Anger Ch. 01

Chapter 1 – They Meet

Authors Note:

There is no sex in this chapter. As of this posting, chapter 2 hasn't been written. I want to hear from you, my goal is to become a better writer. Help Me! Specifics are great, you liked this passage or I lost you in that passage etc. I hope you enjoy the story.

The sun touches the horizon setting a flattering rosy glow on the swim-suited beach crowd as they fold chairs, shake towels and prepare to leave with the sun. Sitting atop my surfboard, I rise gently with an ocean swell. I turn my attention back out to sea looking for the wave that will be the last ride of the day.

I spot a pod of dolphins lazily swimming past; occasionally they come to the surface with a puff. I tap my board and sing Marvin Gaye – their favorite artist.

"Woa-oh, mercy, mercy me. Ah, things ain't what they used to be. No. Oil wasted on the ocean and upon our seas, fish full of mercury."

Dolphins being curious are attracted to sound and I've attracted a big one. He swims within ten feet and gives me the one-eye. A one-eye is when they roll slightly to one side and get one big black eye out of the water for a peek.

"Hey bud!" I smile and wave.

One of the other dolphins tosses a cannonball jellyfish five feet in the air with its beak. It hits the water - kerplunk. Apparently, nobody likes jellyfish. I believe this behavior is an aberration, but another dolphin tosses the same jellyfish. Dolphins have a wicked sense of humor.

Besides Marvin Gaye being their artist of choice, Dolphins also herald the approach of a nice set (of waves). My logical mind rebels against such preposterous notions. How can I know what artists dolphins like and how could they possibly predict the approach of good waves? But the gentle sea breeze in my face, the setting sun coloring high cirrus clouds in pinks, reds, and oranges and the impossible grace of swimming dolphins, lull my cold logic to slumber. In warm belief I prepare for the set I can't see yet.

And it comes. Mother (ocean) has been very playful today. The sea breeze gives the waves a slight chop, so I intend to let the first wave pass. This will clear out the mess and give the subsequent wave a deeper drop. Up I float to crest the first swell and get a gander at the second rolling swell.

I say stupid things to myself when I surf. When I choose a wave to go for, I say, 'That's my baby, don't say maybe.' I say this to the coming wave. I face the shore and lean forward lying down on the board. I start to stroke slowly and when I feel the board rise with the swell, I thrust the water back powerfully one-two-three; she has me.

'Pop.' I do a push-up and throw my legs underneath. 'Down-down-down.' Down the wave I charge, accelerating quickly while I peruse the situation - turn toward the break - 'Cut.' I lean heavily into a bottom turn, sending a sheet of water off the edge of the board.

'Up, up, up' I travel up the wave toward the breaking wave shoulder, losing speed all the way. I crest the wave just as it breaks. 'STOMP!' My back foot presses heavily, while the front foot lets up and the board turns on a dime. I feel and hear the breaking wave tap the bottom of my board. I speed away from the breaking shoulder, wind in my hair and the fins slicing through the water sounds like a muffled zipper. 'WOO HOO!'

I ride up and down the wave, pumping it for speed. 'Down in front.' I aim straight toward shore and get out in front of the wave. 'Lay down,' I lie down on the board with my hands stretched out in front clutching the tip. 'Oh take me home baby.' I ride the white water to shore.

I stand in shallow water and tear the Velcro strap that connects the board leash to my ankle. I look out at mother ocean, grinning contentedly while I wrap the leash. I've been playing, exerting - writing in graceful arcs with a trail of bubbles left by fins swiftly slicing through blue-green sea - all day long, and there is absolutely no evidence I've been there at all. I love that! Well, no evidence except what I feel. My joy has swelled pushing the limits of my skin, like if I open my mouth, hysterical laughter will gush out.

Board in hand, I turn from the ocean and notice a woman walking purposefully toward me. She has grace and poise, a certain confidence in her step. She has an even tan that gives her a healthy glow, mind you, not enough to damage skin. There are no lines at the corners of her eyes, unlike me. Mine are caused by a constant sun smile, but her tan didn't come from the sun. She wears a flattering peach two-piece bathing suit that stylishly bridges the gap between sensuality and modesty. Peach sandals casually dangle from two fingers of her right hand. This woman is on societies 'A' list, of which I am not a member.

