One week has passed. The week to myself. The week alone.
I have been a shipwrecked sailor on a patch of sand emerging from the waves, sharks circling around (you can see the dorsal fin emerge from the water), with a fucking palm tree to lean on, like the characters on comic strips. The palm tree is the encounter with the woman. That's all I have on the island. It gives me no shade at all. From time to time, a coconut falls on my head, and I yelp 'Ouch!' Someone, somewhere, looks at the vignette and laughs.
By the weekend, I can't bear to look at the memory of the woman anymore. I feel like I've booked myself at a detox clinic, gone through all the symptoms of withdrawal, and now I'm cured. No more obsessive, intrusive thoughts. No more hope of seeing a repeat of the big scene from act one in act two. (What I mean is 'no illusion' rather than 'no hope' because hope implies a spec of possibility, and now I'm certain there isn't any.)
Fine.
But I was grumpy at work all week. I was even rude to Doctor Connor.
'I don't think these sessions are doing much for me.'
I say this like I can claim some moral superiority, even after telling her about the story of the Russian girl, so that she could note it on my file, so she could skewer me with that evaluating look that medical professionals adopt when looking at a particularly gross and embarrassing but fatal case that would call for pity and empathy, but which actually provokes disgust.
'Well…' she ponders. 'What makes you say that?'
'Because they are not?' I say with a quizzical tone to imply that it doesn't take a genius to understand this.
To which she raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Anyway, we talk a bit more, running in circles as usual, which feels pointless, then agree on one session next week. I don't know if this means I've capitulated on a key point.
She pencils me in, taking special care in writing my name in her scrawly cursive, to ensure I'm watching her as I do it. Then, she raises her eyes and smiles.
'Very well. I'll see you in one week.'
On Sunday, I pick up Chloe.
I feel more relaxed by now. I even ask, without any malic, how her week went. I patiently listened to stories about cartoons, a take-away meal (fish and chips), friends at school, music lessons (which she now hates). I've prepared a paper-mâché volcano (this is the power of a man trying to get his mind off… stuff) that we can activate with baking soda. We play with clay and make animal figurines after dinner, and I tuck her into bed.
Cured.
Ah… I exhale happily as I lie down on my bed, stretching my arms and legs like a well-pleased cat.
So, on Monday morning, we walk through the gates of St Ignatius. Chloe spots some friends.
'Can I go, dad?' she asks.
'Of course, sweetie.'
She wraps her little hands around my neck and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. She's not kissing me to win me over because she's panicking that the family is breaking down and is worried I will never come back. She's not obliging to my request for a proof of her affection. She seems to sincerely like me, and when she says, 'I love you,' I know she truly means it.
That's all it took. Be. A. Fucking. Good. Dad.
Sometimes, I wonder if Sarah had a point when she asked for a divorce. But, wait, I was never a bad dad, or an absent dad. In fact, I was a great dad, and, after losing my mind under a ton of what-did-I-do-wrong, I'm going back to being one. Sarah was the unhappy one, and I never for once dismissed her unhappiness. I asked the questions, I offered the solutions, I was present when I wanted to be absent. And, yet, she divorced me, and now she's left me with the thought that, maybe, I'm a shit dad.
'I love you too,' I answer.
Chloe runs away and disappear in the sea of school-issued hats. I turn my head away, prepared to head out of the yard, when I spot a head of thick, dark hair, a curvy figure.
This is when the coconut falls on my head: I'm back on my tiny island; the sharks are still circling, and… Should I say something? Should I offer to take her to my apartment? Or should I tell her I don't need her to come to my apartment, and good luck to her (I mean, she'll be totally fine without me, but I like to play with the thought that, maybe, I'm the one who got away).
She's talking to two other mums. They're all from the same brand, from the same shelf: entitled, good looking, well dressed.
The other two women are an Asian woman with an expensive (and 10-years out-of-date) balayage and a Scandinavian-looking woman with a sharp face.
The trio busy in a conversation that I don't need to hear to imagine: the extracurricular activities for the kids, the renovations of the holiday house, the latest trip overseas, the great yoga studio you absolutely have to try.
They're all trying very hard to top one another.
The Asian wants to be white; my woman wants the skin of the Asian and the thinness of the blonde; the last one wants the boobs of my woman.
Each one is constantly trying to figure out how much money the other two are on: one of the ladies' husband is on the committee for a theatre (that must mean something!); one of the ladies of the group is the daughter of an ex-supreme-court judge (that surely says a lot!); one of the three has a stake in a company that has become an overnight success (I wonder if they're already cash positive. In which case…).
On their faces, they have carved a perennial expression of deep interest for what the others have to say.
I walk up to them and address my woman:
'Hi. Excuse me. How have you been?' I say trying to sound as casual as possible.
The conversation stalls for a moment. She says, just as natural as me:
'I'm great. I haven't seen you in a while.'
'Isn't it good to see dads drop off their kids,' one of the others chirps in.
