Epiphany...

*Author's Note: This story contains subject matter that includes extramarital sex. If this topic offends you, please do not read this story.*

*

Otherwise immersed in worlds beyond my own, the soft rustling near my table prompted me to look up – however solemnly – from the worn pages of my tattered novel. I first noticed the empty, pitch-black night that surrounded me. A night which was empty despite the sizeable gatherings, outside, of perfectly preened women gathering in groups to dance amongst equally preened men at the flashy club across the street, with its large, gaudy sign – a beacon to the masses. It was empty despite the scattered patrons whom, for tonight and tonight alone, shared the scene inside of the posh little café where I often made my home. It was empty because I was empty, as it was sad because I was sad.

Finally my attention drifted, at least partially, to my server, patiently waiting at my corner table for some acknowledgement. "Would you like another mocha?" he asked diligently at the first hint that I would answer him.

Slowly I smiled at this, at him. He quieted a moment, thinking, and asked suddenly, "Are you alright?" I looked at him them, confused, and saw him for the first time that evening. He was a handsome, bright-looking young man of about twenty-five. His pale, cropped brown hair sat neatly upon his head, accentuating his pale, hazel eyes and fair skin. He was virile looking, and seemed genuinely concerned, thus I refused to answer with the whole truth, as I wished, suddenly, not to depress him.

I faked a grin and answered politely, "Yes... for the most part. If you could poison my husband, I would be substantially better. It's a light and happy thought, no?" My mood elevating at the though of poisoning my spouse, I smiled a genuine smile for the first time that evening. "I have to say, this is the best I've felt in a week. While it makes for good material, I'm not too far from being serious about the entire spouse situation. However, that is not what you asked, and I suppose I should simply answer your question and move along."

"No, feel free... I'm enjoying the conversation...." his voice trailed off, quickly scanning the handful of patrons in the entire establishment, all of whom were being tended to by other help. He quickly added, "Besides, it's not like I'm in great demand."

"Well, the articulate conversation is a welcomed reprieve for me, certainly. Rest assured that I don't have even this level of exchange at home."

"That's unfortunate, as you seem pretty bright. What do you do for a living?"

"Oh," I countered, pausing, hesitant to tell this stranger what I did for a living. "Well, I'm actually a sales manager for a pharmaceutical company."

"Really? That's neat..." he hesitated, "but, do you enjoy it?"

I looked into his hazel eyes, interested in what he was saying, as it was clearly genuine. I smiled, then, and raised an eyebrow, "Honestly?"

He nodded, smiling.

"No, not at all," I replied bluntly, "I absolutely hate what I do. I used to be the Vice President of Marketing, actually, but I disliked that more, so I stepped down. I have an education worth nearly one hundred thousand dollars and I can't find a job I like. Life is indeed ironic, no? But, here's the icing on the cake – I used work for an old, eccentric attorney as his assistant, and I enjoyed that more. However, part of me reasoned I couldn't do that forever, as I didn't make any money at it. However, I used to wake up every morning excited to take the bus downtown to get to my tiny office. Go figure."

"That's what's really important, I think. The staff laughs at me for waiting tables, but it's what I like to do."

"Hold on, you lost me... the staff laughs at the other wait staff? Don't get me wrong... I waited tables through college and have nothing but the utmost respect, but... why are they laughing?"

"Oh, because I own this place. I guess I didn't mention that?" he seemed apologetic, which was clearly unnecessary, but still endearing.

"No, you didn't, but it's interesting, nonetheless. For how long have you owned it?"

"Since I opened it about ten years ago. I opened its sister stores about three years ago when this place started doing so well. I prefer this location, still, if I want to actually roll my sleeves up and serve food. The people are more interesting."
He caught my gaze at that moment and held my eye. What I saw in his gaze made me stammer. I saw in him a spark, a life, a passion – a desire for something more than he was, more than any one of us is individually. I saw more in his eyes what I had seen in my eyes, only years before – when I was fresher. It wasn't that I was old – quite the contrary – but I was defeated. I saw in his eyes more than I had in the cold, dead eyes of my husband in longer than I could remember. I found myself suddenly drawn to the handsome waiter/owner standing at my table as he spoke... not at me, not to me, but with me. I smiled, then, and so did he. I felt alive as I watched his eyes glisten in the dim light.

