The Affair (19 page)

And, yes, I did indulge in a lap dance. I was completely swept up in the Swingfellows subculture, and the men were so damn
good-looking and friendly, I simply could not resist. At first I giggled self-consciously, then managed to relax and genuinely
enjoy it. When he was done, though, I had nowhere to go with all that desire; I felt what must be the female version of blue
balls. I literally ached. That was the sad part.

This weekend I felt like I did when I was a child, after I had my tonsils removed: for three days, nothing but ice cream,
toys, and treats, and what a sense of
entitlement!
If I feel guilty about anything right now, it’s that I don’t feel guilty enough.

As for the rest of my week, I have so much to say but so little time: I’ve discovered something absolutely scandalous about
Alyssa. Details to follow.

’Til next time,

I am out to lunch with Dale Miller, a social worker from the office, when Alyssa walks into the restaurant. The minute we
see her, Dale and I both say, out loud and simultaneously, “Oh my God.”

He looks at me. “You know her?” he says.

“Unfortunately, I do. My husband was … involved with her. She’s one of the big reasons we’re separated now.” Dale knew that
Roger and I were having problems.

He gives my arm a squeeze. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Then he shoots Alyssa daggers. “Bitch.” Dale can be a real sweetheart.

“And how do
you
know her?” I know it couldn’t have been through a sexual liaison; Dale’s gay. He grabs my arm and whispers, “You’ll never
believe this.” He wipes his mouth with the napkin and leans in closer. “About two years ago, I was at a CD release party for
one of Eric’s clients.” Eric, Dale’s partner, is an entertainment lawyer. “This girl is there with Leroy Michaels from
accounting, a real toad, total nerd. She was hanging all over him. I’m telling you, Leroy couldn’t get a date with Godzilla,
let alone a cutie pie like that.” He covers his mouth with a hand. “Sorry.” We both look at Alyssa, who is alone at a small
table reading a paperback, apparently unaware of us.

“So?”

“So … it turns out she was an escort.” Dale puts his fingers up to indicate quotation marks around
escort.
“You know, a professional.”

I almost choke on my linguine. “Dale, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, dear heart, that the girl is a hooker. A couple of guys in Eric’s office had … uh … partaken of her services.”

It didn’t seem possible. “Are you sure she’s the same girl? Can you be absolutely sure?”

Dale looked at her again. “Positive. Her name’s Melissa something.”

“Alyssa?” I offered, the linguine still caught in my esophagus.

Dale wiped his mouth and considered it for a moment. “Alyssa, Marissa, Melissa, something like that. All I remember is she
said she was getting her degree in elementary education and she was doing the escort gig to pay her way through school.”

I still had my doubts until Dale remembered one last detail. “She wasn’t thrilled about going into teaching, though. Admitted
that she didn’t really like little kids all that much. She said her big dream was to write a screenplay.”

“Incredible,” I whispered. “Absolutely incredible.”

I don’t know what, exactly, to do with this tantalizing bit of information. But I know I’ve got to do something.

’Til next time,

On Wednesday, I’m grinding away on the StairMaster at the club, grooving to the Deep Forest
Comparsa
CD, when a man gets on the machine next to mine. He’s looking at me, and his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him because
I’ve got the volume cranked up to eight. I pull my earphones out. He’s fumbling with the buttons, asking me how to get the
machine started, and I oblige. He’s truly befuddled. He calls himself a techno-spaz, says that he’s intimidated by gadgets.
He says he doesn’t even know how to turn the machine on.

I help him get started and figure he’s finished talking to me. I put the earphones back in. I see his mouth moving again.
I pull out the earplugs. Now he wants to know how fast he should go. He is engagingly self-deprecating. Tells me that he feels
like such a spaz around heavy machinery like treadmills and Stairmasters. He’s about forty-three, graying, and though his
legs are strong, I can see that he’s on the tender cusp between youth and decrepitude. He is reading a chemistry journal.

“Looks like fascinating reading,” I say teasingly. “Bet that keeps you motivated.”

“Talking to you is a lot more motivating,” he says. “Why don’t I just put my journal away, and you stay here.”

I realize with a jolt that he is flirting with me. He’s trying hard to keep me on the machine, even though my time has expired.
Like a magician pulling an endless variety of objects from his sleeve—a bouquet! a rabbit! a dove!—he swiftly moves from one
conversational topic to another, each one fertile and enticing.

What this man does not realize is that I know his wife. Her name is Leslie, and she was in my stained-glass-making class years
ago, and though we’re not friends (I don’t even know her last name), we always exchange greetings and pleasantries when we
run into each other. Leslie is tall and slender, with aquamarine blue eyes and long, honey blond hair she wears in a single,
thick braid. I recall the times I’ve seen him with Leslie, and he was like any other husband: cold and sullen, tense, or half
asleep. A blob. If only he knew that I’ve already seen him as he really is, a husband! And if poor Leslie could only see her
blob-husband now, so witty and animated.

