Down the Rabbit Hole Ch. 01a

How do women respond when faced with the dreadful reality of men being unfaithful in their marriage. This story is about a wife being touched by the very same issue and who tries to cope with the situation by being more adventurous with her new acquaintance.

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I finish cleaning the kitchen and boys' bathrooms before nine o'clock. It's fortunate that the one for guests shines as an example, as well as ours, the one by the bedroom, which I took care of yesterday. When Richard was with Barbara, they had a cleaning lady. Whenever I mentioned it, he disarmingly said, "But Barbara worked six days a week and you're at home". After all, my job is not a job, since I do not go to the office and earn the national average.

To think that I intentionally took fewer assignments in order to spend more time with my family. He loved me for who I was. In contrast to Barbara, I did not travel abroad every month. It was the receptionist she employed at her dentist's office who reminded her of the wedding anniversary and the boys' birthdays.

In the beginning, I was a dream come true: a quiet, modest traditionalist with a non-burdensome job as an editor, dreaming of family and home. The ahs and oohs I heard regarding my culinary skills and the reticent statements he made during business dinners, when he was still taking me to them. Praise about my hidden talent for ironing shirts and color sorting clothes.

Yes, I liked it. Ironing really relaxed me, and the clothes stacked in the wardrobes gave me a sense of control and balance. "You're my treasure, I'll hide you so no feminists find you," Richard laughed, and I thought it was quite funny at first. Because I was doing what I wanted...

***

"What are you up to?" Richard looks over my shoulder at the laptop on the kitchen table.

"What do you mean?" I sound like my stepson Jacob, for which I immediately chastised myself. "Why do you ask?" You haven't talked to me like that in a long time.

"Because it's been a while since you made your famous Wellington sirloin."

"I go above and beyond on special occasions."

"I invited Martha and her husband to dinner tomorrow. It would be nice to prepare something special, you know how picky they are."

"Tomorrow?" I look up at him.

I have a book to finish and I promised to have it back by the end of the week, but Richard has no idea. He insisted I quit my job for so long, so persuaded me that I finally agreed. And I started taking jobs behind his back, if only to cover my own expenses.

Eh, those dinners with Martha and Ron. Like Richard, they are doctors and during these meetings they only discuss work. Undoubtedly there are more suitable topics that can be discussed at dinner, and yet the descriptions of female secretions, diseases and physiology in general do not spoil their appetite.

I do not like Martha at all. For many years, she and Richard shared one surgery office before opening their own clinic for women, so they spent a lot of time together. Richard sometimes seems more concerned with Martha's problems than with mine. In any case, according to him, I have no bigger problems than the fact that the salt runs out or that the boys do not oversleep for school.

Martha treats difficult pregnancies, detects cancer at an early stage, which means that she generally saves lives. In addition to working in a clinic, she teaches at the university. You can't help but look pale around her. I understand that it's not right to be jealous of someone who does so much good for others, but I have a strong impression that this woman is holding back a lot to hide her superiority.

***

I give fifty dollars to my overly greedy and ungrateful stepsons when we arrive at the shopping center. The only way to finish shopping in peace is to send Jacob and Michael to the movies. Initially, they didn't want to stay home, now they exhaust me with various requests: they insist I get another t-shirt or a new video game. Today, I have no time for this, and even less money. Expenses of this nature must be negotiated with Richard in advance. Which boys are putting on me, no surprise there.

While at the supermarket I load up as much as I need to prepare a whole week's worth of meals in my basket. In the end, I pack my bags into the car and am pleased to say that there is still half an hour until the end of the screening. I need coffee as much as my disheveled hair needs a conditioner. I would be satisfied with frothed milk for coffee, but I am tempted by the cakes at Marry Dane today.

"Latte macchiato," I say sleepily to the young saleswoman. "And a piece of black walnut" I add before I change my mind.

A warm, yet refreshing scent follows me behind. Something like citrus in moss. It's sweet and fruity, but slightly rough at the same time.

"Double espresso," the man says as I put my wallet in my purse.

A happy tune seems to emanate from his voice. As if a "double espresso" was a tease, a provocation. As soon as I sit down at the table with a piece of cake and my coffee, I discreetly glance at him. White shirt open at the neck. Black narrow suit pants. Jacket slung nonchalantly over one shoulder.

