Eleven days, nine hours until Halloween
Jude
“How does that make you feel?”
I ask my patient the age-old question, and he stares at me, dumbfounded.
“It makes me feel pissed. The bitch cheated on me, Doc!”
I don’t correct him. I don’t remind him that I’m not a doctor, I’m a therapist. And I understand why he’s looking at me like I’m on acid. It was a stupid question under the circumstances, but necessary according to protocol.
“I’m sure,” I assure him, and he nods because in my own way, I’m validating his feelings. “You have every right to be furious. She violated your trust, and because of that, I’m sure you feel vulnerable.”
He nods because of course that’s right. I know it’s right. I see a hundred patients a year who are in this same exact situation.
“I do,” he admits, and he sounds embarrassed. “But I still love her. Isn’t that a bitch?”
I have to imagine it is. Sometimes I think the human mind practically sabotages us into self-destructive behavior. I nod and make notes, and he keeps talking about his feelings.
“It’s possible to get over infidelity,” I tell him. “If your wife is willing to recommit, and if you are both willing to examine what is wrong in your relationship. Do you think you can both do that?”
He ponders that, and we talk until his hour is up.
“I’ll see you next week,” I tell him. “Make sure you see Ginny on your way out to confirm your appointment.”
“Will do,” he agrees, and I’m left in silence but for the trickle of water from the fountain in the corner. Water tumbles over three stacked pots, and it’s always on because water is soothing to my patients.
Frankly, listening to it all day makes me have to piss.
I stare at the dark gray walls, at the comforting artwork, at the dark leather furniture. All of it was designed by Corinne, to look dignified and provide a peaceful place for my patients. I have to admit, she’s good at designing. When she did it, deep down I felt resentful, like she was trying to control every facet of my life. Even at the time I knew it was stupid. She was just trying to help. Back then I felt like she was too controlling. Now I feel like she’s too neglectful. Maybe I’m just a childish bastard who can’t be pleased. I have a good life and I know it.
This morning, she wasn’t expecting the rough sex. I wasn’t expecting it. It was something I did on the spur of the moment, and I know why.
The girl at the diner. She had announced so loudly that she loved rough sex. It got my imagination going, and Lord help me, I took that fascination out on my wife.
My intercom buzzes, then Ginny’s voice fills my office.
“Jude, you left your cell phone out here. It’s been vibrating all hour.”
I don’t bother to answer; I just get up and head out to my receptionist’s desk. She sits in her pencil skirt, her middle-aged legs still looking decent even though she claims she’s allergic to exercise.
“Here you go.” She smiles at me, handing me my phone.
“Corinne?” I guess.
Ginny shrugs. “I’m not nosy. I didn’t look.”
Yeah, right. She’s the nosiest person I know, and she probably searched through everything on my phone. But I don’t call her on it. Instead, I thank her and head back into my office. Ginny keeps everything organized here and keeps me on track. If it weren’t for her, I’d be lost. I’m not going to piss her off.
I scan through my texts.
None from Corinne. I’m oddly disappointed, even though she never texts me during the day. The ER keeps her too busy. But still. I thought she might text after this morning’s sex.
One from Michel.
How are you doing?
And several from a number I don’t recognize.
Hi there. It’s Zoe from Vilma’s.
Damn it.
I swallow, and I read her other texts.
You left your credit card at the café this morning.
Do you want to meet me so you can have it back ASAP?
I feel a jolt. First, fuck. I left my card someplace? I can’t even remember the last time I did that. How irresponsible. I practically don’t have a credit limit, so a thief could have a field day with it.
Second, how weird that she’s texting me. So weird.
I can just pick it up from Vilma in the morning, I answer. Thanks for letting me know.
I see the three bubbles on my text screen signifying that she is answering. So I wait without putting my phone down. The idea of who is on the other end of the phone gives me a jolt, a thrill, even though my initial thoughts about the girl weren’t flattering. She might have clear daddy issues, but she has an ass you could bounce a quarter off. It strokes my ego that she’s texting me.
I actually have the card with me. I didn’t want anything to happen to it. I’m in town running errands. I could meet you for lunch?
Another jolt.
She wants to meet for lunch? Is this for real?
What a kind offer, I answer, and my heart literally pounds. But I would never impose on you like that. If you’re working tomorrow, I’ll pick it up then.
