Plunging into the Abyss

"Been there," Addie says. "You're right, it's very good. Let's do it, ride leader."

*****

Addison

We slip our hands together at the same time while walking the two blocks for lunch. To me, it's another indication of how harmonious things have gone so far. I'm dreaming, right? I mean, this seems so surreal. "You've become my significant other other," I tell him.

"Hey, I like that," he says. He tightens his grip. "And you've become...someone who I never want to say goodbye to."

Suddenly, I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. "Damn it, Tim, you're gonna make me cry again." I blink back tears as he holds me.

"I didn't mean to upset—"

"No, it's a good thing, I guess. Good and bad given our situation. Well, you know."

"Yes, I know." He presses my head against his chest. "Okay, no more goodbye talk. Let's just enjoy this great time together."

Minutes later, we're seated next to a big window fronting 9th Street, a major artery in and out of town. We see cars whizzing by, flip-flop wearing cyclists on single-speed, high-bar clunkers and tourists headed to the beach, three blocks away. We're one of only three couples here. The server, a young Chinese girl, pretty and ponytailed, takes our order. We hold hands across the table. I like the look and feel of Tim's hands, big, strong and calloused, the latter from all the weight training, he tells me. Wrinkles line his forehead and around his eyes. His hairline recedes and white whiskers sprout. Above the neck, he looks his age. His body, however, would make many men in their thirties proud—the uncanny muscularity that belies his age. My hubby should look so good.

Oh crap, there I go again, complaining and comparing. I shouldn't do that. Jim's got his strengths and assets. I couldn't have stayed married to him for this long if he didn't. Tim and Jim. Compare and contrast. One from column A and one from column B. Like a Chinese menu. This is so stupid, stupid and unfair. Shut up, Addie! Stop thinking so much and smell the roses, the eggrolls in this case, and enjoy the moment, this brief shining moment by the sea with this prince of a guy who appears as crazy about you as you are about him.

Tim's voice shakes me out of it. "Are you okay, Addie?"

"Huh? Um, yeah, I'm great."

"Just checking. You look so pensive all the sudden."

"No, really, I'm great." I bite into my eggroll.

I stay focused though the rest of the meal, chicken and broccoli with brown rice and pistachio ice cream for dessert. I consume my fortune cookie, then slip on my reading glasses to read the message: 'enduring the pain of change can lead to a happier future.' Hmm...

Tim reads his: 'the greatest risk is not taking one.' He looks up and grins. "My dad used to tell me the same thing."

Tim gets the check, and then we walk out into hazy sunshine. It's just past noon, so there's plenty of time left to hit the beach. We gather our beach stuff from the car—swimsuits, beach towels, sunscreen, etc.—and change in a bathhouse on the boardwalk. I insist on paying the ten dollars for beach tags.

We spread our towels on the sand, then lather each other with sunscreen. "You realize we're feeling each other up in public," Tim quips.

"Yes, isn't it wonderful?"

He then tells me how terrific I look in my black one-piece. "You'd also look great in a bikini," he adds. "Middle-aged or not, you've got the body for it." He rubs my tummy, then runs his hands down my hips and over my butt. He's being kind, for I might look good for my age, but I sure don't look twenty anymore.

I run my hands along his six-pack and solid pecs. "Tim Farnsworth, you put these paunchy boomer dudes around here to shame. "

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he says. Then he bolts for the ocean. "Catch me if you can."

I do, at the water's edge, and then we wade in together, hunching our shoulders against the cool surf. He crosses his arms against his chest and shivers. "There's only one way to do this," I say. Then I dive under. Once up, I dare him to follow suit. He hesitates. "Chicken!" I yell. Finally, he does, and then we swim out to where the waves break, up to our necks in surf. We hug and smooch as the waves break over us.

We bodysurf awhile, then return to the beach. We push our towels together. We hold hands, smooch and hug. Less than an hour later, we're back in the surf. And so it goes, beach to surf and back again as the day wears on. We have to leave by four to make it back by six. We told our spouses we'd return around dinnertime. I'm starting to feel down. "I don't want to leave," I whine. Pouting, I rest my head on his chest.

He plays with my hair, twirling it. "I adore you, Addie."

I kiss his chest, light with body hair. "So what do we do? What the hell are we going to do?"

In a mock authoritarian voice, he says, "Okay, I'll tell you. We're going to leave this beach. Then we're going to find a nice place with a vacancy sign and spend the night. Hell, let's make it two nights. How's that sound?"

"Sounds wonderful. Only I don't think Jim and Diane would find it so wonderful."

"We'll need a convincing alibi."

I raise my head and laugh. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know, something like my car broke down and the mechanic here says it will take a couple days to fix."

"Or," I cut in, going along, "we decided to enter this charity bike race from Ocean City to Cape May."

"Or, we blew all our money in Atlantic City." Pause. "Nah, that wouldn't work. There's always credit cards. Besides, Diane knows casinos aren't my scene."

We say nothing more for another few minutes. Then, sitting up, I say, "Or, we tell them the truth. Well, a half-truth."

"A half-truth?"