These A list meetings usually don't bode well for me. It means I've gone and done something utterly thoughtless, like parking my heap near their Shih-tzu's toilet, frightening the dog so badly it can't even piss on my car. Whatever the issue, I wouldn't be approached unless it was perceived as an emergency. These meetings tend to put me on guard. However, my mood is such that I could address a joint session of Congress. I would stand at the podium in my dripping bathing suit bellowing,

"Ladies and gentlemen you're lookin' a bit pasty out there, how 'bout a nice surf session?"

As I walk from the water, she halts just in front of the line of foam left by the last wave. I stop on the other side of the line. I smile warmly and say,

"Hello." I have the board under my arm. She smiles indulgently.

"Hello. I just thought I'd tell you, I love to watch surfers, I find them fascinating." This is all said slowly with just the barest hint of sarcasm. She smiles yet her arresting blue eyes seem hard and cold. She has shiny black hair hanging stylishly to her shoulders. She hasn't been in the water; she doesn't go to the beach to swim in the filthy ocean.

She raises her slender arm and glances at her wrist, but her watch is absent.

"Really, what do you like about surfing?" I ask casually.

"Nothing. I said I like to watch surfers." Her tone mildly scolds, like she is a border collie trying to keep me, the sheep, from wandering off topic. She's mistaken my silly grin for stupidity. I am about to beg off, I don't need to waste my mood on a woman with a stick up her butt. I look into her eyes to speak, and notice a three-inch scar on her forehead above her right eye. It's the mirror image of a three inch scar on my forehead above my left eye. There's just something about that scar marring her perfectly accoutered appearance, 'That's my baby, don't say maybe.'

"What?" She asks shaking her head – rejecting the lunacy spilling from my mouth.

"Nothing," I look deeply into her eyes seeking clues about the source of our scar connection.

"Are you clean?"

"I just got out of the ocean..."

"I mean do you have STDs or anything?" I chuckle, man I got great eye contact.

"Is there some reason you need to know?" I ask.

"That should be obvious." She replies in exasperation.

"No... no STDs. As a matter of fact, with my last check-up I got a bumper sticker that reads 'Penis So Clean, You Can Eat Off It.'" I smile at her thinking surely she'll grin or blush perhaps. Stonily she replies,

"You're funny..."

"Look, do you want to fuck?" She asks belligerently and before I can answer.

"I didn't think it would be difficult to get a man to fuck me. Come on, I have to be a huge step up from the women you've been with. Are you gay or..."

"Yeah, I'll fuck you." I answer shocked but amused.

"Oh, thank you" she says sarcastically and looks at her watch arm again.

"Ya know, I'm startin' to like you." I mean it; she surprises me. She answers with a derisive snort.

"Give it a rest, you don't have to woo me, I already said I'd fuck you."

I chuckle shaking my head.

"I'm glad you think this is funny, but I really don't have that much time. Can we get going?"

"My car is right up here," I say pointing.

"I'll take you to my place, if that's okay with you." She considers only a moment.

"Alright."

Boisterous talk, laughter and the distant applause of crashing waves accompany our walk across the packed sand to my car. We arrive at my rusting '91 Corolla. I sling the board on the roof rack and cinch the straps. She stares at me in disbelief.

"This is your car?"

"Uh huh" I say falling into the towel covered driver's seat. The springs groan in protest. She opens the passenger door, skreeeek, and peers in with wrinkled nose.

"Get in." I say in exasperation.

"Do I need a tetanus shot?" she asks while gingerly seating herself, trying to touch as little as possible.

"Of course not... just don't touch anything metal."

I wiggle the gear shift, pump the gas twice and turn the ignition. She starts right up like always. I put her in gear and she glides over the sand.

Moments later, "I think I made a mistake... let me out." She says frowning at her surroundings. I slow the car. I've been thinking about her motivation for picking me up. I sense she sees the world in black and white. People like that make me wary, as they take one giant leap over all sorts of pesky details. Details like a surfer with a silly grin may not be an idiot.

Nevertheless, she wants to bed me and she doesn't seem the sort to suffer idiots. I don't want to lose her now; I feel tied to her through our mutual scars. I can only think of one motivation that fits the bill, and it's my only card to play. "If you get out now, you won't be able to scratch Payback-Cheatin'-Boyfriend from your to-do list."

