“There’s just this empty place inside of me that only he can fill.”
-Torn Between Two Lovers, Mary MacGregor
Monthly meeting of the Scarlet Letter Society.
Zoomdweebies Café
Friday, August 3, 2012
5:30 a.m.
You’re off the hook. Everyone traveling and whatnot, so this month we will take a “book club” summer vacation. Too hard to follow Erica Jong anyway.
“The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread.”--The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne
“So how’d your Ho-prah book club meeting go?” asked Wes as he sifted through the rack of vintage 1960s men’s t-shirts at Maggie’s shop.
Maggie stood at the counter, pricing a box of women’s shoes from the 1940s. She smiled.
“It was quite intellectual, asshole,” she said. “We actually talked about a book.”
“Oh, I thought the whole “book club” thing was just to make you all feel like you were actually doing something productive, but that you never actually read any of the books,” Wes said,.
“To be honest, that’s what usually happens. But I think we needed to get away from the historical shit. While it is beautifully written, it was just too long-winded for the likes of us, possibly with the exception of Lisa, who I think was probably the only one who read it.”
“The cute piemaker! I’m so proud of her,” said Wes. “I’m going to go over there and buy a blackberry pie from her, and then give it to my mother because it’s too fattening.”
“Yeah, God forbid you eat too many carbs, even when there’s fruit involved,” said Maggie.
“What did you just call me?” Wes huffed in mock disgust.
“I need advice,” said Maggie.
“Oh, God. Well let me guess,” said Wes. “Even though I’m your gay best friend, you are once again going to seek my Yoda-like Jedi wisdom on straight men and sex and dating.”
“Pretty much,” said Maggie. “I think it was re-reading Fear of Flying again that got me into this ‘thinking about my love life’ mode, and now I’m just kind of a mess.”
“Oh, God, you read Fear of Flying again. Ok, Isadora, well, what the hell exactly is your problem?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like such a relationship failure. I fucked up my first marriage, then I fucked up my second marriage. Now I have a boyfriend and a girlfriend…and Dave and I just fucked.”
“I’m sorry. I clearly did not hear you. Whaaat did you just say?” asked Wes, surprised.
“We had lunch plans to talk about Lilith’s graduation party,” said Maggie. “I don’t even know how it ended up happening. He wanted to show me this historic building in town that he’d just saved from the wrecking ball and listed on the National Register of Historic Places. So we walked the few blocks over there after lunch. I said I’d love to see the inside, and he of course knew which door to go in, and we ended up fucking on this huge windowsill on the 13th floor. Half the town could probably see us.”
“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Fucking. Kidding. Me,” said Wes. “Exhibitionism is a new one for you. And who fucks on the 13th floor? Have you and Dave ever hooked up since your divorce? I know you would’ve told me.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” said Maggie. “I didn’t tell anyone, I was so embarrassed! Just told the girls at A-club group therapy. I totally cheated on my second husband with Dave, who was cheating on his second wife with me before they divorced. We’ve gotten together on and off over the years since our divorce.”
“Well I do declare, Margaret,” said Wes, “this is an entirely different shade of scarlet!”
“I know,” said Maggie. “I guess I never felt like it was cheating if it was Dave. We have kids together. We have history. Our marriage fell apart because we lost our son, and we just didn’t know how to console each other or even ourselves. But I never stopped loving him.”
“Oh my Holy God,” said Wes. He put two bowling shirts on the counter and took out his wallet. “Alfred and I will look fab in these at 50s night at the theatre. Girl, you’re a hot mess as usual. I’m not even sure what advice to give you, and you know I’m never speechless. I guess to me it sounds like eventually you and Dave are going to have to sit down, in a chair, not on each other’s faces, and talk about what the hell is going on.”
“You’re right,” said Maggie. “At some point I’m going to have to learn to stop putting band aids on the gaping wound from my first marriage ending. It’s not fair to the band aid people. But I don’t know how Dave feels. I always figured maybe it’s just a sex thing for him—he’s a guy!”
“Well, I’m a guy, and I’m as much of a fan of random sex as the next guy, but I don’t think that is what is going here,” said Wes. “Remember what you said before about having these other people be “fillers” and now you’re calling them “band aids” or whatever. I know that feeling from my past relationships, and it’s what’s different about the one I’m in now. Maybe the only thing that can heal that wound is going to come right from the source of it.”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “I guess time will tell.”