He wants to keep talking, but I’ve got to get to work. I feel as if I’m extricating myself from a bear hug. He seems genuinely
unwilling to let me go. I tell him to enjoy his workout, grab my water bottle, and walk away.

Was he my type? No. And the last thing I needed was another married man in my life. So why did I feel so … well, happy? Because
he showed an interest in me, and we’d made a connection, and it felt wonderful.

In the meantime, Roger has come by to see Petey twice this week, which is fine with me. Pete needs his father, even if I don’t.
Last week, I invited him to help us decorate the tree and spend Christmas Eve with us. He’s already given me a gift: a picture
of the two of us in Hilton Head on the beach at dawn, circa 1991. He’d
rigged the self-timer on the camera, then raced back to my side and posed like a muscle man. I’d cracked up, the camera clicked,
and the moment was preserved. Roger has also asked for an “appointment” with me, presumably to talk about his “involvements”
with those other women. I’m caught in the push-pull of wanting and not wanting to know. He says that the sexual harassment
suit is forging ahead, and things look bleak for him. I didn’t tell him what I’d learned about Alyssa, although I realize
that sharing this information could be the best Christmas gift he’ll ever get.

The strange thing is, in the little time we’ve been separated, I’ve seen him changing. He is, in a word, kinder. Almost courtly.
I don’t know what to make of all this. I don’t want to be sucked in again. I’m not ready. I may never be ready.

’Til next time,

I met with Roger Tuesday after work to discuss his “involvements.” He told me that he had given several casual neck rubs to
a tense secretary at the Learning Attic. (Assuming he’s not lying, I don’t have a problem with that. I have given and received
neck rubs from colleagues and male friends and, while finding them pleasurable, didn’t consider them particularly sexual.)
He also mentioned that he’d kissed someone at a Christmas party many years ago but couldn’t remember her name. They were both
somewhat drunk. Yes, on the lips. No, tongues were not involved. I listened and just shrugged. It’s amazing what a little
separation can do
for the spirit. I was in a forgiving mood. Besides, now that I’ve had some male attention of my own, I feel more grounded,
more tolerant.

Once again, techno-spaz hopped onto the stepper next to mine at the gym and, once again, charmed me into pulling my earplugs
out (bye-bye Los Van Van, hello blabbermouth). As he fumbled with the most basic controls (“How do I turn this darn thing
on?”), it occurred to me that he might actually be faking ignorance. His hapless, helpless routine seemed implausible; he
was a chemistry professor, after all, surely capable of switching on a StairMaster.

I indulged him again, walked him through the protocol until his speed matched my own. I must admit, I enjoyed his company.
My time on the machine—which normally drags interminably—went swiftly as we covered great expanses of conversational terrain,
from the estrogenic effects of pesticides on the environment, to the tragedy of puppy mills, to the comic genius of Abbot
and Costello.

He asked for my name, and in return I asked for his, though I already knew it: Ben Murphy. This time I noticed the absence
of a wedding band, which confirmed what I’d suspected. He and Leslie are either divorced or separated. I had seen her earlier
in the week at a neighborhood party and had made a point of examining her lovely, slender fingers. (“What gorgeous nails!”
I exclaimed, grasping her hands in mine.) No rings, not one.

I don’t know why I even bother to write about this man. I’m not looking to trade one set of husband problems for another;
if someone as fabulous as Leslie didn’t want him, why would I? Anyway, it’s too soon to think
about dating. This is, after all, a trial separation, and I continue to hold out the hope that somehow Roger and I can piece
our relationship back together.

Yesterday I did something I haven’t done since I was in sixth grade: I prayed. I’d given up prayer after my grandfather died.
He’d had lung cancer and every night for two months I asked God to make him well. I had an elaborate ritual that required
at least fourteen “amens” (I was convinced that if I stopped at unlucky thirteen, the prayer would be null and void). When
my grandfather finally died, I decided that God didn’t listen to prayers, at least not mine.

But last week, after I’d visited one of the social workers who had just had a baby, I felt drawn to the hospital’s chapel.
It was empty. I sat in the first row and stared at the wall sculpture, an abstract wood-and-brass ordeal designed, I suppose,
to represent all faiths. I stared and waited for divine inspiration. When that didn’t arrive, I closed my eyes and simply
asked God, “What next?”

I listened to my breath, felt my heart pumping, and waited. Gradually, two words emerged like headlights through fog.
Give love.
I don’t know whether I just invented the message, the way kids do when they play with Ouija boards, or whether God, in fact,
had spoken to me. But those two simple words have been with me every day since then. I don’t quite know what it all means,
but I’m willing to find out. And I pray that next year will be better.

Happy New Year.

’Til next time,