Tall but not overwhelmingly thin, with thick, wavy, wheat-colored hair and pale eyes. I don't see their color, I'm sitting too far away, and haven't picked up the glasses I usually work with. He has golden skin, as if he just came back from skiing or the tropics, and a bossy smile. Plus a humped nose, large mouth, strong jaw and clearly defined cheekbones. His features are so sharp and distinctive that they become beautiful. Definitely magnetic.

I feel like I've seen that face which reminds me a bit of Vincent Cassel in the best of times. The clerk smiles at him as if the archangel Gabriel himself had descended to her from Giotto's fresco and heralded the birth of her royal descendant. Yes, a guy like him can definitely steal a woman's soul with just a look.

The husk of a walnut slides between my top ones as I grin to myself. Damn it. The same as always. Bloody diastema. My tongue involuntarily moves over the gap between the teeth, trying to push the scale out with the tip, but to no avail. I dive into a cavernous bag in search of a toothpick. I should have taken them with me...

"Is this seat taken?" That teasing sound again. Or rather, something along those lines.

Blue-green. His eyes are blue-green like Madagascar sapphires. That's a moronic comparison, but I recently saw these stones in an advertisement for some jewelry company.

There is an archangel standing over my table, a tray in his hands. I look behind me. Empty tables all around. Interesting. Maybe a Jehovah's witness, you never know these days or perhaps an interviewer. I look at him - there aren't any gadgets under his arm. Besides, he's way too well dressed. But who sits next to a stranger when there are plenty of vacancies nearby? Crazy, he's got to be.

"I don't like eating alone" he says in an even happier tone, and my goodness, he gives me a smile that could melt the frosting on my piece of cake.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you". While he may look a little crunching, in his case, total seriousness may not be possible.

A thought just occurred to me, perhaps there are hidden cameras? Another look around, but only truants are walking nearby.

"You can always scream."

I realize I am still staring at him with my mouth open as he tilts his head innocently.

"Okay, I'm not disturbing you, have a nice day" he says, pretending to be contrite, of course in a very exaggerated way, and starts to move in a different direction.

"No! I cry a little too loudly." Please sit down. You surprised me.

He turns and takes his seat on the other side of the table.

This man has a fascinating face: his features go from angelic to demonic in an instant.

"Do we know each other from someplace?" I ask.

"From school," he says with confidence. The faces of my former colleagues flicker in my mind, but none of them resemble my interlocutor.

"You must have changed a lot because I don't remember."

"Clarence Edwards Middle School." We passed each other several times, he explains.

This is Jacob's and Michael's school. Yes, I can associate now. I saw him with a tall, slim boy like him, a little older than my stepchildren.

"Maxl!" he says with a satisfied face, as if announcing that he has just won the Lotto.

"Or if you wish to be formal, you can use Maximilian."

Archangel Maximilian sounds more appropriate I muse.

"It is nice to meet you," he reaches out and offers a hand.

I return the gesture.

"No Kidding" I borrow Michael's lingo. "I mean... sorry... it suits you." God... I stumble, and Max looks at me more and more puzzled.

"Excuse me." I pant. "I just rarely have the opportunity to talk face-to-face with an adult. I live with two eleven-year-olds, and my husband..." I start and wonder why I'm telling him this.

"My husband is a gynecologist, and works late. When he comes home, we usually exchange a few comments about a leaking sink or a squeaking V-belt." What am I even talking about?

"My name is Claire." I finally shut my mouth and blushed.

Max looks at me with amusement. He probably regrets joining me at the table.

"It is for that reason that I did not marry." He laughs, although it sounds like a mockery on his lips. With a demonic grin, he puts a piece of cream-filled eclair into his mouth. With his finger, he picks up the cream from his lips, and I look entranced.

"Would you like some? He looks at me questionably. "They have the best in town. I intentionally left early for lunch to get one."

I wonder how old he may be. Clearly, he is a mature individual. You can see silver threads in his wheat strands, and there are fine lines around his eyes. Max appears to be laughing a lot as three lines appear in the corner of his eye. Perhaps thirty-six or thirty-eight?

"No, thank you," I reply and look regretfully at my slice of nutcracker. I should have ordered freshly squeezed juice.

"That looks delicious too," says Max.