I noticed that he had begun to slouch a bit, shifting his weight from standing in one place for so long. I smiled, again, and gestured toward the seat across from me, "Why don't you sit down?"

Looking almost embarrassed, he smiled and pulled the chair slowly, almost hesitantly away from the table. "Well, okay...."

I paused as he sat down. Thinking about what I was doing, I laughed subtly and inquired, "I don't mean to sound ridiculous, but, I don't know your name, yet."

A wide, genuine smile crossed his soft, pink lips even as the words left my mouth. He chuckled softly, delicately – as if cradling me with his warm laughter – and spoke, "I think I'm going to fire myself as a waiter. I ask the staff to say, 'Good evening and welcome to Zavi. My name is such-and-such, and I'll be your server, this evening.'" He paused, chuckling again. I watched his eyes as he laughed his warm, honest laughter in which I found myself oddly enraptured. "So, at my own request," he answered, "I'm David."

"Well, then, David," I began, extending my arm to shake his hand, "it's nice to formally meet you. I'm Regan." He smiled as I spoke my name, taking my hand in his. Instead of the handshake I was expecting, he slowly drew my arm to his lips, kissing my hand softly. His lips and his skin were warm to the touch and felt good against my hand. My palm brushed against his and, though the sensation was slight, caught my immediate attention. I blushed for the way I was feeling, afraid it was showing on my face.

He paused, also blushing slightly, then caught my eye directly. His lips parted slightly and my name rolled off of his tongue, slowly, almost lethargically, as if he were savoring the taste of it. "Ree-gan... what a pretty name."

"Well, thank you, David."

"Regan...?" his voice trailed off and my name became a question. I smiled and waited for him to ask whatever it was he was going to ask.

"Yes?" I prompted.

"What would you say if I grabbed another round of mochas and we'll chat over coffee?"

I smiled warmly, his hesitation endearing him to me. "Of course, that would be nice."

I watched as he scuttled across the café and prepared matching mocha lattes to adorn our conversation with chocolate coffee. As I watched him prepare the drinks, my mind began to wander into the vast, gray region of guilt with which so many of us are plagued. I envisioned my husband at home, hopelessly sitting on the couch as though he were incapable of cleaning, making a sandwich, picking up his own dirty socks from the bathroom floor, or locating the remote control. The thought of him had come, over the long, slow years, to disgust me in a frighteningly efficient manner. Passion had never truly bloomed, leaving us both to realize, over time, that love had never been a guest in our home – only some longing not to be alone. A sad thought indeed. Why I had stayed was simple: guilt. That, and, it was easier to stay than to leave.

I was roused from my thoughts by the scent of chocolate-raspberry latte mingling with a distinctly male scent. I inhaled deeply and looked up to see David smiling, standing above the table, holding two colorful coffee cups. I returned the smile and eagerly took one of the festive mugs from his hands. He hesitated longer than necessary, his hand brushing mine. The slight caress thrilled through every nerve in my body, igniting a passion I had thought long dead. That one, small touch inspired more sensation than my husband's most intimate caress had brought in countless days.

I attempted to dismiss the thought, but the feel of his hand brushing against mine played again in my mind. I smiled at him as he seated himself across from me. He leaned back into the wooden, straight-backed chair and said, "So... I believe when we left off, I was blathering on about the tedious details of waiting tables, right? Shall we discuss something more interesting?"

I smiled up from my brightly colored coffee mug and announced, "Well, I was interested, but... if you'd like to change the subject, feel free to do so."

"Okay. I have a question for you."

"Fine... fire away...."

"Well, I have to ask... why is someone as bright, interesting, and intelligent as you stuck in both a relationship and job that she hates?"

I choked on my sip of mocha, the hot liquid nearly burning my tongue in limbo. I paused, then, considering his words. It had been a long time since anyone had paid me something resembling a compliment, and that was close enough for my tastes. I wasn't very good at accepting compliments, however, thus I stammered, "To begin with, you have no idea whether I'm truly bright, interesting, or intelligent, but I appreciate the speculation. The answer to that is quite dull, I fear. I'm afraid to leave either... I have been told for so long that I'm supposed to do what it is that I'm doing, that I'm afraid of the alternative. Sad, really... quite a sad reason to do anything, honestly...." My voice dropped off, then, as I was deep in thought. "I'm not happy with my job. I'm good at it, but I'm not happy. I am certainly not happy at home. I hate my husband with a dull sense of loathing, but I don't know... what is there to do?"

