The Quality of Her Tears

Loving Mia had been the most natural thing for me to do, right from the moment I first saw her. It had been so natural that I never even considered the possibility she might love me less or even not at all. It didn't matter – until now. I tried to probe back into the years since we met, but it was impossible for me to have one objective thought concerning Mia.

Did my changed attitude towards women mean that I'd stopped loving her – that my sub-conscience had already decided there was nothing to salvage and I just should move on – and all that just because I saw a picture?

When I arrived at home Mia wasn't there. A note on the kitchen table reminded me she was out of town for work. She is a freelance journalist, which at times takes her away for days. I could have known her whereabouts by simply checking my BlackBerry. We kept track of each other in our diaries. I know – it is the curse of the yuppie lifestyle.

I could have called her; a few days ago I might have. Right now it was not even at the back of my mind. I took a shower, left a note and went to the Ox and Bull, a bar that started out as a would-be British pub, but had gradually deteriorated into a run-of-the-mill sports bar. I went there once in a while when Mia wasn't around – sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. I never took her there; it was too male a playground, floating on alcohol and the incidental impersonation of food.

Everything at the Ox was brazenly ugly. The food was greasy and so was the barkeep – as a matter of fact: so were most of the things you touched, except the immaculately polished glasses.

I started off with a scotch on ice and an amiable discussion concerning football. The game leaves me cold, but I'd early on decided against talking about things not related to sports, cars or women at the Ox – things like culture or art. The one time I tried, the guy I talked to told me he was the proud owner of a genuine Bob Ross painting. I congratulated him and changed the subject.

Tonight – inexplicably – there was a group of women in the Ox. They were all in their thirties or a bit younger. They also seemed to have had enough drinks to double the volume of their voices.

I never before noticed there was music in the Ox, but now there suddenly was. There even was dancing, although the improvised dance floor hardly allowed more than a few square feet per dancer. Some of the regulars didn't mind that at all and bravely melted into the women they faked to be dancing with.

"Hen party," the blond girl next to me explained, shrugging her shoulders and spreading her hands in mock excuse.

"Who's the bride?" I yelled over the country song that blared out of the jukebox.

The girl pointed at a woman on the dance floor who wore a little girl's plastic crown and a nylon tutu. She was totally into a guy I knew as Randy; he was never more appropriately named.

"Care to dance?" the girl asked. "I am quite drunk though, I must warn you." I smiled and took her into my arms. She at once solved the problem of her tipsiness – we mostly used my legs.

Three dances and two drinks later I learned that her name was Lena, that she liked to touch me and that she had a lovely dry sense of humor. It also appeared that the hen party had abandoned us.

Dancing with her head against my chest she suddenly said: "I'm starved." So we ended up across the street where we had two impressive steaks at a vintage diner.

A cab brought us from there first to a smoky jazz cellar and then to a Japanese karaoke joint, where Lena proved to be an amazing singer.

"I'm not sure what time it is, but I guess I should go home," she said at last. Her voice was hoarse from drinking and singing. I knew it was about 3 a.m. but didn't tell her.

"Do you know where that home is, honey?" I asked and she found that quite funny.

"I should know," she chuckled, "shouldn't I?"

"Guess so," I agreed. "Is there anyone waiting for you?"

The question seemed to sober her up.

"No," she mumbled. "Not the last time I looked."

The subject did obviously nothing to cheer her up, so I tried a different tack.

"What about the other hens, honey? Don't they miss you?"

She shrugged. "Called them earlier. They all went to a strip joint, cheering on naked guys with six packs and a bow tie, no doubt." She snickered and slipped her finger inside my shirt.

"And they all have these overstuffed little thongs too, no doubt." Her other hand suddenly covered the bulge in my pants. It had been nicely simmering during the last hour. She squeezed it, chuckling. Then she looked up at me. "I'd say you are nicely stuffed too, sir."

I didn't see her mouth coming, but her tongue couldn't be missed. Her lips were weak and open, and I didn't mind the pressure of her tits into my chest – or her firm hand rubbing.

In the cab to her apartment she had to wrestle her mouth free from mine to give the driver directions. My cock was out before we arrived and so was her left breast.