I am a little surprised when I realize that the smile has disappeared. I'm wearing a soft, loose-fitting V-neck sweater seems like a bad choice now.

"I would like to try it." I eventually admitted.

What's going on here? Could the lack of sex really cloud my brain to the point where I see subtext everywhere?

"I can repay you for the piece if you want" I offered as I timidly slide my finger toward him.

"Don't mention it." You seem like someone who deserves this cake, so enjoy it to the fullest." The cheerful face returns.

"What do you mean by that? What in my appearance suggests that I deserve a piece of high-calorie cake?"

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, leans back, and stares at me unceremoniously. He judges me with his eyes. Any second now he's going to blurt out that I'm either exhausted or plain greedy.

"Oh, come on. You deserve all the treats, lady." His words sound as if he is announcing something very obvious, like the sun just came out. "Don't ever think otherwise." He winks at me.

Oh. Is this conversation really happening, or am I taking a nap on the couch next to a pile of laundry that I didn't want to sort before leaving the house. It's time to wake up. I try to resist - not taking in Max's words like a young pelican takes on the fish. It's just that this whole meeting is completely unreal. These things don't happen. Not to me.

I look away, but I can feel his gaze on me. It is bold and immobile. Nobody has looked at me that way for a long time. I pretend to be occupied by the sight on the other side of the mall, but I feel Max's eyes focusing on me. I turn around for a second to check it out. Yes, he didn't budge. I feel stupid. He, on the other hand, must have unimaginable amounts of self-confidence.

"Where do you work?" I ask stupidly, like on a Tinder date, because I don't know how else to cut through this awkward situation.

"Everywhere," he replies, but his thoughts are evidently elsewhere.

"Oh. Thanks for the answer."

"I run an event agency" Max explains, giving me a name that has bumped into my ears many times. His company organized the most sophisticated events in the city.

"And you?"

"I edit books." I said smiling.

"What?"

I'm starting to laugh.

"Wait... just now did I say something funny?" He doesn't look at all baffled. He is pleased with my reaction.

"Erotic," I reply, blushing. - Though I'd rather say that I am editing Nabokov's translations.

"Barkov was quite an erotomaniac," he says appreciatively.

"Maybe the greatest writer. Certainly the most outstanding. It means that in this gray world you give people some joy."

"You could say that. I thought you would make fun of me." I remember Richard's contemptuous smirk, signifying his disrespect to my line of work.

"Why is that?" Max seems surprised.

"People usually don't respect this type of literature."

"Because they're bloated boneheads. I often meet such people at events organized by my company. You don't even know how many times a week I feel sick at the next vernissage or concert for snobs.

"And then you reach for your threadbare copy of Fifty Shades of Gray?" I snort.

"No wait, let me guess.. more like Decameron Decameron."

"That's cute, but that alone would be a little uneventful for my taste." Max smiles cheekily, and I look at him expectantly. "I am putting it into practice..."

This is what I can believe.

"Really? I respond with a little sarcasm in my voice. "Which part?" I start laughing way too loud.

I'm given an annoyed look by a lady down the hall. Probably a housewife like me, holding shopping bags full of groceries and wearing a tired face. A squeaky kid tugs at her jacket. How I understand her. At such moments, I am also exhausted by the joy of other people.

"Seventh, of course, ' says Max, and I could have sworn he was waiting for my reaction expectantly.

The seventh part tells mainly about the marital infidelities committed by women. I look down and adjust my cleavage instinctively.

"I have to go."

Max spreads his hands. Still with a mocking smirk.

"It was nice to eat something sweet with you," he says.

"Thanks," I reply like an idiot.

I have to find the boys and go home. To prepare this sirloin, it is going to take me two hours, and I need to wash, style, and tidy up so as not to embarrass Richard.

"Same time next week?"

"Yeah," I say, and I hope there is enough irony in my voice. "Too much free time on your hands?" I add a little too angrily and feel embarrassed.

He remained silent. I turn to leave the shop. Max is probably watching my departure with that exasperating smile on his face.

****

~But I'm a creep! I'm a weirdo! What the hell am I doing here?~ the sounds of Radiohead break into my dream fantasy. What in the seven heavens?! I pull off the blindfold that I always wear at night and glance at my phone half-consciously.

