The Kitchen Shrink (2 page)

Our friendship was cemented and our arteries were clogged at the station’s holiday party, over the shrimp and brie platters, when she won the over-under prize for guessing when the general manager’s wife would pass out.

“Seriously, I’ve been worried about you.” My funny friend, for once, wasn’t joking. She put her hand on my shoulder, a rare touch between us. “I need to help you before you do something drastic.”

I glanced at her manicured hand, a soft welcome weight of solidarity. A hot flush of shame flooded my throat like back wash. I couldn’t even look at her.

“Too late,” I mumbled.

I was so embarrassed, remembering. I went to the refrigerator, pretending to look for chocolate syrup while actually cooling the red patches that I knew were burning on my cheeks. A couple of weeks ago I had been feeling unbelievably low, blue, fat, ugly, unloved, lonely and alone. Ryan was at some party, and Nicole, my daughter, was spending the night at her girlfriend’s, or so she said. I didn’t think I’d ever get so low to consider “hooking up,” as my kids say, with a neighborhood dad, let alone with the Martinator, a divorced guy who was the father of one of Nicole’s classmates.

Good ol’ Ron Martin earned his nickname for going on a rampage when his son’s friends ate all of his ice cream puffs; you know, those pastry covered ice cream bites. Who knew? I would have been the first one to make fun of anyone I knew who admitted to playing hide the salami with that guy. I couldn’t believe it. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. For him, not me. The cool air from the refrigerator made me shiver. At least I think that’s what it was. It could have been the heebie-jeebies from what I had been trying so hard to forget.

Two weeks ago, when I had been so down even my ex was starting to look good, I was having a big ol’ pity party for myself when the doorbell rang. It was just habit, not even curiosity that propelled my feet to the door. It was the Martinator. Oddly enough, I wasn’t even surprised. He stood there with a bottle of wine and a package in his hands. I just stared at him as he said “hi” and shoved on the door to let himself in. Again, habit pushed me to follow him as he went into my kitchen and found two wineglasses. He opened a cupboard door and pulled out a plate on which to array the puffy little nuggets.

I didn’t say a word. Maybe I was having a psychotic break or something. Yeah, like pleading insanity for what ended up happening would excuse my transgression. Anyway, he picked up the wine glasses, which he had filled with a wicked purple hue, and carried them into the living room. He came back for the frozen treat, ha ha, me, and the ice cream. He guided me to the sofa, which could have provided me with an alibi had I needed one; a Costco-sized heart impression on the cushion bore testimony to the hours burrowed on my ass feeling sorry for myself. He sat beside me and handed me a goblet.

By now, more than habit forced the sip on me. It looked good. The valium I had popped earlier rejoiced at the refreshing chaser. He held the plate in front of me. I took one. He set the cream puffs back down on the coffee table and settled back into the couch. He drank his wine. I drank mine. As odd and uncomfortable as I should have felt, I really felt nothing. No, I felt numb.

I did feel the wine slosh through my veins, making my body feel as heavy as my heart. I took another swallow, a big gulp, as if it were anti-mouthwash, staining my teeth while rinsing my despair. He was mostly silent. Letting me be. Had I cared, I would have been grateful. Had it been another day, I would have probably been gushing my appreciation at his kindness. I drank some more and ignored the rest of the ice cream puffs. I hadn’t been hungry much lately anyway.

“Lisby,” the Martinator said my name. I didn’t even bother turning my head. He put his hand on my shoulder which I imagined must have felt like a slab of granite under his fingers. An ice-cold heavy jagged piece of rock. He left his hand there, not saying anything else. I didn’t care because nothing seemed to matter anymore. Great, there I was, a lonely washed up hausfrau, languishing to Queen songs. Could be worse, I guessed. I could be languishing to Carly Simon. Standby for the earth moving under my feet.

Slowly, as if the warmth of his hand could melt soft grooves into the crag of my shoulder, I began to feel my neck relax. I sat there, the weight of his hand as heavy as a sandbag inviting me to release my tension. I felt a tickle on my cheek that became an itch. I remember dreading the energy it would take to raise my own hand, but I finally brushed at my face with a knuckle. It was wet. How strange. Then both of my cheeks were itching and tightening under the salty dampness that I just couldn’t be bothered to wipe away.