David laughed quietly, covering his mouth. "Well, there are plenty of alternatives, really. First and foremost, I know the job market is pretty good right now... why don't you look around? See what's out there? Secondly – about your husband – I know a guy... does he need to be taken care of?" He added a mock accent to the last line, and the effect was hysterical. I laughed and nodded in appreciation and agreement. He laughed, and a soft, genuine smile crossed his face as he did. "Perhaps you don't believe in divorce, but there are few people who don't believe in murder."

I laughed again, appreciatively, and conceded, "No, you're right. It isn't so much that I don't believe in divorce, but it's that I'm afraid of traveling that path, myself."

I blushed – I couldn't help myself. It was so nice – if not intensely foreign – to spend time with someone whom I deemed to be an academic equal. I didn't know what to do with that situation. Thus, as we do with so many unfamiliar things in life, I nearly ran away from it. "Oh, well... um...." I stammered.

I was so busy falling over the words that I didn't notice David slip into the booth next to me. I looked up, and merely inches from my face, David's clear, hazel eyes gazed into mine. I stared, captivated. "Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful? Because, you are ... beautiful." He leaned slightly toward me and I inched toward the warmth he radiated. I stopped but a breath away from his lips and gazed into his eyes.

He smiled softly and moved gently forward, pushing our lips together. Then, as quickly as the kiss had begun, David sat back and looked into my eyes, only inches away. His hazel eyes had turned foggy with heat, but he looked through the mists and spoke to me urgently. "Regan, I don't know what came over me... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...."

"Are you really?" I asked, holding his gaze.

"Yes... no, I mean... I'm sorry. I had no right to... to kiss you...."

Without thinking, I replied, "I wanted you to kiss me...."

David went quiet, staring at me intently. Finally, he inquired, "What?"

Still somewhat aflutter from the kiss, I leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "I wanted you to kiss me...." As I spoke, I kissed the sensitive around his ear and he exhaled raggedly. My lips drank in the softness of his skin as my mind danced around his sweet, masculine smell. I could feel his pulse quicken under my lips. Forgetting that we were tucked neatly into a hidden corner booth at a café David owned, our lips danced together.

I inhaled deeply, my mind reeling, finally processing what was happening, I pulled slowly away, wanting some time to think clearly. "David," I breathed, my voice scratchy and unsure, "David, stop...."

"I'm sorry...." his voice trailed off. His hazel eyes had turned to a fiery silver color, and his gaze pierced mine.

"Not nearly as sorry as I am." I paused, meeting his burning gaze. "I just need some time to think about this...."

David seemed to rebuild himself in front of my eyes – his eyes regained their soft, hazel color and his face lost its flush. He smiled calmly and replied, "Of course." He paused, then dipped his hand into his pocket. He found an unused napkin sitting next to my mocha and wrote: David – 897-8590. He smiled softly and said, "I hope to hear from you soon."

I looked deep into his soft eyes and, with the taste of him still fresh on my lips, nodded, gathering my purse. I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and walked out, heading quickly toward my car.

I pulled the door closed after me and rested my head against the steering wheel, my mind racing furiously. I felt the coarse napkin in my right hand and I tucked it safely into the bottom of my purse. Heading home and finally turning in for the evening, my dreams all tasted of David's lips and the sincerity in his eyes, despite myself.

The next day at work, I sat in my rather comfortable corner office after a long, dry sales meeting. This there quarter's numbers were up, which normally lent itself to shorter meetings, but there were complaints from field reps, despite increased sales. It's always something. I stared at my call list for fifteen minutes then finally paged my secretary, Brooke.

Her bubbly voice living up to the name, she answered the call, "Yes, Mrs. O'Connell?"

While my maiden name – which I had retained – always made me smile, the title always made me feel older than I was. I laughed as I half-heartedly admonished her. "For crying out loud, Brooke! Mrs. O'Connell still lives in Jersey! Haven't I asked you to call me Regan?"

She stumbled over my name, as she always did, drawing it out, "Yes, I'm sorry, Reee-gan."

I always chuckled silently, thinking, 'Just the one long 'e' will do, actually.' Instead, I smiled, replying, "Okay, much better! Can you get me today's mail, please?"