Brilliant! Jacob or Michael have changed the sound of my alarm clock again as a prank. The bastards haven't gotten bored yet. I have to change the lock screen from PIN to fingerprint, because apparently the date of my marriage to their father is not the most difficult password to decode. At least this time, they didn't change the alarm time to half past four. So maybe I should be thankful for that. Or Richard for that matter.

He was the one who banned them from playing video games when they pulled this stunt last week. But he didn't do that for me. I have had no illusions for quite some time now, that his thoughtfulness isn't self-centered. Honestly, he was awoken by the alarm as well, and he showed signs of being greatly unhappy whenever that happened.

Fortunately, it is six-thirty, which is my normal wake-up time. I noticed my husband no longer in bed or even in the bathroom. Pulling the blinds up, I glance at the driveway to see him standing by his car. He is wearing his spring coat, despite the slight breeze that still nags us in April. Richard didn't look up, not even the slightest effort to show affection to his wife. Still, I reflexively raise my hand and wave at him.

I watch him wipe his dirty shoes with a special cloth he keeps in the side door, then leaves for work. Early, even for him. I felt cold at night despite wearing fleece pajamas to bed. In order to save money, Richard doesn't turn on the heater too much in the evening, which by the way takes a long time to heat up.

As a result our 800 feet house drops down to 58 degrees at night. It's not that Richard is stingy, in fact I know he can be very adventurous when it comes to some unnecessary purchases. I think it's just one of my husband's quirks, or unknown to me he's had some contact with a gypsy fellow who has influenced him. If it was morally acceptable he would set a timer for my hot water supply.

When he's home, he makes sure neither of us shower for more than four minutes. Whenever he is off to work, I steal time to take a long hot shower in the morning, something that he cannot ration. It's a double pleasure for me. I can warm myself as well as enjoy a small victory.

Prior to marriage, he was not like that. I was taken to conferences abroad, to dates in luxury hotels, given a credit card and told to buy something nice. I was still in a "lover" mode at that point. A trophy that needs to be wrapped around and tied together.

I switched to the "wife" mode almost immediately after the gold disc has been placed on my finger. Apparently according to Richard, "wife" has the same definition as "housekeeper". You don't share money with a housekeeper, you pay her and it's not a staggering salary.

I wash my intimate places and discover that the dream fantasy has caused an exceptionally enthusiastic reaction to my body. I hesitantly direct a stream of warm water to my nub. "Sorry, Richard, I have to cope somehow." I tried to stay clear headed, but only for a second, because soon it was filled with images from the dream.

I closed my eyes and the dirty scene replayed in my head. I've never seen him before, but I have the feeling that he has been coming onto me forever. There is something familiar about it, something as close as your favorite underwear is close to the body.

I can't see his face clearly, but I know the smell and taste of his skin have been with me for as long as I can remember. As if I had invented it myself, as if I had waited all my life for it, looking for it in all the men I desired. I wanted them because I thought that I would finally find something that would fulfill me. To no avail until now.

He's here. Our bodies are hot and wet with sweat and water that flows over us. We stand in the shower. It is hot, stuffy and dark. I'm naked, leaning my back against his sculpted torso. He hugs me from behind, runs his hands all over my upper body. As his fingers travel here and there, they leave behind an electrifying trail that makes me shiver from the touch.

My excitement reaches new highs as he explores every nook and cranny of my body. The intensity of his grip matches the intensity of his desire as he grabs my neck with one hand. Another hand is moving down slowly, as if unsure whether to progress this encounter too quickly. The fingers of his hand are getting closer to my nether region as he moves inward. I feel a sudden heat wave reaching my cheeks, but not because of embarrassment.

In spite of this, I am not ashamed of it in the slightest. When he finally reaches his destination, he puts two digits to good use. He covers my eyes with the other hand, then something incredible happens. As he stands behind me, I can feel his shape pressing into the groove between my buttocks, gently parting them. I can feel his lips hot against the nape of my neck, just below the hairline.

A second puff of breath startles me. I am desperate to look, but the hand covering my eyes is relentless. A second pair of lips? They are just as hot and bloated. Suddenly, a large torso presses against my front. Hot breaths surround me now, two male bodies trap me. Instead of wanting to run away, a carnal hunger has awoken within me. I am turning into one pulsating wanton creature. I return to reality...