The furnishings of her flat looked tasteful. My favorite piece was the bed.

Mia.

Two weeks after I met Jean-Luc we were at his apartment, lying once more on his ruined bed, exhausted. Let's say it was a Saturday morning. I had just blown his cock. It seemed I was getting the hang of it considering his groaning compliments. I felt his drying sperm tighten the skin of my chest – I still chickened out of letting him come in my mouth.

My finger ran tiny circles around his nipple. My mind went back over these last few weeks, only recalling sweet smelling, pink clouds of bliss. I had skipped quite a few of my fake office-hours and missed several lessons to be with him or to rest from being with him.

There had been moments when I took a step back to take in the amazement of it all. There also had been moments of wondering what was happening to me, but they were increasingly rare and far between. A new feeling had surfaced. To me it was entirely alien and squeezed the last drop of bitterness from my heart – it was happiness, I guess.

I was happy with him, with his friends, with the places he took me to, the parties, the people we met, the food we ate, the streets we walked, the parks we strolled in and the theatres we went to. It was as if everything was new, even the silver sickle of the moon when it rose over the river Seine. I giggled at whatever he said, my knees were permanently liquid. My nipples ached when he smiled. I had to change my panties three times a day when he was around – and when he wasn't.

I was in love. I guess I was in heaven.

"You are incredible," he said. I had learned that he loved thickening his silly accent on purpose. He still panted from our vigorous exercises.

"Tu n'es pas mal toi-même, chéri," I commented in response, emphasizing each word by pulling at his dark chest hair with my red nailed fingertips.

He grabbed me and pulled my face close to his. "Je suis sérieux," he said. I grinned. "You better."

His brown eyes looked intense as they darted left and right to cover every detail of my face. His obvious seriousness sent shivers down my spine.

"I really mean it. You are special, Mia. Very special to me." The accent was almost gone.

I had no answer. There was just a tiny voice at the back of my mind, yelling "watch out, stupid!" But I took a virtual pillow and smothered it until it stopped.

I wanted him. I wanted this. I needed it after all these years of frustration. He was so different. He adored me, respected me. He was sweet, tender, and I needed to enjoy every damn fucking second of it.

He now rested on his elbows, his face over mine. I saw the wild black hair and wanted to run my fingers through it. I felt the stubbles on his chin and needed to scratch them. I touched his mouth and had to kiss it again and again – I needed to taste the sweet salty sweat on his chest; I had to drown in his eyes...

"I want us to get up and go out and buy you a dress," he said, exaggerating his accent again. "I want to give you the most expensive and sexiest dress you ever had." I chuckled and kissed him.

"How could a girl refuse?" I asked. "And in Paris no less? But why?"

"Parce-que je t'aime, naturellement," he answered without a hint of a smile, reawakening my shivers. "The girl I love should look the most beautiful of all Paris."

'Zee most beautiful of all Paree,' he said. I kissed his nose. He sat up, eyes sparkling.

"And also because I have to take you to a party."

It took us all afternoon to find the perfect dress – and the road to finding it had been perfect too. Dressing for him aroused me no end. Walking out of the fitting room just wearing this flimsy Dior or outrageous Gaultier next-to-nothing on my bare skin dug up all the exhibitionist tendencies I had buried years ago. Just to watch his eyes take me in went straight to my well-ploughed pussy.

Of course he decided on the sexiest piece – a sea-green filmy thing of knitted jersey wool that clung to my curves with soft, caressing fingers. It stopped above my knees and although it covered my chest entirely, the supple fabric loved to cling to my teased nipples, following the free swing of my tits.

I did not want to know what it cost. Just as I did not want to know the price of the stiletto sandals he insisted I should wear with the dress. But I agreed with him that we should sprint back to his apartment and reunite his poor hard cock with my weeping pussy before getting ready for the party.

The party's location was outside Paris proper. We sat together in the back of the sumptuous car he had called to pick us up. It was all I could do to keep my new dress unruffled from his roving hands or to save my freshly painted lips from his searching mouth.

Whatever function this might be, it must be very important to Jean-Luc, I thought. He seemed as nervous as a schoolboy. He was dressed in an Italian suit and it looked marvelous on him. Ah well – in my eyes he would have looked great if he'd gone to the party in oil-stained coveralls and rubber boots.