“It always does, honey,” said Wes, giving Maggie a big hug.
Lisa nervously sprayed glass cleaner on the front window of the bakery. The tiny café set in the shop’s bay window was a perfect place for a mom to sit with her three-year-old and a scone, but while she texted on her phone, the three-year-old had pawed the front windows with chocolate milk fingers, watching the cars and people go by.
Ben would be there shortly. She had offered to make lunch, but he had insisted on bringing it, noting that she cooked for people all day and deserved the break. He was picking up tapas from the great Thai restaurant up the road.
The bakery was open, so she wasn’t nervous about getting into an awkwardly sexual interaction that she confusingly both wanted and didn’t want to happen. She slumped into the café chair. What exactly is it that you do want, Lisa? The voice in her head asked her. Do you want him to take you in the back and throw you over the sofa, like you told the Scarlet Letter Society he already has? Or do you just want friendly conversation and flirtation and another round with your vibrator later on, thinking of him while Jim is at work?
She’d written one thought in her journal that morning that seemed to be one of the only truths she knew at this point: “He takes away the loneliness.” It was a powerful thing. Even in a marriage, it was shocking how lonely you could actually feel sometimes.
She finished cleaning the fingerprints on the window. She had felt sorry for the little girl whose mother had been so distracted by her iPhone. Was texting or checking your email really more important that the adorable, curly-headed little blonde girl sitting across from you? Lisa knew she wasn’t someone who should judge a mother, not being one herself, but the jealousy over wanting to be a mother sometimes made her critical of women who seemed to take for granted the gift of a beautiful child.
And then she saw Ben walking up the street. He hadn’t seen her yet. He wore faded jeans, worn loafers, and a slightly wrinkled dark green polo shirt, the neck of a white t-shirt showing beneath it. His brown crew cut hair was neat as always. In addition to a large brown paper bag containing their lunch, he carried a folder of logo illustrations.
She scurried back behind the counter and busily put freshly baked muffins into the shop’s front case. The bell above the Victorian building’s old original double front doors jingled as he entered, smiling at her. She returned the smile, feeling color rise to her cheeks and willing it to fade back down.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Swain,” said Ben.
“Well good afternoon, Mr. Nidale,” said Lisa, trying not to grin like a middle school girl with a crush on the boy in her algebra class.
Lisa realized that since most of their communications had taken place on electronic devices (in addition to the fantasy sequences scrawled in her journal) this was one of the few times they’d actually met in person, and she was nervous. She knew more about him from stalking him on Facebook (status says single, photos with girl say “maybe girlfriend?”) than she did about actually sitting across from him at a table and having a conversation. And as he placed the lunch bag on the table, she realized how small it was. The tiny round iron table had been picked because it fit in the small window space with two matching chairs; an adorable vintage set from one of many nearby antique shops. Now they’d be eating messy food with chopsticks practically on top of each other
These thoughts didn’t help with her nervousness, so she set about preparing for their meal. She asked Ben if iced tea was okay (sweet, of course, since they were below the Mason Dixon line. if only barely). He indicated that it was and she poured their drinks.
Ben started pulling things out of the bag and held up the file folder.
“I don’t think we can manage to eat all this food and have this meeting at the same time. I propose lunch first, then meeting,” said Ben.
“Agreed,” said Lisa, trying to control her grin.
They sat down to eat, Lisa finding herself with the rare hope that customers would magically manage to stay away for just a little while.
“Thank you so much for bringing lunch by,” said Lisa, trying to break the awkward silence as the pair sort of gazed at each other. “This is definitely a treat. I usually eat a day-old scone for lunch.”
“The loveliest baker in town should not have to eat day-old bread,” said Ben, his smile revealing a dimple on one cheek that for some reason seemed directly connected to a nerve inside her nipples.
She blushed again and looked down at her shrimp Pad Thai. She’d been too embarrassed to admit to Ben that she hated spicy food—she had learned over time that when stuck in a Thai restaurant with friends that this was the safe, non-spicy dish.
“It’s delicious,” said Lisa.
“It’s my son’s favorite,” said Ben. “He won’t eat the spicy stuff.”
