Julian

THE SMELL OF her pussy lingered on his fingers all through the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Or was it guilt that he smelled for days afterward? He washed his hands when he got back from the countryside, took his wedding ring off his finger and soaped it, too. When he’d dried his hands, he could smell it again. It was still on his fingers, that rich, tangy smell. Her smell was different from Jannika’s — darker and softer, more exciting — and Julian feared that Jannika would smell it if he went near her. He washed his hands again.

He thought the girl might call him again and cause problems. He decided not to answer if she called. He felt he should just be with his family on New Year’s, build a snow fort with his kids in the yard, try to normalize the situation.

He still didn’t know what to make of what had happened on Christmas Eve. Something had turned hard, something inside him. Or he himself had turned hard, changed completely. So had Jannika. So had their family.

It had become difficult to breathe.

He watched Jannika hum as she prepared for their New Year’s Eve party. Some friends were coming over. Jannika loved these kinds of get-togethers. Friends and wine and different kinds of cheeses and candles all over the place. On nights like these, her eyes shone as she talked about politics and literature; her whole being shone with the knowledge that anything was possible, with the children romping around and the adults laughing and the whole world within their grasp. On nights like these, it was easy to love Jannika. She was completely present.

The guests arrived at six. They always started out talking about the same things: news about their kids, holiday plans, disagreements at work, the progress of their careers. After a couple of glasses of wine they switched to discussing politics and art. The sameness of these conversations didn’t seem to bother Jannika. Julian had begun to find it annoying. He always had the same feeling — here we are, after thirty years, pudgy, prosperous, drinking wine of a good vintage, making pseudo-clever witticisms about where the world is heading. We think we’re unusual, intelligent, aware, but in reality we’re just middle-class comfort seekers. Can’t get a decent erection anymore, nothing can get it up, least of all our own wives. There’s crud built up in our blood vessels, our opinions have dulled to trivialities, and we’re starting to grasp at possessions because we have no real passion left.

Julian felt his heart beating at double time, an urge to flee wriggling in his belly. He nervously sipped his wine. The girl kept forcing herself into his mind. What did sixteen-year-olds do on New Year’s Eve? A house party, drinking too much strong homemade wine and puking in a snow bank. Giving each other hickeys and passing out before the fireworks started.

The feeling of wanting to flee grew stronger. How had he got himself into this? She was a child. He gulped down the rest of his wine. He had to go into the kitchen, said he was going to fetch more wine and put some on to mull. He couldn’t sit there listening to his wife talk excitedly about the state of the world when his hands smelled like a teenager’s pussy and all he could think of was fucking her endlessly.

He got up and brushed Jannika’s neck as he passed. When he got to the door he turned around and looked at the familiar mole on her neck. When they’d first started seeing each other he had nibbled at that mole every day, kissed it in the long, dark nights, loving Jannika more and more all the time. He’d had a habit of covering it with his thumb. His thumb fit perfectly within its outline. That indelible mark had aroused an amazing feeling of happiness in him, unbridled longing, an insatiable desire to be with her always. Suddenly he had the same feeling again. Nothing could be more real than that mole. Nothing could be more tender. Nothing could be more meaningful than the fact that there was a girl with that mole, and that now she was a woman, and the mother of his children, and still there was the same mole where the fuzzy down on her neck turned into the even forest of her hair. And he still had a thumb that fit perfectly within its boundaries.

Standing there in the kitchen doorway he was struck by intense guilt and shame. He had to end the whole relationship. Relationship? What kind of a damn relationship was it, anyway? An adult playing games with a child. He had to end it immediately. Not call her anymore, not answer if she called. This is my life, he thought. Infatuations happen — love, even — but they pass. This is my life.