I still glowed from the lovemaking we did on our return – and from the long shower we took afterwards. Being with Jean-Luc had changed me mentally – I felt on top of the world. My self-confidence had become a matter of course. I even turned and flirted back, smiling, when men called after me in the streets.

It also changed me physically. I walked straighter and used my hips, enjoying the effect. I only now realized how stressed and knotted my muscles had become – how stingy I had been with my smiles.

"Je t'aime, Jean-Luc," I whispered, caressing his face – right when the car drove through a gate watched over by marble angels. It followed a winding driveway leading to a mansion that lay basking in spotlights.

I noticed his lips kissing my fingers. Then I felt his hand slide up my thigh.

"Raise your hips," he said. His eyes locked with mine.

"But..." I tried.

"Do it," he said with a cool flat voice. He didn't smile and there was no Maurice Chevalier in his accent.

I raised my hips and felt his fingers reach for the narrow band of my thong. He snapped it with a tug – I felt the silk material slide off my naked leg. His hand came up and crumpled the lace-and-silk nothingness into a ball before putting it into his breast pocket where it peeped out like an innocent handkerchief.

"Now you are ready," he said, at last smiling.

The door beside me opened. A young valet held it for me to get out while my dress was still up my thighs. The spotlights that lit the mansion from below must no doubt have allowed the boy to see my exposed crotch. Jean-Luc had freshly shaved and oiled it during our prolonged shower-session.

My face turned crimson when I stood and tried to pull the dress down to a more modest length. Jean-Luc had rounded the car by then and took my hand to lead me to the steps of the entrance.

I swear I heard him chuckle, so I pounded his upper arm. I should have hit him harder.

Carl.

I returned home from my night with Lena in the early afternoon of the next day, still tasting the furry tail of my hangover. I saw Mia's vintage MG in the garage and found her in white tennis gear, nursing a cup of tea on the deck. She smiled. I felt no guilt. As a matter of fact, the memories of the night before left traces of happiness at the back of my mind.

"Tea?" she asked. I declined, setting myself down across from her. I had stayed away all night and all morning, but she did not seem to wonder.

"How was Petersburg?" she asked, perfectly relaxed. I just stared at her. I let the silence speak for itself, knowing she would break it. When she did, her voice was still smooth.

"Before you left you were upset, honey. Why? You promised to talk about it, remember? Then all I found was a note and an empty bed. You had me worried."

In contrast to her words she sounded dead calm. I ached to shatter that composure. I knew that showing the picture would do just that, but I decided against it. Ever since getting the picture one question had been foremost in my mind: should I confront her with nothing more than that snapshot? Now, at the very last moment I decided to wait.

"I have been seeing a doctor," I lied. "Because of...you know?" I gestured vaguely in the direction of my lap. I knew I was being cruel. I didn't care. Her eyes reflected a sudden worry. Was it real? Was it fake? Damn, I hated this game.

"What did he say? Are you ill?" she asked, rising from her chair. I held up both hands, not sure if I meant her to stay seated or to allay her worries.

"Oh no, honey, nothing of the kind!" I said, smiling – or trying to. "Howard wasn't in, so I talked to his replacement. He thinks I might be stressed out and it could result in incidental loss of erection. He did a general check-up. All is fine."

Howard was our doctor – or mine, to be precise. It seemed saver to use an anonymous substitute.

She walked over to me and sat down in my lap. She smelled lovely and her lips were velvet. My mind went miles a minute. I tried not to respond to her kissing, but thought better of it. And anyway – my body had its own mind, it seemed.

"My poor lover," she whispered when she released me. The sound of her voice and her choice of words took me back to reality.

"Uhm," I said, not even convincing myself. "I have an appointment in... let's see... half an hour. I really have to shower and change."

Never minding her puzzled look and pouting lips, I pushed her gently aside and went upstairs.

I really did have an appointment. It was with the PI firm behind the phone number on the note. I'd found their address in the city, a twenty-minute drive.

I showed the receptionist my note and told her I'd made an appointment with the person behind the written down number. She looked and smiled. She had a lovely smile.