Lisa looked up from her plate and was unable to mask the complete surprise from her face.
Ben laughed. “I didn’t think I’d had a chance to mention him. Max is four. He is from a previous relationship; we never married. I get to spend time with him a few times a month. He’s fantastic.”
“Oh! I bet he’s great,” said Lisa, mentally going through Facebook pictures and not remembering seeing a child. “To be really honest, I’m jealous. I’ve been trying for a few years to get pregnant, but with no luck.”
“Sounds like you and your husband really want a child?” said Ben.
“I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” said Lisa. “I think Jim wants a baby, too, but he definitely isn’t as enthusiastic as I guess I am, especially the more time that goes by.”
“Well, you’re still really young,” said Ben. “I’m sure it will work out.”
And he smiled at her with his brown-green-what-the-hell-color-is-that eyes, and she felt guilty for feeling that smile all the way in the middle of her. Part of her, probably an unknowing biological, basic animal instinct part, wanted nothing more than fertile sperm so she could have the baby she wanted. She imagined hurling all the food across the shop and jumping on the iron table, yanking him to a standing position and wrapping her legs around him so she could feel his desire as she licked his neck and breathed in the smell of whatever that goddamn amazing man-perfume smell was.
She swallowed hard, and took a drink of tea.
“Yes, sorry, just daydreaming,” she said. “And is it hot in here?”
“It’s just you,” said Ben, smiling. “Penny for your thoughts.” He reached into a pocket and somehow produced an actual penny, which he placed on the table.
Lisa didn’t know what to say. Well, my thoughts are that I wish you would completely ravage me right now in my shop window? Somehow that seemed inappropriate. But only because it would be a complete disaster if a customer walked in. The back room couch? Totally doable.
She sighed.
“Honestly, I’m not sure my thoughts are appropriate in a place of business during a business meeting,” said Lisa in a mock-serious tone of voice.
Ben laughed. “Inappropriate thoughts can be the most fun kind,” he said. “But I absolutely do not want you to be concerned about the professionalism of this meeting. So should we get started?”
He picked up the file folder from the windowsill.
Lisa smiled. “Yes, of course we should, graphic design consultant. Let’s get right down to business.”
Eva unlocked the door of her hotel room, putting down her purse and suitcase and flopping onto the soft living room sofa. As unpleasant as her firm’s pending court case was going to be, she was glad she had to travel to New York this week. As was often the case lately, work was going to be a great escape from her personal life. She couldn’t wait to get on the DC train and away from Joe. She’d completed reviewing the case during the Acela train ride so she could relax for a few hours when she arrived in the city.
She’d managed to collect herself on that night enough not to discuss her discovery with her husband, but she’d thought of little else for the past few days. Somehow, she knew it was a game changer. The boys were in high school now, and even as immaturely as they sometimes acted, she knew they didn’t need her in the same way as the days when she was packing peanut butter and jelly and Capri Suns in lunchboxes (or the au pair was). So why was she staying in a dead marriage? What were they waiting for to separate? The boys to leave for college?
She wanted a drink. The bar was of course already stocked with her favorite wines, and she selected a bottle of strawberry wine from the Maryland vineyard Linganore Wine Cellars, marveling at how much attention the hotel paid to detail.
Eva’s love life was a mystery to her. Why do I need two men to make me feel fulfilled? One in each city? Really? Gah. It’s not really fair to either of them. She knew she wasn’t really committed, especially to Ron. The poor kid was born in the 80s, and the entire relationship was basically nothing more than a hot-for-teacher crush. The sex was great, there was no doubt about that. She definitely understood the cougar relationship appeal now, but she still felt empty emotionally. It wasn’t like Ron was ever going to look her in the eyes and tell her that he was madly in love with her.
And that seemed to be what she wanted from someone. Or was it?
I hate the idea of depending on a man for happiness, she thought, opening the wine.
So what about Charles? They’d been seeing each other for seven months, a natural enough timeframe for two people in a relationship to start asking what the hell was happening, right? Charles had been the proverbial tough nut to crack, though. His wife’s death was still recent enough that Eva knew he didn’t seem ready to enter any type of serious relationship, which was perfect, since neither did she. But the more time that went by, the more connected she seemed to feel to him. It was almost like she was using Ron as insurance against falling in love with Charles and getting hurt. What a complete mess, she thought. But she decided she wasn’t going to let it get to her.