I don't take my eyes from the sand; I don't want to get stuck in a soft patch. She doesn't say another word about it, but her intense scrutiny singes the side of my head. I turn onto the access ramp cut through crumbling dunes topped with sea oats, and up onto the paved street.

My logical mind pokes me, dolphin's favorite artist, dolphin's heralding a good set and scars connecting me and...

"What's your name?"

"Ah... Jane."

"How unusual." I grin.

"What's yours?"

"Ah... Matt."

"Very exotic." She says dryly.

"I'm takin' a wild stab here, but is your last name Doe?"

"Wow, are you a mind reader?" She says with mock enthusiasm.

"Yes." I say without hesitation.

"What am I thinking now?" She replies with a smirk.

"It's too insulting to repeat."

"You ARE a mind reader."

I pull into my busy garage: kayaks and surfboards hang from the rafters, Tools spread over benches and plastic bins filled with assorted oddities. She gets out of the car and looks around.

"I hope the rest of your house isn't like this."

"It is."

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," she says looking at her watch-less arm.

"I haven't heard that before."

"Well it's true," I stop at the door from the garage to kitchen and peruse her skeptically.

"Have you been to a God's house?"

"Don't be stupid."

"That's what I was gonna say, then I decided to be more polite." I say in consternation.

"This is God's house," she says waving her arms indicating everything, "the universe."

"I agree the universe has order, but clean? Entropy ya know, everything put together falls apart. Would you call the universe clean?"

"Absolutely," she smiles triumphantly, "the vast majority is open space, little or no matter at all."

"That's a good point," I say nodding, "but what a concept. Matter, life in all its filthy existence swept under the carpet of the universe in favor of vast, empty expanses of clean. It seems to me God's business is in the filth. I mean if God wanted clean, why the heck did she create us?" She stares at me warily and I wonder if I'm inching my way out of the cramped little mental box she's put me in. I turn and walk through the door into the kitchen, Jane on my heels.

"That's not what I meant. I mean things are created, stars planets and such, they fall apart and the mass and energy are used to create new stars and planets – a self cleaning universe. God's universe is clean and we should emulate that." She looks around at my orderly kitchen.

"Why is your kitchen clean, I thought you said the rest of your house is a mess?"

"I don't want bugs." She nods her head knowingly, quite satisfied with herself.

"Anyway," I continue, "you said what made the universe clean was the lack of matter." Her face colors.

"What I mean is, whatever matter there is, is exploded out and collected back, in an orderly fashion, so even the matter part is clean."

"That's not what you said."

"That's what I'm saying now, what does it matter what I said first?" she says in exasperation.

"Alright, look at humans, we make all kinds of mess. If sewage and garbage collection stopped we'd be overrun with filth in a week and we're supposedly created in God's image. All we really do is move the mess to another location anyway. If you question that, check out what we do with nuclear waste. Talk about moving the mess around, but that mess won't go away."

"I'd prefer not to be lectured on the dangers of nuclear waste by Peter Pan."

"Peter Pan?" I ask confused.

"Look, clean your house. I know you don't want to, but it's a necessary evil. That's what grown-ups do – things they don't want to."

"No, you and I stand here now because at every choice we went the way of selfishness."

"What are you talking about? Just clean your house."

"You said grown-ups do things they don't want to, and I'm telling you that's not true. Grown-ups are better at deferring their wants, knowing they have to do crummy tasks to achieve a desired goal, but ultimately the motivation is selfishness."

"Semantics, crummy tasks are things you don't want to do."

"It's not just semantics, you believe I have to clean my house because you clean your house. Cleaning your house rewards you in some way and you feel that I will get the same reward. Cleaning my house gives me nothing, so I don't do it. It's really quite simple." She stands with her arms crossed, her head thrust forward, creases between her brows. Her black hair nicely sets off her blazing blue eyes. I can see her mind at work examining every thought for logic flaws. Her light shines on me and while intense, I relish it.

"But you clean your kitchen."

"Yes, kitchen and bathrooms. The goals are no bugs, no smell and not to be overrun by mold, so I clean those. The rest of the house is in, what you would call, disorder, but I know where everything is."

"You really are Peter Pan. And you might be here for selfish reasons but I certainly am not."

"Why are you here?" I ask seriously.

She doesn't answer, but she doesn't break eye contact or change the subject.

"It has to do with your boyfriend?" I prompt.