"Ah yes," she said. "This would be Ms. Callahan's number. She knows you are coming, Mr... Lundgren, is it?"

Her face was bright and open, making her look very young. It was the kind of face you see in villages and small towns, but hardly ever in the big city. Maybe it's the stress and air pollution that paint them gray after a while, even if they've initially arrived fresh and blushing. Whatever the cause, I mused, right now she looked like freshly picked fruit.

The tag on her desk told me her name was Debbie. I liked to watch her while I waited; it didn't seem to faze her. Once again I was surprised by the urge to fuck her. The tender rise and fall of her white cotton blouse went straight to my cock.

Ms. Callahan looked to be in her late thirties. Her businesslike suit hugged a slender body. Her hair was as red as her name promised, but maybe she colored it for the same reason. She smiled with a warmth equal to Debbie's, although her face seemed to have lived in the city air quite a bit longer. She reached for my hand to shake it.

"My name is Mary Callahan. You called us, Mr. Lundgren. What can I do for you?"

I followed her into a rather small but tastefully furnished office, where she made me sit down in a leather club chair. I refused the coffee she offered and gave her the note. She studied it in silence.

"I guess this note made you think it must be from us, Mr. Lundgren." She looked up. "But I really don't think it is."

"Call me Carl, please," I answered, accepting the note back. "If not from here, why would it say: 'call us?' and have your number?"

"A good question, uhm, Carl. One I can't answer, though. We are four people in these offices – my partner Gus Jones, Debbie you saw at the desk and Rita who works part-time doing our books and taxes. And me, of course." She smiled again.

"None of us writes like this," she went on. "No one ever uses purple ink as far as I know, at least at the office. And although I am not an expert in handwriting, the note does seem to have been written in one single flow by a self-assured hand. So if it is a counterfeit, it's been done very professionally."

I handed her the photograph. She studied it unhurriedly. Then she looked up, waiting for my explanation.

"That is my wife," I said. "And I have a strong suspicion that the man is my brother, although he denies it. I found the note and picture in my golf bag at the eighth hole of our club's golf links. I am certain it wasn't in there before." The banality of my story made me feel embarrassed.

She looked down and again studied the picture.

"Is it recent?" she asked.

"I have reasons to believe it was taken in late fall or early last winter." I explained my reasoning. She nodded and asked about my friend and colleague Mansfield, and the two men added to our golfing flight.

"Mr. Lundgren... Carl," she finally said. "Please accept that I am as surprised about this as you are. I wonder why anyone would want you to contact us."

It was a conclusion I hadn't come to – a third party writing the note to have me contact a private investigator's office.

"Could it be that?" I asked. The question puzzled her. I went on: "Would some third party want me to contact you?"

"Ah!" she said, bringing her hands together on her desk – long fingers interlacing. "You mean, would they want you to use us for further investigation?" I just looked at her.

"Well," she went on. "If so, it is quite an uncommon way to be... introduced to a client." She smiled. Not one of her smiles was ever quite the same. She also had perfect teeth.

"Would you?" I asked. "I mean – would you investigate for me?" She hesitated.

"Mr... uhm, Carl," she then said. "We always love to hear that question. But this time I think it should be me asking you: would you? I mean – are you sure you want to find out? Experience tells us that questions like that often open doors to misery and pain."

She was right. She might find things that would end my marriage to Mia, but it also might end my relationship with my brother. And it might change my life in other ways too – ways I could not even foresee.

The silence went on. The woman never broke it. She allowed me time to consider her question – such a rare quality these days, I thought.

"Would you?" I then asked, softly repeating my first question.

She nodded and reached for a yellow legal pad. She took the cap off an old-fashioned fountain pen and asked:

"Where do you live?" It would be the first of many questions.

Mia.

When I entered the mansion on Jean-Luc's arm, I expected the house to be filled with voices. But the hall was empty – so was the corridor leading to the back of the building where huge doors opened to a well-lit ballroom-sized salon. It might once have been a conservatory, an orangery of some sorts, with huge windows looking out on a marble terrace and a well-kept garden that bathed in spotlights too.

The large room had a wooden dance floor. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from a distant ceiling, brightly illuminating everything around. There was soft, disembodied music.