She quickly hung up the phone and brought in the requested mail. As usual, the varied assortment of bills, advertisements, requests, and junk mail comprised the post. Shuffling half-heartedly through Newsweek magazine, I eyed the telephone. Fifteen minutes and one page later, I realized I was making little progress, and I reached for my tan, leather purse. Safely tucked at the bottom of the purse was David's number. I reached absently for the phone two times before successfully picking it up. I dialed the number slowly, assuring accuracy.

The voice that picked up was the one that had filled my dreams the night before. "Hello, this is David."

I smiled nervously, then – after three failed attempts – finally managed to say, "Hello, David. This is Regan, from the café...."

"Regan, what a lovely surprise," David interrupted. He seemed well aware of just who I was. That boded well.

"So, um... I was wondering if maybe, um...you might like to meet somewhere and grab lunch, together?"

"Yeah, that would be excellent... I'd really like to see you." His voice was warm and honey-sweet over the phone. His voice seemed to reassure both of us that this would be okay, even if he wasn't sure.

"Do you know the garage at Montana and Galleo?"

"Yeah, that's right by the café. That's where I park."

"Okay. Yes, our offices are quite close – my car is on the fourth floor. Perhaps you could meet me there?"

He chuckled, then replied, "Just don't stand me up, okay?"

I paused, thinking about what he was saying and responded with a smile, "I wouldn't dare."

I clicked the receiver into its cradle and grabbed my suit jacket, collecting my purse. I locked my office door and smiled at Brooke. "Hey! You've been a big help today, so thank you! I'm going to head out to lunch, but I may take the afternoon off. I had something come up. If I'm not back by two o'clock, you can head home. No need for you to waste away in the office while I'm out."

Brooke waved goodbye, and I hurried out of the office. Floors below, I quickly crossed the busy street and headed toward the parking garage. I knew that the fourth floor was nearly always deserted, for one reason or another, thus its parking appeal. Scanning the floor for good measure as I approached my car, I saw that today was no exception. I took the opportunity to allow myself the nervousness that I was feeling.

I ran my hand down the fold of my shirt and the pleat of my pants, making certain my outfit was still "fresh." After my inspection, I was satisfied that it was weathering well. I quickly unlocked my car and checked my hair in the rear-view mirror as I reapplied my red-brown lipstick. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the fourth floor tentatively open. David stepped cautiously out, scanning the perimeter, as though involved in some military video game. I quietly closed the car door behind me and whistled softly. He smiled as he saw me, and though his gait was hesitant, his smile was not as he neared me.

I extended an arm toward him and he took my hand in his, slowly pulling me toward him. I did not hesitate and rapidly found myself in his arms, his warm embrace surrounding me. I breathed deeply as he surrounded me, his warm, sweet scent enveloping my senses. He smelled like a picnic in the woods – his pleasant, masculine scent mingling with that of the fresh pastries of the café – and I breathed him in willingly. His fingertips brushed my cheek and he looked deeply into my eyes, blushing.

He averted his eyes momentarily, saying, "I don't mean to be forward, I just..." his voice trailed off, though he never managed to continue his sentence.

"Don't apologize," I began, "it's not as though I'm putting up any resistance. Besides, I called you, remember? I've been doing some thinking...."

"What conclusions have you come to?" David asked with serious eyes.

"Well," I started, my voice soft and low. "I've decided that I'm willing to blur the line between right and wrong."

"That's really good to hear," he replied with a twinkle in his eye, looking at me as he held me to his warm, soft body. "Hey, let's get out of here, okay? I'm down on the third floor; let's go."

We stopped at a modest-looking but obviously new, well-maintained automobile. It was one of those "cute" little German cars that averaged about four hundred miles to the gallon of gasoline and produced absolutely no fumes or waste. I was impressed. He then walked around the car, leading me by the hand, and opened the door for me. I was even more impressed.

Slipping into the spacious vehicle, I scanned the interior. The entire cab of the car was immaculately clean with a strategically placed bag for trash, a coffee cup in the drink holder, and a solidly colored air freshener hanging from a dial inside of the cab. I instantly recognized the mint green ticket hanging from the rear-view mirror as a parking pass for the garage we were in. Again, impressive. He was interesting, entrepreneurial, and organized.