She picked up her wine glass and walked out onto the terrace of her suite, to take in the summer view of Central Park. It was sticky, humid August hot like only New York City could be, but there was a slight breeze, and the cool air sucked out of the suite and refreshed her. She watched the couples ride the horse drawn carriages. Clippity-clop, clippity-clop. The horses’ hooves clopped on and on, day after day in Central Park. She watched a couple snuggle as the weary horse carried them past benches where homeless people slept at night. Living the dream, she thought sardonically.
She felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jeans.
“New message from Charles” lit up as she looked at the screen.
Charles: Join me in the Palm Court dining room for dinner at 7, madame?
Eva: Bien sur, monsieur.
Charles: Parfait. Comme nous.
Eva: Merci!
She smiled. She certainly didn’t think she was perfect, but the dinner plans sounded perfectly like what she needed. She walked back inside, pouring another glass of wine. I deserve it, she thought. I’m just going to have one more glass, to relax. She used to have carefully set up rules about not drinking when she was alone (I will not end up an alcoholic like my father), but those had been rationalized away over recent years.
I need to sink myself into a hot bath. Even though it was hot outside, she needed heat for her aching muscles. Her trips to the gym were more frequent lately as she found things to fill empty moments. In the bathroom, an enormous, elegant basket filled with scented bath salts and aromatherapy oils awaited her. She lit two lavender eucalyptus candles and chose tangerine ginger Dead Sea bath salts to toss into the steaming water as it rose. She added a few drops of eucalyptus oil to the water; the oil reversed the drying effect a bath could have on her skin. There were no windows in the master suite’s bathroom, so when she closed the door and turned the lights off, the room was dark. She breathed in the glorious smell from the eucalyptus oil and felt her shoulders relax.
Eva ran her hand across the soft Plaza robe hanging on the beautiful antique hook, setting the matching slippers on the plush area rug beside the tub.
She tested the water with her toe. It was the perfect bath temperature—hot enough that you’d have to get in slowly; not too cool to lose its heat while you soaked. The scents of the herbs and fruits from her candles and sea salts had blended perfectly. She placed her wine glass beside the tub and slowly sunk into the steaming, therapeutic waters that awaited her.
As she floated there, Eva’s thoughts continued to plague her. As much as she would love to push images of her life’s unfolding dramas aside and just relax and enjoy the moment, there was nothing like lying in a hot bath to clear your thoughts.
And then Eva started to cry. The darkness, the silence, the intense smells, the heat, the wine, but especially the aloneness in light of the discovery of her husband’s affair, just all hit her at once. She cried. It was the kind of deep, gasping cry that you couldn’t stop if you wanted to. It wracked her small body and she just had to surrender to it. Tears poured from her like the water from the gold faucet; they filled the tub together. She cried for not feeling like a good mother, not being a good wife. She cried from the stress of her job. She cried because her love life was so complicated. And she cried because at the end of the day, she just wanted to be happy.
After an hour of soaking and crying and wine, Eva managed to collect herself, splashed cold water on her face, and started getting ready for her dinner with Charles. She was starving, hadn’t eaten all day, and looked forward to whatever culinary treats he had in store for her.
She chose a pale blue short-sleeved Ann Taylor sweater and a vintage rust orange leather miniskirt she’d bought at Maggie’s shop. She wore simple square diamond earrings and a plain silver chain with a matching diamond pendant. Her husband may have been bad at many things, but selecting jewelry on holidays and her birthday was not one of them. She sprayed three puffs of Coach Poppy perfume into the air and walked through the small cloud. Her Sephora makeup was expertly applied; she was a fan of the brand and knew which color combinations flattered her hair and eye colors. Dark copper spiked Christian Louboutin heels completed the outfit. With her small stature she was used to wearing very high heels, but that didn’t make her any less grateful for elevators and the fact that she’d be dining in the building she was already in.
She exited the luxurious elevator at the main level of the hotel. She raised her head to marvel at the opulence of the architecture. It was no wonder the building had been chosen as a setting by F. Scott Fitzgerald for The Great Gatsby.