"He's my fiancé. We'll be married in three weeks." This bit of news is surprisingly unwelcome.

"Alright. So this is a last fling?"

"No, certainly not," My missing the mark angers her, while this asinine guessing game is angering me.

"So your going to have more flings after you're married?"

"No, we are nothing, not even a fling. This is not a fling." She replies like it's the pivotal argument in a murder trial.

"Is this some kind of kinky fetish?" I'm starting to enjoy this.

"NO!" She yells angrily.

"Does he want to watch us? Maybe he's beating off in the car across the street?"

"STOP IT, IT'S NOT FUNNY!"

"Why are you here Jane?" I ask compassionately, changing gears.

"I'm here to save my marriage." I want to laugh at this ridiculous situation, but the look on her face stays me. Instead I ask,

"How is fucking me going to save your marriage?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"You caught him with someone else?" She turns and leans against the oven door handle.

"Did you speak to him about it?" She nods.

"Does he know you're here?" Another nod.

"He supports this idea?" I ask as neutrally as I can.

"We decided it should be like his infidelity. It should be meaningless with a stranger so it won't come back to haunt us." I watch her in disbelief.

"What are you two, a couple of accountants? Did you get that solution from the bean-counter's book of love? You're balancing books before your wedding day, is that it?" She rounds on me with eyes flashing dangerously. It is not my intention to berate her, but I just can't understand the eye-for-an-eye sense of justice in a loving relationship.

She steps close to me her face red with anger, pointing her finger at my chest, saying in a raised voice,

"You're really going to stand there and give me advice on relationships, you pompous windbag. What relationships have you had? No woman's ever lived in this disgrace you call a house, am I right?"

"Yes." My voice is robotic. I am uncomfortable with this turn of the conversation.

"Am I the first woman to see your house?"

"No, I bring women here on occasion."

"What do they say?"

"They're usually not in the mood to critique my house."

"So they don't stay long."

"No."

"What about your guy friends, what do they say?"

"I don't have friends. I'm a loner." This is a sensitive topic. I've always been a loner. My mother said even as a baby I was content to be by myself. As a child I remember playing with a pen. I took it apart and put different pieces together, each variation had its own spy function. Kids played around me, but I took no notice. I returned home hours later, happy.

This attribute of mine makes me feel like an outsider. Not really surprising as a loner is an outsider by definition, but when I do interact with people, the fact evokes pity, scorn or both. Anyway, I didn't need to volunteer the information, but it's a loner trick. You feed your opponent the ammunition, they use it and if you're still standing, they have been disarmed; they have nothing left to fire and so they can't hurt you again. It also does something a little less obvious and more difficult to admit. The assault deadens growing feelings toward the opponent.

"Shocking! So you have no relationships outside your work , yet..."

"I work right here in my house."

"Great! You have no relationships at ALL, but you feel comfortable judging me on my relationship to my fiancé?"

"Yes."

"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" She raises her voice.

"I'll tell you what I see. You picked up someone on the beach, totally not your type..."

She interrupts, "I thought you were handsome, from a distance, and I thought you were 25 instead of 35, fit and stupid, that's what I wanted."

"Regardless, the whole thing is a chore for you." She turns away, but I step closer and continue. "Is this really going to balance the books? You reek of pain and anger. He hurt you and now this ridiculous solution is hurting you too." I am getting angry and my voice rises, "I mean do you really think he was hurting when he fucked that..." SMACK. She slaps my face.

Oddly, I am not angry with her for slapping me. She looks more shocked then I am, but I feel with her outrage, I've graduated from her mental box. It means I can't be easily dismissed; she has to reckon with me, not her image of me. She recovers and sticks her chin out in bravado, but I can tell she feels out of sorts.

"It's time to exorcise that demon."

"What?"

"Choose a word. Something you 'll say if things get too intense and you want to stop."

With a forced laugh she says, "YOU think you are too much for ME?"

"Just pick a word."

"How about 'stop'?" she says sarcastically making quotation marks in the air. I smile indulgently,

"That's too easy to say by accident."

"Alright, how about Saskatchewan, do you know what that is?"

"Yeah, it's a type of Chinese food." I say sarcastically, I'm starting to get impatient.

"That's Szechuan."

"Oh... you must mean the Canadian Province."

"Very good." She says mockingly. I grab her arm looking directly in her eye,