'My husband never has time for drop off or pick up. It's either me or the nanny,' says the third still well and truly in her competition with the other mums.
I say something about how the times have changed.
Then she waits. They all wait. She looks at me, and they all look at me.
'Well, I'm late,' I say, intimidated by the presence of the other two and feeling chicken.
'Work work work, eh?' my woman asks.
'I guess…' I say.
I can't believe she can seem so (truly) at ease. She keeps her eyes on me, but I can't see a trace of a secret message. Just another mum talking to another dad on the school premises.
Did I dream of fucking her? Did it really happen?
I'm unable to leave, which makes all the difference, because, had I left a second earlier, I would have missed – drum roll – her husband.
A second coconut falls on my head.
He looks totally normal. In fact, he looks absolutely fine: tall, with the body of someone who played sports competitively in his youth and who still looks after himself, with a pleasant face. Not ugly, not fat, maybe gay?
He kisses her on the mouth.
'Drop off executed,' he says (he's one of the good ones who assists with school duties).
I don't detect any gayness. Although, you never know with these things.
'Well, I'm on my way,' I say.
'This is Tim,' my woman says.
Tim and I shake hands.
'Good to see you – four,' I add, and I quickly trot off.
I get to work.
Do said work.
Pick up Chloe.
Take Chloe home.
Feed her.
Wash her.
'No, there's no volcano today. No puzzle. No time for clay. I'm sorry, sweetie.'
Read her a story. Quickly.
Put her to bed.
Wait for her to fall asleep.
It takes a while.
I wash the dishes.
I wash myself.
I go to bed.
I finally scream into the pillow.
Fuck!
I mean, fuuuuck!!!
It must be nearly dawn when I finally doze off, and it feels like five minutes later when I feel Chloe's warm breath on my cheek.
'Daddy. I think we're going to be late. The clock has the big arm almost up.'
Yes. I got this. I can get dressed in a minute and get her to school.
My whole body feels sluggish and heavy, like something that's sluggish and heavy and is incapable of coming up with a convincing simile for how sluggish and heavy it feels today.
We get to school, and Chloe runs off. No kiss.
I deserve that.
It doesn't take much to push me back onto bad habits. I'm sure Doctor Connor has a diagnosis for what I am. She hasn't shared it yet. For now, it's all questions and notes. The occasional offer of a pill to try. I often wonder if there's a plan to these things, a path to follow. Step one: ask questions. Step two: give a diagnosis and a stock-standard solution. Step three: the patient follows the prescribed solution. Step four: the patient is cured.
I don't even know if I should be cured. I don't think I'm sick. And yet, I feel like I need to talk to someone. Maybe not necessarily a therapist, but… Someone. I need to tell someone that I don't deserve my loneliness, that it's not my fault that I'm so sad and I can't be a good dad anymore, that I want to be one, that I fear that nobody has every truly loved me for who I am. You can't exactly tell your parents that. Or your friends.
Which poses the interesting question of what kind of friends I have made. But I don't have any illusion that there's someone out there that has the interest to listen to this type of outburst. Not unless, like Doctor Connor, you pay them to.
I'm outside of the school, waiting for lights to turn green at the pedestrian crossing, when I hear:
'Didn't you say you wanted a rematch?'
I turn. It's her.
Yes. Yes, I want a rematch.
'You'll need to do better,' she says.
What does she want?
'You said – Angry?' I say.
She smiles. Nay, she purrs.
'Well, we'll see.'
She drives me in her car. I don't even offer: I understand this is on her terms. Her heels click on the pavement as we walk on the back alley towards the rear entry of my building. She won't say a word, but, even though she's trying to walk with confidence, I can see her gait for what it is: eager.
I latch the apartment door behind me. I roll down the curtain.
Nobody says a word.
I turn towards her.
'So…' she begins.
'On your knees.'
She smiles and kneels down.
'Do I need to spell out what I want you to do?' I say with a firm tone but a hint of shakiness in my voice.
Her eyes widen a little. She stares at me, and she begins to unzip my pants.
This is a million miles away from everything I know. Should worry about her pleasure, her comfort? Should I censor my desire in any way?
'You can tell me if we go to far,' I say.
She looks at me harder, almost challenging me to go far. I fear she might be way ahead of me already. And it terrifies me a bit.
I take her chin between my thumb and my index, opening her mouth a bit. With my free hand I hold my dick.
'Do you want this?' I ask.
She lets the tip of her tongue out of her mouth, but I hold her face back.
'Uh uh. Say it.'
'I want it. I want to suck your cock.'
My heart is pounding. I don't know where this comedy is taking us, what to do next, what to expect.
'You want my cock…' I repeat.
'I want your cock, please,' she says.
'That's it.'
I lower my dick and put it closer to her mouth.
The woman gives it a long, slow lick. Then, she reaches the frenulum and gives it a good suck. (My head starts spinning with pleasure and desire for more.) She swallows the glans and holds it in her mouth for a moment.