She stopped in front of the Palm Court dining room, because a “Closed for Private Event” sign greeted her. She tried the door. It was locked. A waiter instantly appeared beside her.
“Follow me, madame,” he said.
She did.
Taking her around to another, non-public entrance, he held the door open for her and she entered the opulent room. The waiter left and she walked further into it. Large opaque white silk screens had been placed in front of the room’s huge arched windows, creating a completely private space. In addition to the giant palm trees that were the room’s moniker, there was only a single table for two set in the middle of the room under the magnificent arched stained glass ceiling. At least a hundred peach-colored candles in every height, shape and size illuminated the room. The electric lights had been turned down to accent the candles’ glow. The table was stunning. In the center was a five-foot high-stemmed vase with a spray of lilies in every color, their smell filling the air.
This is a room where a wedding should be taking place right now, instead of a dinner for two, she thought. She felt completely underdressed in her sweater and skirt.
She gasped as she stood and appreciated the sights within the gorgeous room. She heard a door open and felt Charles walk into the room behind her. She turned and ran into his arms. He chuckled.
“This is the most amazing, beautiful room I’ve ever seen in my life,” she said, and she struggled to fight back tears as she squeezed him in a thankful embrace.
“I was so happy to do it for you, Eva,” said Charles. He straightened his arms, held her slight waist, and looked straight into her eyes with his own dark brown ones.
“I have a four-course meal planned for you, madame,” he said. “So I hope that you are hungry.”
“Absolutely starving, Chef,” she said, smiling up at him. Even in her three-inch platform heels, he was a few inches taller. He returned her smile, gesturing towards the elegant dining table.
“Shall we?” he said.
“I believe we absolutely shall,” she said.
They sat, and as if on cue, a waiter entered with drinks. Her favorite, champagne with Chambord raspberry liqueur for her, a glass of red something-he-probably-picked-to-go-with-the-meal for him. Jazz music played softly in the background.
“I can’t believe you did all this for me,” said Eva.
“It was fun,” said Charles. “I’m so glad you like it. I hope you enjoy the meal I have prepared for you. I’m trying out some new culinary experiments.”
“That sounds exciting,” said Eva, sipping from her sweet pink bubbles.
“I think it will be,” said Charles, with a lazy smile. He sipped his wine and admired the beautiful woman who sat before him. The door opened again, and another waiter entered with two small plates.
“Amuse-bouche,” said the waiter, placing the plates in front of them. “A gift from the chef.”
“This whole evening is a lovely gift from the chef,” replied Eva, gazing across the table at her dark-haired lover. She knew, because he was near obsessive compulsive about his selections of food and style of dining, that this entire evening, down to the timed entries of each waiter, had been meticulously planned for days. And she was thankful for it. What an amazing escape, she thought.
They ate the duck confit together in silence. He knew duck was one of her favorites. Plates entered and disappeared as if by magic—baked oysters with prosciutto and champagne cream, pan-seared petit filet mignon. It never occurred to Eva whether the foods were in season, and how much trouble Charles had to go through to get some of them. She was stuffed, and delightfully so.
Another glass of Champagne and Chambord arrived without the need for her to request it.
“And now it is almost time for dessert,” said Charles, and he stood up.
She smiled and asked, “Are we going somewhere else for dessert?”
“Not far,” he replied, taking her hand. She stood.
He led her to another section that had been prepared to appear like a small sitting room. An antique French sofa, coffee table, and two plush chairs were gathered on a beautiful Persian rug. More candles lit the area, and a bowl of roses was centered on the coffee table with a grouping of candles.
“This is beautiful,” said Eva.
“As are you,” said Charles. He walked over and sat on the sofa. She left her heels on the rug and sunk into the cushions, tucking her feet under her. Another waiter appeared. He brought a covered silver dish, placing it on the table before them, and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
“That will be our last interruption for the evening,” said Charles. They heard the click of the door when the waiter left.
“Is this some kind of surprise dessert?” said Eva.
“Yes, it is a new recipe I am trying,” said Charles. He lifted up the silver platter’s cover to reveal a bed of Pop Rocks candy packets in every flavor, with two crystal dishes of sorbet placed amongst them. Eva laughed.
“Pop Rocks?” she said.