"Look, Diane and Jim think we're here with our cycling group. We even dropped names of people they know or at least know about. We're having so much fun, we say, that we decided to make a night of it, with the men and women taking separate rooms, of course." I say this in all seriousness. Yet could I really deceive Jim like that? Somehow, I doubt it.

Tim ponders for a few moments. Then he says, "Or, we tell them the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

"Which is?'

"Which is, just speaking for myself, that I adore you, can't stand being away from you, and can't wait to make love to you. "

I lean over and kiss him with all the passion and conviction that's in me—and that's quite a lot. Then, coming up for air, I say, "You just spoke for me, too, I'll have you know. And, just for the record, I adore you as well, Tim six-pack Farnsworth. "

We're back to square one, and it's getting late. By the time we change and hit the road, we'll get back by around six-thirty, still within our "curfew" but pushing it.

Feeling fidgety, I dig my feet into the sand up to my thick ankles. I shake my head, struggling not to break down. I feel like screaming. Instead, I grab a handful of sand and toss it into the wind, then blink when it comes blowing back—a fitting metaphor for our situation.

Tim sits up and glances at his watch. "Damn, it's close to four already. Okay, I like what you said, our alibi. It just might work."

"The charity bike race?"

"No, the one about our group, our phantom group deciding to stay overnight."

"You're serious."

"I am."

"Ohmygod, Tim!

"We don't have to."

"But I so want to."

"You're scared. Don't feel bad, so am I. Don't forget that fortune cookie—'the greatest risk is not taking one.'" He stands and grabs his beach towel. "Let's head back to the car. We'll see how we feel then. Either way, we'll need to call home."

Gathering up our stuff, we step into our flip-flops, trudge across the beach and then head for the boardwalk bathhouse to change back into our street clothes. Then we head down 9th Street for a few blocks before crossing two blocks over to the car. Along the way, we pass motels and guest cottages displaying vacancy signs. They seem to have our names on them. One night won't hurt, I tell myself. Bullshit, I know better.

We stuff our gear in the cab next to Tim's bike. Then we lean against the car, arms folded. "Major decision here," I say.

Tim nods. "Major major. Between us, we have over fifty years of marriage."

My head spins as I weigh the pros and cons, analyze, self-examine. Then, minutes later, something in me clicks, something raw and instinctive—the proverbial gut feeling. I bang my fist against the car's roof. "Damn it, let's do it!"

Tim straightens up. "You're okay with it?"

"No, but I'm not okay with NOT doing it. Sometimes you just need to close your eyes and plunge into the abyss. So let's."

"Attagirl."

"Only we'll go with our group wanting to stay, not your 'whole truth and nothing but the truth.'"

"A wiser option, yes."

Tim calls Diane first. Then I call Jim. We tell them we'll be home Sunday afternoon. No muss, no fuss. Combined, we're on the phone for less than five minutes.

Yes, I feel guilty, but also so excited, circling the blocks, looking for places to stay. Finally, we decide on The Seagull Inn, a white, three-story cottage four blocks off the beach. It's a got a big front porch with tables and chairs, and the price is right. The owners, an Italian-American couple in their forties, even let us use their car pad in back. We pay for one night, enough time to take an early morning bike ride and then be out by eleven o'clock checkout. Our only complaint at this moment is the lack of fresh clothing to wear.

Our second floor room is on the smallish side. Still, it has a queen-sized bed and a full private bath, including a shower that accommodates both of us, barely. We've become much closer, literally, squeezed into this tiny space, though not so close that we can't smooch and lick and fondle while soaping each other off.

"I can take care of that now or we can wait," I say, closing my hand around Tim's erection.

"I've got enough gas for more than one," he says. "Without Viagra, I might add. Not a brag, just a fact."

The warm water pours over us while Tim sucks on my nipples and my hand slips and slides over his soapy cock. When he begins to finger-fuck me, my legs buckle and I lose my rhythm. Breathing heavy, I say, "Tim, I can't do this while you do that."

He grips me under my arms, holding me up. "You first, I can wait," he says.

Surrendering to his offer, I nearly collapse and would if not for his one-arm embrace while his fingers and tongue work over my erogenous zones. This is a first for me, being licked and stroked and kissed in a shower to climax. I feel fortunate that I still don't need a lubricant like some gals my age.

My body is near dead weight in Tim's arms as wave after wave of sensation wash over me. "Just watching you climax alone is almost enough for me to follow," Tim says. True enough, because only moments after I resume working on him, he makes good on that.

Sated for the moment, we dress and then drive over the bay to Somers Point to the Crab Trap, a popular seafood restaurant where a two-hour wait isn't unusual. We luck out, waiting just over an hour before a deeply tanned, college-age blond receptionist seats us. Years ago, I came here with Jim and my kids when they were little. Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee this, sharing a romantic dinner with someone other than my husband—while still married to my husband. The guilt that I had managed to forget in the shower gnaws at me once again.

"We share the same burden," Tim admits after I tell him. "Diane was so understanding about me staying an extra day. " He shakes his head. "Guilt is its own reward," a therapist friend once told me. "If we feel guilty, we must be moral people even though we do things that are less than moral."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"As you know, some married people carry on for years and not lose five minutes sleep over it, do it without an ounce of ambivalence."