There are three bubbles. She’s typing.
But nothing comes through.
I wait.
The three bubbles are still there, then they disappear.
Still nothing.
I can’t help but picture her in her overly tight waitress uniform. The bright blue complemented her skin tone, and her tits were busting out of the top. The skirt was short, and it’s quite possible that she made it that way on purpose.
For a minute, being a red-blooded man, I picture that ass bent over a chair, her uniform skirt hitched up to her hips. Her lacy panties would be shoved to the side...and I think she’d be shaved.
I indulge for just a second, then I push the images out of my head. It’s a fantasy. That’s all.
I’m normal.
I love my wife.
I miss my wife.
Corinne is my world.
I jam my phone into my pocket as my door opens with my next patient.
“Mr. Ford,” I greet the elderly man in front of me, the one with OCD who is at this very moment wiping his feet on the carpet as he walks to wipe away all germs from his shoes. He does it a thousand times a day. “I’m so glad to see you. How have you been?”
He takes a seat in the chair across from me, careful to keep his right foot crossed over the left, and for the next hour, I’m immersed in the world of an obsessive man. This week, his new habit is stepping on a particular stair step on his porch precisely four times every time he goes home.
We discuss coping mechanisms, and the chemical reasons that OCD could be at play in his brain, and when we’re nearly done, I find him staring at the portrait of Corinne and me sitting on my desk.
“You’re a lucky man,” he tells me, and his cloudy eyes are pensive. “I lost my Helen a decade ago. I haven’t been the same since.”
No, he hasn’t. His OCD emerged that year, when he was lost in grief.
“I am lucky,” I agree. “My wife is a brilliant woman.”
“She’s a looker, too,” Mr. Ford observes, and I try to see the picture through the fresh eyes of a stranger.
Corinne’s eyes are bright and blue, her hair long and blond. She’s thin, she’s trim, she’s tall. Her legs are long, her smile bright.
She is a looker. Sometimes I forget that.
Probably because I haven’t seen her in days and days.
I hide my stress. My patients don’t get to hear my very real and very human problems.
We finish our session and Mr. Ford leaves, and I wrap up my notes. When I’m finished, I’m surprised to realize that it’s lunchtime.
Ginny pokes her head in. “Hey, boss. I’m going out for lunch. Should I bring you something back?”
I could meet you for lunch?
Unbidden, the texted words flash through my mind, and guiltily, I push them away. Fuck, man. Not cool.
“I’m good,” I tell Ginny, and I think my words have a double meaning. I’m good. I don’t have straying thoughts about a woman who isn’t my wife. Not real straying thoughts.
Ginny leaves, and I grab my jacket, and as I do, my phone buzzes, and I think my wife might’ve texted me back.
I’m startled when I see that I’m wrong.
It’s not Corinne.
It’s a picture.
Of Zoe.
I was right. She’s shaved.
My heart thuds as I stare at the nude picture.
Her tits are big and full, and her thumb is brushing her nipple, her other hand caressing her shaved vagina. Her eyes are big and turned to the camera in a sultry gaze, and she’s completely and absolutely naked.
Are you freaking kidding me?
I swallow hard, and it’s not like I haven’t been hit on before. I have. But this is different. It’s so blatant, so outrageous, and frankly, in some hidden and shameful spot, it turns me on.
Fuck, man.
I’m sorry, I’m married, I reply, typing with shocked wooden fingers.
Because I’m good. The stiffness in my crotch doesn’t count.
Three bubbles.
That’s fine, she answers. Do you want a girlfriend?
Sweet Jesus.
She can’t be serious. Is her generation so blatant and direct?
No, I answer. Sorry.
Three bubbles.
Hmm. We’ll see.
My heart is beating hard, and it seems to be in my throat and I don’t honestly know why. I stare at her words, and every one of them is designed to be flirtatious, to engage me. Somehow, that feels shamefully good.
My wife works so much that we rarely see each other. And here is this girl, this much younger girl...throwing herself at me via message. It’s flattering.
It’s also pathetic that it somehow makes me feel validated.
God, I’m such a therapist. Can’t I turn it off for one fucking moment and simply enjoy that I got hit on by a hot young girl?
Jesus.