“Yes, Pop Rocks,” responded Charles. “A few weeks ago I overhead two of the waitresses talking about their favorite candies as children. One of them mentioned these things—Pop Rocks? And I had never heard of them. The other girl told me how delicious they were, and one day she brought in a packet of them. Watermelon. I tried them. And they are delicious.”
“We all loved them as kids,” said Eva, grinning. “And watermelon has always been my favorite.”
“I decided to try to make sorbet with them,” said Charles, “because I thought the culinary surprise of the popping combined with the intense flavor would be enjoyable in a frozen form. And so—voila! Watermelon Pop Rocks sorbet.”
She picked up her spoon and silver bowl and dug in. As soon as the frozen, carbonated watermelon magic hit her tongue, she giggled like a little girl.
“Oh my God, this is the most delicious thing ever.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” said Charles. He reached over, picked up a packet of Watermelon Pop Rocks, and sprinkled some on the top of each of their bowls. “The finishing touch.”
“Another bizarre thought about the Pop Rocks came into my mind,” said Charles. “And I would like to try that as well.” Raising a spoonful of the candy from its silver bowl, he took a mouthful of the candy, and leaned over to kiss Eva. She could feel the popping of the candy as soon as his lips touched hers. She instinctively opened her mouth. As their tongues met, the Pop Rocks sizzled and fizzed and popped audibly, and she wondered how she had existed for four decades without Pop Rocks kisses.
She put down her bowl and picked up a spoonful of strawberry Pop Rocks; there was a silver bowl of each flavor. “Have you tried the strawberry?” she asked.
“Yes, and it is also delicious,” said Charles. “Which is a word that reminds me of you.”
He took Eva in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him away playfully and filled her mouth with a spoonful of the strawberry Pop Rocks. Then, she kissed him back. She let some of the candy remain on her tongue as she licked his ear. He shuddered at the sound of the candy popping in his ear combined with the sensation of her tongue. He was already hard.
Eva reached down and felt his rising arousal.
“I think you like strawberry, too,” she said.
His large, strong hands slid underneath her sweater, running gently up her sides. She sighed. His hands gently caressed the outside of her pale teal silk bra, and her nipples rose to greet his fingers. He unfastened her bra. He lifted her sweater gently over her head. Placing her firmly onto the pillow at the corner of the couch, he caressed her breasts, teasingly moving his hands down her waist to where he knew she wanted them.
Her bra hit the floor as he picked up a spoonful watermelon Pop Rocks and took a mouthful. When his lips took in her breast, she arched her back and let out a tiny squeal. The sensation of the carbonated candy on her nipples was unprecedented. There was a slight grittiness to the texture of the small crystals as his tongue circled her nipples, and the popping from within his mouth felt amazing on her tender flesh.
As he continued to incorporate Eva’s breasts into the dessert menu, he reached down between her legs. He was delighted to find that as usual, she wore no panties. When his right hand reached her, she was already wet for him. He hiked up her skirt for better access, teasing her with his agile thumb. She softly moaned, clawing at his shirt. She wanted him naked. She wanted him to fuck her more than she had wanted any other part of this meal.
But he was taking his time. He was the one in charge of this course, and he would design its presentation. He continued sucking at her nipples and letting her feel his desire on the inside of her thigh. She pressed her inner thigh against his stiffness, running her hand on the outside of his pants and making him sigh out loud. He returned her hand to her side firmly. He unzipped her skirt and removed it so that she was fully naked, seemingly unaffected by the fact that she was currently without clothes in one of the busiest restaurants in New York City, where hundreds had dined that day and every day for more than a century.
He grabbed the bowl of Tropical Punch Pop Rocks and looked down at her.
“I’m ready for my dessert now,” he said. He slowly poured small spoonfuls of candy onto her belly and inner thighs. While she laughed, lazily circling her own nipple and licking the remaining candy from her sticky fingers, he poured the remainder into his own mouth. And as he lowered his head to lick her with his mouthful of popping candy, her hips rose to meet his fizzing tongue.
She moaned, and was able to utter the words, “I think Tropical Punch is my new favorite flavor.”
Zarina clambered into the shop early on the first Friday of the month. She swept up and straightened the place, picking up a few random Legos on the floor from yesterday’s kid visitors. She hooked up her iPhone to the speaker set and put on the 80s station on Pandora, but not too loud, just so it created a nice background vibe.
