Everything We Are
J. Thomas Meador
Everyone else calls them Fridays. Not you. You call them “Ourdays.” The day when you have me. In your arms. In my body. And when the time comes, although I never want to, I release you back into the wilds of domesticity. Back to your wife who isn't worthy of you. The one who never wonders why you come home late.
That makes me smile; it means that when I have you I don't have to worry about what we are.
You said it best. We are what we were meant to be.
We are each others' greatest secret.
We are nimble flirtations in the hallway. Quick glances at morning meetings. One-on-one power lunches. We are the shiver I feel when your hand finds my ass in a crowded elevator. The goodbye kiss in the parking deck beside the courthouse where your wife works. After work we are a quick drink. A bite to eat. Mini-bottles in a motel room along the interstate. Two people lying naked on sheets that weren't stained until we arrived. And we are a promise. To do it again. To keep the secret alive, growing, until it is more real than the life before we knew each other existed.
But Ourday doesn't happen again.
Another party is more important. Everyone in the office gets the email. Happy Anniversary. Directions to your house. The one she insisted on decorating herself. The home where you've said she doesn't belong.
In the parking deck you apologize that she's lasted ten years. You promise it won't make it to eleven. Within a year, you promise, you'll buy a condo and we'll move in together. You'll work a lot less. You'll come home early everyday, because I am worth it. In this moment I love you for asking no more of me than I'm capable of giving. Our secret is safe.
On the way to your house I buy a bottle of our favorite Cabernet. Voluminous. Silky. Pairing well with wild berries, heavy meats, and a subtle coup d'oeil. I imagine us drinking it in the middle of your living room, no one the wiser but us.
The thought of that makes me wipe my eyes as I drive. Bite my nails. Turn a corner.
The neighborhood is nothing like you said. I imagined a castle among tract houses, but yours is a castle among kingdoms. I almost turn around. No one would notice my absence except you. I think of that while walking up the driveway. While entering the castle. While smiling at the hordes of anniversary well-wishers. Coworkers whom I've never met and friends you've never mentioned.
You are nowhere to be found and everywhere to be seen. Pictures over there, in there, upstairs. I move through conversations, hearing your name, hearing about you and her.
Your wedding picture watches me open our bottle of Cabernet. I step outside. Wine isn't the only thing that needs to breathe.
And there she is.
Your wife stands at the porch railing, awash in the colors of maple Autumn, holding a glass of Chardonnay for comparison. She smiles, waves me over. Pupils expand in the fleeting sunlight. We have you in common, and that's enough to start with.
She asks about you. About work. About the account we've just closed. You're both so dedicated, she says. I melt into her charm and compliment your tireless work ethic.
Then she asks about me. My career. My past. About growing up in Tacoma and going to school in Des Moines. I can feel you in-between my legs, tilting me back over the bed for the first time.
I shake you off my mind and ask about her.
Military brat upbringing. Parents from two different worlds, fell in love. Father proposed at the Louvre. They're still together. I sigh, wistful. Ask how you two met. In a parking lot during college, accusing you of breaking into her car, but realizing you both drive the same make and model. I am reeling. We laugh. We're so civilized. I offer her a glass of our favorite wine.
Delicious, she says sweetly, and her nostrils flare, subtle, like a code. She is illiterate to the flavor of me and you. Together, we talk as the sun sets and a chill wind blows. Her teeth chatter, the way yours do when you climax, and the world promises an early winter.
I'm suddenly aware that we don't need you to carry the conversation.
We could be friends if not for you. We could plan movie dates around Channing Tatum's film releases. Go to dinner. Shop for lingerie, Christmas presents, things we don't need for the bathroom. Use each other for therapy. Drink mimosas with brunch at outdoor cafés. Talk about men. Compare notes.
And when she asks for advice about you I'll find myself lying, because I honestly, suddenly, don't know how to please you. I'm having doubts. Asking questions of myself that turn into realizations about you, about her.
She's as smart as you say I am. As beautiful as you whisper to me while spooning in the motel beside the interstate. If I am the funniest woman you've ever met why have I been laughing at her jokes? I'm looking for the awful person you described – the woman who tricked you, who hid her flaws, the things you promised when our affair began.
Where is the indifference and apathy, the tacit judgments and discordance?
Where is the stolid silence you swore to me?
She hates this house – wants “some downtown condo” you've been promising. She wants you to change jobs – take the one in Duluth, near your family – and wishes you didn't have to work so late on Ourdays.
She sees my head twist, confused.
“Fridays,” she corrects herself, winking, blushing at the private epithet.
I am falling down a hole in my mind, screaming.
Suddenly, you arrive. The smell of scotch. Cigars. The smell that once made me wrap my legs around you and squeeze to get you deeper.
I see how she smiles at you. Your eyes fix on me as you kiss her. I skirt my attention to the party in the living room. Your wife forces you to try the Cabernet. You recognize me immediately, that taste. Your expression changes. Anxiety. You shouldn't worry though. Both of your women are ameliorated.
What you don't recognize is the determination on my face. You don't see me slipping away as soon as she pulls you towards the patio door, back to the party. You don't see my car door close. Don't see me scream, instead of cry. Or blocking your number. Or deleting our friendship. You don't see me lying in bed, predicting the future.
On Monday you'll try touching me, talking to me. I won't reply to emails and I won't make eye contact. I'll be busy with the backlog of work that I've conveniently missed.
In two days there will be a new girl in the office. She will think you're funny. Attractive. Stuck in a loveless marriage. In need of rescue.
I'll smile as I listen. I'll even be polite, if not vague, remembering everything we are and knowing everything you are not.
About the Author: J. Thomas Meador comes from a family of fibbers, liars, actors and professional storytellers. Although he wanted to be a bird when he grew up, he has since resigned himself to adulthood. In the process, J. Thomas has had an adapted screenplay produced and premiered at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival and had stories published by Sleet Magazine, Dirty Chai Magazine and the Yellow Chair Review. He currently lives in Asheville, North Carolina.