I turned her down. I’m good. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t stare at her nude picture a little while longer. I mean, she sent it to me. She wanted me to look at it. I shouldn’t feel like such a perv.
I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, a physical effort to switch gears, to get the forbidden picture out of my mind. Because it is forbidden. I’m married, and there comes a point where fantasies aren’t good or healthy.
When I come out, Ginny is back.
“Hey, boss,” she says cheerfully, a sandwich in front of her. “Your one o’clock is here.”
“Send her in,” I instruct.
I sit down in my office, stick my phone back in my pocket and get back to business as usual.
My patient comes in, rife with overeating issues, and my afternoon begins.
* * *
Once again, Corinne works late and doesn’t come home in time for dinner. Michel arrives instead, with his hands full of takeout. We spread out at the kitchen table and eat our weight in Chinese food.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Michel raises an eyebrow at me over the top of my scotch bottle. I scowl at him from across the kitchen table.
“No.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know Corinne throws herself into work this time of year, more so than normal. It’s her way of dealing with things.”
I sigh.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I insist to him, gulping down the amber liquid. “It sucks. I’m a therapist, and I can’t help my own wife. And she won’t come home long enough to let me try.”
“I know,” he says sympathetically. “I know. I’m not judging you. I just think you might want to limit yourself to maybe five drinks. Six is a little over the top.”
He’s wry, and I gulp down my sixth drink. The room spins a little, and I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll clean up our dinner dishes on my way out,” my brother suggests. I don’t argue. I slap his back on my way past, heading down the hall.
“I love you, man,” I call over my shoulder.
“I know.”
I drop onto my bed, and I hear the back door close ten minutes later and Michel’s truck rumbling down the road. I think I’m going to go right to sleep, but I don’t.
I stare at the ceiling.
I miss my wife.
I feel empty. Cold. Alone.
I already miss the huge rush that I had this afternoon when Zoe sent me the picture. It was amazing, like the hit of a powerful drug. As a therapist, I know what it was. Dopamine is the hormone associated with pleasure. It’s a spark plug in your brain, something that triggers pleasurable feelings and assigns them to objects. It is a drug, so to speak, and as humans, we subconsciously do things to access that pleasurable feeling.
Feeling empty, I want to experience that again, to fill the void of my wife’s absence. To eradicate the anxious feelings that consume me lately.
So I use my phone to pull up some porn.
It’s harmless, faceless. Anonymous.
I go from site to site, one after another.
After a while, I realize something.
All of the girls I’m looking at look the same.
Like Zoe.
Fuck.
I close out of the porn sites because they make me feel like shit, but at the same time, I get a surge of adrenaline. Because Zoe is a real live person out there who wants me. I have proof in my hand.
I pull up her picture and stare at it again.
Between the dopamine and the scotch, I feel drunk on life, and I swear to God the room almost spins with it.
I’m embarrassed to realize as I stare at the picture that I’m not even looking at the girl’s eyes. I don’t have to. This is porn, in a way, and I don’t have to make a personal connection, and I don’t have to behave decently. I’m behind closed doors with a picture that a young flirt sent me.
I stare at her tits, and at her hand that is on her own crotch.
The dopamine rises in my blood and I ride that wave, and I’m almost blurry with it when I act on impulse and snap a picture of my erect penis in my hand.
Before I can think twice or clearly, I send her the picture.
Stunned, I watch my phone and see that my text was delivered.
Sweet Jesus.
The room comes into focus and what the fuck did I do?
I’ve never in my life done something like that. What the hell is wrong with me?
The reality of what I just did...the inappropriateness, the elicit nature of it all... It slams into me and I feel sick. Just in time for three bubbles to appear.
Dick pics don’t do it for me. What else ya got?
God.
Holy shit.
Holy.
Shit.
I’m so far beyond pathetic that it’s ridiculous. I feel like a complete dumbass. Who in the hell does something like this? I’m utter, utter scum.
I text back and I do the only thing I can do.
I lie.
I’m sorry. That was meant for my wife. Your number was pulled up and I made a mistake. I’ve had one too many drinks.
I wait.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
So I add, I’m sorry. Please disregard my text.
Finally, after what seems like forever, there are three bubbles.
I wait.
I feel like shit. Like pathetic shit. And finally, words appear.
Too late.