His heavy, warm hand left my shoulder and began gently wiping my face with a soft white cotton handkerchief. I bet he ironed that, I remembered thinking. My breath began to struggle as tears continued to just seep from my eyes. He placed the hankie on the coffee table next to the plate of cream puffs and turned into my body, embracing me in a giant bear hug. He held me, murmuring nonsense things I used to say to my kids when they were little, and hurt or frightened. “Shh…it’s OK…it’s going to be alright.”

What is he talking about? I wondered. My cheek brushed the rough stubble of his jaw line and I smelled his aftershave, or the soap that he had used. He wasn’t much taller than I was, but he was very muscular. His arms held me tightly. I turned my head slightly and just kissed the hollow in his neck right under his ear. My eyes were closed but my mouth must have been slightly open because I felt my front teeth scrape the skin on his neck. He said my name and held me close while his hands straightened over my hair and his head moved from side to side. His mouth found my cheek and dried my tears with silent kisses. He was so close I could inhale his exhales. Sweet buttery ice cream and red wine.

He pulled me even closer and kissed my temple through my hair. My hands, which had lay limply in my lap pressed up against him. We were now cheek to cheek, breathing in harmony. I remember wondering if I turned my head a mere two inches to the right, what would happen? I turned my head. Two inches. My little decision set events in motion. As if given a signal, he captured my lips and began sucking hard.

“Lisby, what are you doing in there?” Daria knocked on the refrigerator door, bringing my attention back to her and away from the detour of a train wreck my thoughts had taken.

“What have you done?” she asked, trying to pull it open wider.

I stared at the refrigerator bulb as if in a trance, and tried not to be a Lookie Lou at my own emotional crack-up. No such luck. It was my own private peep show, starring me!, that I couldn’t turn away from.

The touch of his tongue on my lips released a torrent of emotions. I bit into his mouth and I’m ashamed to say, ground myself even closer to him. His response was like electricity arcing from him to me and back. His tongue was the ground wire to high voltage, and to beat the electricity cliché to death, my hands were sparking and began fumbling at his shirt. My fingers slid under his collar, the backs of my hands rubbing his jutting collarbone. He picked up my legs and tossed me back on the couch, breaking contact only to lie beside me. Then his hands were on my ass.

I remember kissing him for all I was worth, when he came up for air and stroked my hair. “Lisby,” he said sweetly, “you are so sweet. Are you OK?”

Why do men have to talk? I just kissed him some more, but he tried again. “Honey, are you alright? You haven’t said two words all night.”

I jammed my pelvis up against him, slung my right leg over his body and in my shining moment ripped my mouth off of his and whispered in his ear “Fuck me.”

What was I thinking?

“What are you thinking about?” Daria said louder, interrupting my stroll down memory shame. After pulling me out of the cool white light of the refrigerator and the dirty dark corners of my reverie, Daria stood almost nose-to-nose to me, searching, for what? I wondered. A scarlet letter? C for Cream Puff Coitus? I am not unaware of the irony of doing it with a man (called the Martinator) bearing cream puffs. I tried not to shift my eyes, but she won.

“Spill,” she commanded. “Who did you sleep with?”

How did she know? “How do you know I slept with someone?” I bluffed.

She took a step back and waved her hand. “Who was it, and it better be good. Just tell me it wasn’t your ex-husband.”

“It wasn’t my ex-husband,” I agreed. Which now that I think of, would have been a million times better.

“The FedEx guy?” she asked, quirking her perfect-amount-of-hair eyebrows, looking almost impressed. We had always given him points for being one of the rare men who could pull off a short-pant uniform.

I shook my head. Wondering how I had even gotten drawn into confessing. Well, there was no way I was going to tell her. None. And have her mock me until my dying day? Because let’s face it, had Daria been the one to play slap and tickle with the Martinator I quite frankly would have had to reconsider our friendship. That may make me seem shallow, but, then again, you haven’t met the Martinator.