As she swept, she thought about how Stanley had been so supportive of her busy life, between the graduate journalism class at the college and running the shop. He’d jokingly said, “I’m just worried that if you become too educated, you’ll reject my alternative lifestyle record shop immaturity.” She laughed and told him being a hipster was not an alternative lifestyle because it was far too underground to be that mainstream.
She finished mixing the muffins and put them in the oven, so it would smell good when the women came in, and thought about how she hated feeling like she depended on a guy for anything. How do you make it work in relationships, she wondered, so that you need the person, and they know you need them so they don’t just go take off and hang out with someone else, but they don’t think you need them too much so that you’re needy?
Forget saying “I love you.” Her generation knew better than that. Not just because we’re too spoiled and lazy to bother falling in love with someone other than ourselves, Zarina thought. Many of their generation’s parents had gotten divorced in dramatic and disastrous ways, and the younger crowd seemed to prefer to avoid marriage to stay away from those situations altogether.
Zarina’s parents had just sort of always been happy together, she thought, as she absentmindedly started a second pot of coffee. Not head over heels in love, really openly, but they had a quiet sense of love about them that made their companionship completely natural. That’s what Zarina wanted. Call it love or don’t, thought Zarina. I just want someone to curl up on the couch and watch a horror movie with, or eat crabby Eggs Benedict and hash browns on a Sunday. Or even just sit next to each other while working on laptops, our legs touching just that little bit, just to say, you know, I’m glad you’re here.
For now, that was Stanley for her. So she felt lucky.
“Good morning, gorgeous!” said Maggie in that boisterous New England accent. She went over and hugged Zarina. “Good to see you. You know what? I’m going to try something new for a change. Give me an iced chai latte, please.”
Maggie smiled at Zarina and thought about how she’d just made out with Z’s mother, Kate, the day before. She blushed, wondering how those paths were eventually going to cross and what would happen if they did. She didn’t want things to be awkward at Zoomdweebies, and she wasn’t really sure how things were going to go with Kate. Ah, the tangled webs.
“Whoa, there, branching out are we?” Zarina said,. “Life’s too short not to try a new kind of coffee once in awhile, right?”
“I agree,” said Maggie, with an odd half-grin.
“That is absolutely true,” said Lisa as she walked in. “Good morning, Zarina. I’ll try an iced chai latte too.”
“Well change certainly makes the world go ‘round,” said Zarina. “I certainly hope you’re going to at least try these pineapple coconut muffins I made for you.”
“Oh, I bet those are low fat,” said Maggie, squinting and scrunching up her face.
“Of course they are,” says Zarina. “I mean, pineapples and coconuts are fruits. It’s only when you ask for the muffin warmed up with butter melted all over it that it gets a tad more caloric.”
“Well, why in the hell else would you eat the damn thing?” said Maggie.
“Those sound amazing,” said Lisa. “I think I need to buy a dozen extra of those for my shop today—it will seem like I already made them. I have a ton of pie orders today, so if you don’t mind, that would be great. Of course I’ll give you credit. We can call them Z muffins.”
“Perfect,” Zarina said. “Anytime you need some back up baked goods, let me know.”
“That’s truly an amazing concept,” said Lisa. “I’ll absolutely take you up on it. So where’s Eva today?”
“You won’t believe it. She’s not coming,” said Maggie. “She just texted me late last night. I didn’t get the message ‘til this morning. She stayed in New York.”
“What? Was she supposed to come back last night?” asked Lisa.
“Yeah, she always takes the same train back,” said Maggie. “And she didn’t give me any more details. I texted her this morning, but I haven’t heard back. It must be a work thing.”
“Or a Charles thing,” said Lisa.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “You think so? I’ve never known her once to change her plans for a man.”
“You never know,” said Lisa. “A damn man can make you do things you don’t necessarily like to admit you wanted.”
“Well isn’t that the damn truth?” said Maggie.
Zarina walked over to deliver the warm buttered muffins and iced chai lattes to the brown leather couch area where Maggie and Lisa were hunkered down.
“Mind if I sit for a minute?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Maggie.
“You know you don’t even need to ask,” said Lisa.
Zarina replied, “I know I’m not a member of the society. I always feel like maybe I should run out and cheat on Stan one night so I could feel more like I fit in.”