'Come on,' I say, and I push the back of her head. I do it slowly but firmly. I wait for an indication of when to stop, her to stiffen her neck or a wince of discomfort, at which point I would know we've established some sort of limit to this game. But she keeps going until her lips touch the base of my dick. Then, almost panicking, I pull her head back.
'Mmmh,' she moans, and she draws in some air.
I then push her back down, then up, a gulp of air, and down again.
When she comes up, she looks at me with watery eyes. The make-up around her eyes is smudged and tracks of lipstick smear her cheeks. Then she goes down again, going faster without waiting for my hand to guide her. She stops and spits on my dick then puts it in her mouth again, letting it slide down her throat.
'Ah ah,' I say pulling her up.
I stare at her for a second. The top of her blouse is soaked with drool, and the fabric sticks to the skin. I can see the contour of her breasts which heave up and down, like after a run.
'Take it off.'
She complies. She wears a purple bra.
'That too,' I say.
I feel her breasts; I let them fill my hand; I squeeze them gently. Then I pinch her nipples between my fingers, increasing the pressure slowly, until her knees buckle, and she says:
'Ah!'
'You made me wait,' I say.
I don't need an answer. I don't wait for one.
'Now your skirt,' I continue.
She lowers her skirt.
'No, not your shoes. Keep your panties for now. I want you to lean on the table. That's it.'
She's bent forward. The back muscles of her legs are tense in this position.
I begin to fondle her ass, inserting my thumbs under the elastic of her nickers. Feeling her. Then, I lower the panties, which fall around her ankles.
'Spread your ass for me,' I order.
She lifts her chest up and with both hands opens her butt cheeks.
I admire her large, muscular anus, her plump vulva. From the darker, external labia, the tips of her thick inner libs protrude with a more crimson shade. I smell her deep, familiar odour again.
'Good. Now, hands back on the table. What do you want now?' I ask without really wanting an answer. 'You want to come, eh? You want me to make you come hard, little slut?'
'Yes,' she whispers.
I slap her on her ass.
'I didn't hear you.'
'Yes!' she says louder.
Another slap.
'Ow!' she mopes.
'Yes, what?' I ask.
I admire the skin where my hand hit her, which is now blushing.
'Yes, I want you to make me come,' she pleads. She remembers only to late. She tries to add: 'Plea-'
Another slap.
'Please, please. I want you to make me come,' she says.
'Good. I want you to work for it though.'
'I will.'
'Good. Touch yourself.'
She moves one hand between her thighs and begins to massage herself.
I catch my breath for a moment and admire the circular motion of her fingers.
Now and then, she inserts to fingers in her vagina, then goes back to the clit.
I move closer. I stroke her pussy with the shaft of my penis.
'Please, fuck me,' she says. 'I want you so bad.'
I slowly push my dick inside her.
Her fingers leave the clit and reach for my balls, and she draws me closer and closer.
I start pumping, slowly at first. After every push, I hear her draw breath.
'Should I stop?' I ask.
'No.'
Slap. Slap. Slap.
'No, please!' she cries.
Then I start fucking her harder and harder. I hold onto her plump ass, which is now shiny red. I enjoy the feeling of her flesh against my inner thighs, as they touch with every push.
The woman is now holding onto the table with both hands. Every push brings a loud moan from her.
'I want you to say it,' I tell her. 'I want you to say that you're coming.'
She doesn't answer. She's biting her lips. Then, she opens her mouth and groans:
'I'm co-ming. I'm co-o-o-ming…'
I quickly spin her around and make her kneel in front of me once again.
'Open your mouth. That's it.'
I need only two more strokes and I spray two big jets onto her tongue.
The woman is staring at me. She swallows my load and licks her lips. Then she sucks the tip of my dick for a moment to ensure she got it all. Her face is flushed. Her self-assured smirk has disappeared, but I can tell she's satisfied. She looks more attractive than ever.
'Clean it,' I say out of breath.
She licks me thoroughly, obediently.
'Did you come?' I ask.
She nods, without breaking eye contact, now kissing my shaft tenderly.
'Then you got what you came here for?'
She nods again.
'What's your name?' I ask her.
'Cynthia. Cyn.'
'Well, Cynthia. Last time, you had a few chosen words for me. Any comment, now?'
She gives my lower abdomen a small caress.
I think I have now solved the mystery of this woman. Power, money, beauty. She has it all. Her husband is not ugly, or fat, or old, or gay. He's probably very nice. He probably does all the nice things a nice husband is supposed to do, except let her be – this.
She can't be like this with him.
God, isn't it awful how we can't be who we are with the people we love?
'Thank you,' she says.
'Thank you, Cyn. You did well today,' I say.
'I – I need to wash. Is it ok?'
She stands up, looking for some of her composure. She caresses me on the cheek. I can tell she is putting on her mask again, but the woman that leaves my apartment today is not the same woman that had come in earlier. She knows that, inside these four walls, she can be who she truly is.
She disappears into the bathroom.
We don't have to exchange numbers, organise our next meeting. This is not an affair, a relationship. This is something else.