He was the guy who had the corner house with a perfectly manicured lawn (no problem since he rarely had his kids following his divorce), who put a sign up warning dogs not to pee. While dogs can’t read, apparently karma can because somehow dogs loved to crap in his yard, garbage picked that spot to shelter from the wind and birds loved to die there. He was compulsive about keeping his car immaculate and his house just so, when someone really needed to tell him to apply a little of that elbow grease to his social skills. His temper was legendary. He was persona non grata at the community Little League fields.

Daria tapped her finger on her lip, as if mentally tabulating all the men I probably ran into.

“Give it up, Daria. Please?” I begged her.

She kept on mumbling, “Brett’s brother? No. Produce guy at Albertson’s? No. Dang, he’s not on the circuit. Who could it be?”

If you showed a little kid still pictures of Daria’s face and had them identify emotions, they would have had no problem saying, “That lady doesn’t believe something,” followed by, “That lady is really scared,” followed by, “Hey, where’d the lady go?” since they could no longer see her, because she was doubled over. Daria slowly stood back up, tall, almost resolved. She grabbed me by the upper arms.

“Tell me,” she paused to draw a breath. Sometimes I wanted to smack the drama out of her and this was one of those times, “Tell me you didn’t eff the Martinator. Say it.” She shook me now.

“I didn’t eff the Martinator,” I said. The freaking human lie detector was having none of it. She stared me down, and I knew she saw the microscopic droplets of sweat mildewing my upper lip.

“You had sex with him, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” She saw me clench my fists and wailed.

“Keep your voice down, would you, my kids are home!” I hissed at her, pissed at myself.

“How could you sleep with that goober?” Her voice came out in a whisper that spoke volumes. She rubbed her hands up and down my arms as if trying to wash away images of me and Goober.

“He’s not a goober.”

“Oh, sorry. Dork.”

“He’s not a dork.”

“The whole town calls him The Martinator, how could he not be a dork?”

“You’re right.” I hung my head. “He is a big dork. He’s kind of adorkable. And, he was very kind to me.”

“I bet.” She tossed off a fast jerking-off motion. “What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I wasn’t. He has these amazing muscle-y arms.” I attempted to have one point of justification.

“Come on! He wears plaid shirts.”

“While I know the state of California frowns on plaid, it isn’t a misdemeanor.”

She waved her hands, looking really pissed. “How did this happen?”

I plopped down on a bar stool. “Well, I haven’t had sex for like a year.”

“And how long before that since you had an orgasm?”

“Right?” I laughed weakly with her. Whew, I thought. Maybe I can divert her attention.

“Not so fast,” Daria read my thoughts. “Deets.”

“There are no details,” I said firmly in my best mom voice.

“Come on. You don’t roll in the hay with The Martinator and not have some tales to tell. Oh honey, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Um, it actually wasn’t that bad.”

“Come on!” She exploded. “Why didn’t you just sit on your little,” she made quote marks in the air “foot massager’ and call it a day? An A-O-K day?” She emphasized the O in case I missed that part.

“Daria. Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You could have gone to Brookstone and discreetly purchased one of their therapeutic massage devices for your pretend sciatic problem or neck tension or whatever, but noooo….” She shook her head at me. My own mother couldn’t have been more disapproving. “This is big.” She was not smiling. She sat on the stool next to me and leaned way into my personal space. “I don’t want the details, because quite frankly, you don’t appear nearly ashamed enough and I just don’t want to know about it, but just tell me one thing.”

“What?”

She pressed her lips together firmly before speaking. “Tell me you’re not dating him.”

“No. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Knock it off. It’s over and done.”

She leaned against the counter. Drama queen. I felt my adrenalin rush tingle out through my fingertips. So now she knows. I deserve a reward, I told myself, grabbing some M&Ms. As odd as it sounds, confession had done me good. Like I had done something truly terrible and Daria still liked me. I had just taken the first fistful of my vitamin Ms, when I realized there was more. “What? What?”

“He’s called you, hasn’t he?”

“I told him, basically, thanks but no thanks.” There was no basically about it, he was so persistent, that’s exactly what I had told him to finally get him off the phone.

“OK,” Daria said. “This makes what I have to tell you super easy. In fact, I’m ashamed of myself for waiting so long; perhaps I could have averted a tragedy.”