“You know our group name is more for fun,” said Maggie. “The very word ‘society’ is so not us that it’s not even funny. It’s a lot more casual than that. We only picked the title because Eva and I were joking one day about the ‘Red Hat Society’ that the older women have and we said ‘we should have a red A society.’
“But basically we’re just women who get together and talk about shit, and sometimes that shit is about sleeping around, and sometimes it’s not. Today, for example. Watch me change the subject so we’re not even talking about cheating and men. Today, I would like to talk about what goddamn thundercunts some women can be.”
Lisa and Zarina laughed. “Thundercunts?” they both said at the same time.
“Ah, yeah, it’s one of my old faves,” said Maggie. “If I find myself overusing it too much, I’ll hit ‘Cuntasaurus Rex’, which is Eva’s fave, though she’s never been much of a champion cusser like myself. To me, the old ‘thundercunt’ is a staple for a woman who has truly earned it.”
“I’m always just afraid the c-word is so offensive to women,” said Lisa, blushing slightly. “I mean, I’m not a big cusser either.”
“Nah, fuck that. Women can call the “c” card with other women when there are simply no other words to use. It’s not like I’m goddamn anti-feminist, and it’s also not my fault our shitty language doesn’t have enough words to cover some of these C-rexes.”
“So who pissed you off?” Zarina asked.
“There’s this bitch that comes into my shop,” said Maggie. “And she does nothing but complain. ‘Can you come down on the price of these shoes? Is there a stain on this 1960s skirt, because it should be marked down? Why are you only open ‘til 5 on Sundays?’ It’s always fucking something. Week after week she comes in, always negative. It makes me hate being in retail, which I normally don’t mind at all. And does she ever really spend any money? Of course not. She’s so rude to me, and miserable. I don’t even know why she comes in. She has a scowl on her face from the moment the door opens. And in her stupid blond bob and preppy Lily Pulitzer outfit, she doesn’t even wear the kind of clothes I sell! It’s like she sucks all the air out of the room. SHE, my friends, is a thundercunt.”
“I hear you,” said Zarina. “Working in customer service can completely suck. There’s a woman whose coffee is never, ever right. She’s mean, always in a hurry, and never happy. I would say she would be on my ‘Thundercunt of the Month’ chalkboard if I had one in the shop, which maybe I should!”
Lisa laughed. “How funny would that be? Like a Wanted poster, with a frowny photograph and name of the “T.C” of the month. I’ve been really lucky at the bakery. I have people bitch and moan, but no diehard thundercunts so far. But at home? In my subdivision? Oh my God, I think it’s the land of Thundercuntopia, and there would be some serious competition for Queen over there. Who has the best landscaping, who has the nicest “builder upgrades,” you name it. I actually had my pool membership revoked last summer because I planted tulips around a tree without getting permission from the landscaping committee.”
“Yeah, if you’re on the landscaping committee of a homeowner’s association in a subdivision?” said Maggie. “You’re pretty much a guaranteed t-cunt by default. No question.”
“And the women are so phony,” continued Lisa, obviously on a roll. “It’s like they’re judging you every second. The ones who seem nice and then you find out later talk about you behind your back—they’re the worst. I know they have some secrets of their own over there, too. But really, you want to say something about me? Say it to my face, you cowardly bitch!”
Zarina laughed. “Lisa, I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much!”
Lisa’s faced flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t stand women who are fake. It’s like they pretend to have these perfect lives, and it’s all a façade. They’re really miserable, so they just make other people miserable, all while hosting the most beautiful party in the neighborhood. All while going to church and then also drinking tons of wine every day, of course.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” said Maggie. “Subdivision living leaves a lot to be desired, which is why most of us are townies. Sure, there are cliques in town, too, and believe you me, those bitches beat all—you think a homeowner’s association is bad, you should see the madness in a historic district commission. But at least in town there’s more of a blend of people, so you can avoid the t-cunts as much as possible.”
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about cheating on Stan to have something to talk about at this meeting,” said Zarina.
“Nah, sometimes it’s nice just to blow off some steam with some cool girls,” said Maggie.
“That,” said Lisa, “is absofuckinglutely the truth!”
And the three women laughed, savoring their coffee until it was time to return to the real world outside.