Charlie’s gone, with a hand to my cheek and a peck on my forehead, the sort I once found endearing, gone to play computer games and be paid for them, leaving me with five minutes. Five minutes in which to toss the egg–stained dishes in the dishwasher and shut the door, in which to grab a sponge from the sink and quickly unbutton my blouse, sponging off the summer sweat from underarms and under heavy breasts, five minutes until the knock on the back door. And I put down the sponge and open it, blouse seductively unbuttoned, knowing that Peter will have an excuse ready in case Charlie’s running late today, “Hey, pal. I had to go downtown to pick up some paints — wondered if you wanted a ride in to work.” And had the car pool been late, Charlie would have taken Pete up on it with a smile and a cheerful, unsuspecting “Thanks!” and a precious forty–two minutes would have been lost, one minute down the brownstone stairs, twenty minutes there, twenty minutes back, one minute up again.
But Charlie is gone, as he usually is, and so I am the one opening the door to Peter’s cheerful smile, and with a quick fluttery glance at Kate and Alison’s down the hall door, he slips inside and the door is shut and I am caught up in his arms, in his eyes, in him. Today he is hungry and the remaining buttons pop off the silk blouse, one two three and I note that I must find them later and sew them on and then his hands are pushing down the bra so my breasts spill out and his devouring mouth is on them. I must lean against the wall, hands braced flat, fingers down or I will fall. The fire sweeps through me fast, so fast and I have barely seen or touched or smelled him yet and yet the dampness is sliding from bare cunt to bare thighs. His hands, big, rough, incongruously broad for an artist’s hands are around my waist now and lifting me up and onto him. The loose skirt is no impediment and I wrap legs around him, not bothering to wonder when he undid zippers and moved inconvenient clothing, just glad glad glad that it is gone and there is no obstruction between us.
Oh, dangerous we are being, as I ride him, tender breasts rubbing up and down against a heavy flannel shirt and muscled chest beneath, my mouth on his neck and my arms wrapped around him now, fingers digging red welts even through the shirt no doubt. No matter — he has no spouse to wonder at strange markings. Peter’s kisses are gentle, always, no matter what the force of passion — he is too wise to leave visible marks. Not that Charlie could or would stand up to him, but this arrangement is convenient; it suits us all, even Charlie though he does not know it. I am hungry too, hungry for love and passion, and if Peter’s whispered words are only a gentle illusion, no matter — it is enough. Let Charlie have his games and Peter his safe downstairs daily fuck and I my taste of danger and delight. Peter’s hands pull me to him roughly, and his muttered groans pull me over my own edge as I feel his come spilling into me and I dissolve.
Peter thinks that I am on the pill. But I would rejoice in a child if it came, and sometimes I think that if it did I would leave them both, my dear husband and my daring love, and even my ladder–climbing back–stabbing corporation. I would take her up into the mountains, and we would sit together by a lake and sing with the birds and I would never never never speak of love to her. Then the timer from the microwave beeps madly, and we are quick kissing and he is out the door, and I rush through my ten minutes to shower and dress all over again before heading downtown, not forgetting to pick up the buttons and the blouse and needle and thread to take with me, so I can change before returning home, though Charlie will likely work late again tonight.