuvers in ways that are both twisting and twisted in their ability to send my mind and my soul into paroxysms of excitement and desire.
“Yeah, you’re so fucking good at licking up that fucking gel.”
That’s my voice, but…yeah, that’s me saying that. There’s no fucking script anymore, though. This shit is coming from the pure, ferocious nature of the moment.
“My fucking cock is so fucking ready for you.”
“Okay, Thomas,” she’s doing that French thing again, “plenty of gel left in the tube.”
“Holy fucking shit! How did we just let that bag sit in the closet for so looooonngggggg…”
The word turns into a deep earthquake of a moan as Margarita reaches right into the waistline of my trousers and grabs my stiff, throbbing shaft with a firm fucking grip.
Really fucking firm.
“Fuck, fucking squeeze that shit.”
“Oh, you fucking like that, huh? You sure you can handle what I can do with some concord fucking grape flavored gel down there?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care if I lose my mind, or I just fucking die from the intensity. It’s all I fucking want in life right now or maybe ever fucking again.”
