Dockside (2016 rewrite)

Yes, everyone was being so predictable. Except, of course, yours truly.

Even Michelle. I've never seen such manifest jealousy in my life. I couldn't ignore Claire; no, that would have given the game away. So, I had to lavish attention on Claire as well, and soon Michelle was chafing under the collar from a miserable lack of attention. She tossed down her first drink, ordered another, and rifled that one down too. I wasn't paying enough attention, obviously, but soon she had quite a stack of swizzle-sticks in front of her, and was decidedly glassy-eyed. So too, for that matter, was Ted.

This could get out of hand. In a hurry.

Predictably, it did.

I had no way of knowing what everyone's real expectations for this evening were. Michelle and I, well, I assume our objectives were clear, at least to each of us, but I had no real clue what Ted and Claire wanted from the evening.

Claire? A reconciliation? A chance to rub my face in it before filing for divorce? Perhaps one last fling for old time's sake?

And Ted? He had indeed begun to act the possessive, addled husband, and just in time, too. The poor man was wallowing in hypocrisy, playing the straight and narrow for all it was worth, bathing Michelle in guilt, tossing recriminations about like stale croutons on a wilted Caesar salad. Only now, whatever his intentions for the evening might have been, he was smitten and completely off-balance.

Testosterone. Don't leave home without.

And Claire was smitten too, I could easily see. Sunderland had charm, real charm, ready and on tap; the man could turn it on and he was a marvel to watch.

And that's when I felt a hand under the table, slipping up my thigh.

It wasn't Claire's. She was too far away, her attentions too focused on Ted. I turned, looked at Michelle, and was stunned by what I saw.

Chin in hand, a fantastic leering smile on her face, she was looking at me the way, I suspect, one might look over a nice, fresh Dover sole. So, thank goodness for long tablecloths!

Her hand drifted to its intended target and she began a little, well, a little massage. Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look, as if she was feeling everything I was and enjoying the hell out of herself. And it had been a week since France, a week without seeing her, being with her, and... and...

Yes. Predictable always has the, well, the upper hand. Every goddamn time.

Claire was, thankfully, on her third gin and tonic by this time, and poor Ted was off to the races, and was that his hand under the table, drawing cucumbers on Claire's silky leg?

Oops, yes, she was biting her lower lip 'just that way...' carefully, oh so carefully trying to hide her sharp intakes of breath, but oh my, the signs were all there. The flush on her face, the growing fullness of her lips, ah, there, did you see that little tremble, I wanted to shout. She always does that when she's getting close. Come to think of it, so do I, and I had just experienced a little tremble all my own.

Ah, ah, ah...and oopsy-daisy. Right over the edge. Michelle took me right over the edge, and she sat there like the Cheshire Cat. This big, self-satisfied grin floating in the air, a minor triumph for the night etched on her face. Thanks for black trousers. That's what Bill Clinton used to say, right?

"Your little friend," Claire said at that point, "seems to have had a little too much to drink."

"I haven't had enough, you cunt." This from Michelle. Sweet, petite Michelle. Right on cue.

"Ted? Perhaps you'd see me to my room?"

"Delighted," Ted said. I don't know how he managed to speak so well and drool at the same time. Must take a lot of practice.

They were up and gone before you could say 'simultaneous orgasms' twice, leaving me with a very drunk French woman by my side.

So...bloody predictable!

It was fun walking back to the boat that night. Michelle tucked into my side, barely able to put one foot in front on the other, speaking in French and saying, I'm sure, the most dreadful things about American women and English men. I got her down below and carried her to my bunk, well, our bunk, and covered her with a blanket and kissed her on the forehead.

I went to the galley and pulled a Dr Pepper from the fridge and stepped up into the cockpit. I could see the hotel across the marina, and above a forest of masts I could see the back-lighted silhouette of two people kissing madly, passionately in what I thought must surely be her room.

I held up my Dr Pepper in salute.

"Thanks, old girl," I said to the full moon. "Thanks for coming through for me, one last time."

I tossed off the soda while I watched the two of them go at it for a while, then the light in her, uh, no, their room winked out, and I smiled.

+++++

Michelle and I sailed to Honfleur a few weeks later, a few days before for Christmas, actually, and we jumped on a train and made it to Avignon for Christmas Eve. We all went to Henri's place, even Michelle's grandfather, and we had a time of it. Two days later Henri and I retraced our way to Honfleur and picked up the little silver Smart Car and, as promised, made a mad dash across France together. We managed to talk a little too, and it turned out he knew one or two places to go for some good food along the way.

New Year's Eve, and all of us were packed in the old stone cottage. Henri and Michelle talked about going in together, opening a new place, and they asked me to draw them something interesting. Didi and I talked about the differences between Christmas in America and France, and the old philosopher sat in his chair, pipe in hand, contemplating his next move.

Everyone had been so predictable, I'm sure he said to himself. Thank God, too, eh?

The old man lit his pipe, then sat back and watched his smoke curl up to the ceiling. He smiled, laughed a little, then flicked his match into the fireplace.

©2007-2016 Adrian Leverkühn | abw