I nod, taking note of Tim's strong features in the flickering candlelight of this vast space, crowded with hungry patrons. "Well, if there's one thing I don't feel ambivalent about, it's my feelings for you."

Our server comes over. We order the same thing: stuffed flounder with sides of spinach and rice and a bottle of Riesling.

We leave just as the sun is setting over the bay, and we take seats on the restaurant porch to watch. Tim throws his arm around me. "Does it get any better than this?"

I snuggle closer. "If it does, I don't know about it."

We make out as we watch darkness descend over the water. I can't get enough of this delicious older man who makes me feel decades younger. Ironic, huh?

Driving back across the bay, Tim says, "You know, Miss Weil, we haven't actually made love yet."

"Which, Mr. Farnsworth, we will need to remedy upon our return to the Seagull."

"We will indeed."

My concerns fall away like the clothing on my back once we're in our AC cooled room, dark except for the shadows that bathe our little space in peaceful slumber. We stand and hug and then crawl under the sheets. Tenderly he kisses me, gently he holds me, warm is his Adonis-like body against mine. "If you knew how much I've wanted you, Addie," he whispers.

"Well, now you've got me," I whisper back. "I hope I meet your expectations."

"Meet them? You've exceeded them."

Our dialogue fades into sounds of pleasure. We unleash an arsenal of moves culled from years of experience. Tongues and fingers and lips do what they normally do when passions flare and desire calls. No surprises here, but damn, I love these variations on familiar themes. Tim wasn't kidding about having enough 'gas' for more. No Viagra needed for this virile dude. And, no birth control needed for me, a middle-age plus.

The best part is this part, cradled in each other's arms, trading tiny kisses, absorbing the pleasures of this night, this special night that will end much too soon. 'What are we gonna do, Tim?' I ask myself, keeping it to myself. We'll need to discuss it. Not now, though, not when life can't get any better than this. However brief.

*****

We sleep in and make love once more before getting dressed. It's close to checkout time. We breakfast at the Double T on 9th Street and decide to skip our planned bike ride to Atlantic City. "A ride for another day," Tim says.

Over omelets, I wonder if there WILL be another day for us. I pop The Question: "What are we gonna do, Tim?"

He sighs and shakes his head. "I only know what I'm not going to do, what I can't do, and that's to stop seeing you." He reaches across our black Formica table and caresses my face. "I'm..." He looks down.

"Yes?"

He pulls back his hand, sighs again.

"Tim, if you can't say it, then I will."

"I'm falling in love with you."

Tearing up, I look away. Then I tell him that we're in the same place, a great place to be, except there's Jim and Diane waiting for us, waiting for us to tell them all about our group bike ride.

On the drive back, we trade ideas on what to tell them. "Whatever we say, we need to coordinate our stories," Tim explains. "It shouldn't be too hard to pull off."

"No, but we need to say as little as possible, nothing too involved or detailed."

"Right."

I'm reclined in the seat, half dozing on I-95 south when my cell goes off. It's Jim.

"How was your trip?"

"Great. We're on our way back."

"We?"

"Yes. I left my car at the park and ride and drove up with Tim Farnsworth. I don't think you've met him."

"No, I haven't. So who else came along?"

I muffle the phone, then look sideways. "He sounds agitated. He might know something."

I take a deep breath, trying to ease my angst. "Who else? Well, there was Helen Markham. You know her, and then there was—"

"Stop right there," Jim orders, his voice rising. "Helen Markham came by here on her bike less than an hour ago, looking for you. 'Just thought I'd take a chance she might be in so we could ride together,' Helen said. So then I asked her about your ride. 'Group ride down the Jersey Shore? News to me. Guess somebody forgot to tell me about it.' Care to explain?"

I double over, feel my omelet coming up. "Look, Jim, we're on the road, not the best time to explain anything. See you in a bit." When he calls back, I let it go into voice mail.

Tim touches my arm. "Want me to pull over?"

"No, I think I'll be okay." I reveal what Jim said while grimacing and clutching my stomach. "I'm in deep shit."

"Then we're both in deep shit. We're in this together."

I go for the emotional jugular. "You'd leave Diane? Be honest."

He slows for a tollbooth, hands the taker a few bills and then drives off.

"Addie, if it comes to that, yes, because I'm so crazy in love with you. Admittedly, it would be a painful choice to make. But after this weekend, given the potential I see for us, saying goodbye sounds worse."

Staring straight ahead, I say, "Enduring the pain of change can lead to a happier future."

Tim turns his head. "That sounds awfully familiar." He thinks a bit. "Ah, your fortune cookie."

"Yes."

"So, are you telling me that you'd leave Jim, with all the drama and pain, all the shit you'd have to go through?"

"Yes, if staying in my marriage means never seeing you again."

Lost in our private thoughts, we say little the rest of the way back. I'm a mess after loading my gear into my Hyundai at the park&ride, anxious about facing Jim, anxious about a major life change that might be in my future. I say might be, for we really can't predict who or what might come barging into our lives, changing our lives, daring us to plunge.