I don’t. I can’t. I’m not. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to write.
Here goes.
I lost my divorce virginity.
I’ll start there. I had sex. This is what Maya has been encouraging me to do to push me out of my writer’s block. She should be happy. I want her to be happy. Only I had sex with Elliot, so I doubt it’ll count.
I finally told him he could stop by to talk about Marsden. I offered him a cup of tea, which he took. He asked about my appliances, about the play, about Maya. He wanted to know what I was reading and what I had seen recently, and he told me he had been invited to the opening night of the revival of The Sisters Rosensweig.
I’ve wanted to be a Rosensweig sister ever since I first saw the play when I was in my 20s. I particularly wanted to be Pfeni, because she is eccentric and changed her name from Penny to Pfeni and is a globe-trotting journalist with a bisexual boyfriend. And she has a sister named Gorgeous and a sister named Sara, and I am an only child who would have loved to have sisters with mellifluous names like Gorgeous and Sara. The sisters have interesting men flitting in and out of their lives, providing color and commentary while they clash and bond. Why the hell did Elliot get invited to the opening night instead of me?
We went into the TV room and sat on opposite ends of the couch. The platter of Trader Joe’s spring rolls that I placed on the coffee table in front of us made sitting on the same couch feel manageable. They provided us with a task we could do while sitting and talking and gave us something to look at so we weren’t forced to look at each other. Elliot was making idle conversation and we fell into the kind of back and forth that happens when people who actually like each other talk. Elliot is quick-witted and laughed, probably to flash his dimple. We started reminiscing about Sinatra when he was a puppy, that time when he ran away and we couldn’t find him for two days, when my father and Lucy came to visit and Sinatra peed on Lucy’s purse, and the time Marsden had the flu and Sinatra loyally slept by his side for a week, only leaving his bedroom to eat and for mandatory walks.
“He was so handsome,” I said.
“Yes, I guess he was,” said Elliot.
“You are too,” I whispered.
“I heard that,” he replied.
I could feel my face turning red, as if Elliot wasn’t the man who left me for another woman, but was a new crush. What was I doing? I needed to stop whatever was happening and get to the point. “Let’s talk about Marsden.”
“Mrs. Yule has called a few times. She’s concerned,” he said.
“Are you?” I asked.
“I’m not terribly concerned, but I figured you were,” he said.
He was right, of course. I told him that Marsden barely talks to me, that he seems to be high all the time, that he’s directionless, and unmotivated, and that I am scared of further alienating him. I told him that I’m trying not to have expectations but it’s hard when Maya’s kids—hell, when every kid around—makes run-of-the-mill overachievers look like underachievers, leaving little room for the actual underachievers to shine. I complained about how much pressure there is to have the perfect kid, and how much I wished I was competing in that forum and throwing out names of schools like Amherst and Vassar and how upset I am because I will never get to tour those schools with Marsden because he’s a lazy stoner, and I feel like a bad person and a bad mother admitting that I’m disappointed. And I started crying, while I was saying all of this, and Elliot moved across the couch and put his arm around me, and I fell into him. It felt so natural, so comfortable, so easy, until he started kissing my head. I thought about pushing him away and saying, “What the fuck are you doing asshole? We’re divorced. Get out of my house!” But instead I let him kiss the top of my head and caress my neck and I held my breath as his hand moved down to my shoulder and across my clavicle, and under my shirt, which I purposely had left unbuttoned enough to tempt him but only so he’d feel regretful, and under my bra, and I exhaled and practically came at that moment when his hand touched my nipple.
I lifted my head to look at him.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“NO!”
That’s not what I said. I don’t think I said anything.
He took off my shirt and kissed me. I undid his belt. He tasted the same as he used to. I always loved the way Elliot tasted. He was inside of me before I could stop myself from wanting him inside of me. We came at the same time. That rarely happened when we were married.
“Are you going to tell Midge about this?” I asked afterward.
“Probably not. Midge and I are having problems,” he confided.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
Why did I say that? I am thrilled they are having problems. Even if Elliot and I don’t get back together. Did I just write that? We are not getting back together. I am not falling back in love with him. I am not letting him dick me around anymore. I will be the one in charge this time, and so what if I want them broken up, and so what if I am the cause of their breakup. Oh, sweet justice! I want her to be heartbroken. And even if they don’t break up, I will not let him destroy me again. I shouldn’t have slept with him. But since I did, I’m going to make sure it counts. Having sex with Elliot will get me over my writer’s block.