Swim, Butterfly Ch. 01

Swim, Butterfly Chapter 1

{Short Synopsis here:

"Can I have my cake and eat it, too?"

Homemaker Caroline Donnelly struggles after years of boredom and neglect. Frustration trying to reach her aloof husband mounts, and during a solo trip to Manhattan, Caroline meets Jimmy Marchenkov. Younger, charming, fun, Jimmy stimulates her imagination and sexual appetite with a tour of the city that ends up in his bed.

Months later, home and unsuspected, Caroline can't forget Jimmy. Through an odd twist, she reaches out, turning the one-night stand into a friendship and an affair. Caroline knows the affair is wrong and regards Jimmy's occupation and motives as questionable, and despite eventually uncovering the secret behind her husband's unhappiness, she still won't let Jimmy go.

Trapped between obligation and desire, she must choose husband or lover, family or freedom; the responsible but stifling lifestyle she knows, or a new and unique lifestyle suggested by Jimmy.

Or, can she have both?

Swim, Butterfly, a later-in-life bittersweet affair, contains explicit sexual situations, infidelity, profanity, and reference to alcohol. Enjoy!}

Flatter Myself

Hot fireplace, warm woodwork, cool jazz, cold wine--the bar of my dreams! And I shouldn't be here. Low lighting reflects off polished bronze taps with the warmth of the holidays. Cozy tables and chairs wait in dim corners for secrets. I take a breath, heart beating fast. Take a step, Caroline. Backwards.

I look over my shoulder at the well-lit art déco lobby. Guests lug suitcases, coming and going. A tired-looking couple tug a sobbing, complaining toddler by the hand, his blankie dragging on the ground.

Uh, no.

I step over the threshold and walk to the bar, my fingertips resting on the satin varnished oak. Why am I here? Oh, shut up! The bartender, a pleasant-looking man in his fifties, smiles and waits for my order. "Uh, Riesling, please." He nods and pours one to the rim. I cast a quick glance at the two guys in suits at the bar, the only other patrons so far, hoping they don't watch my clumsy short-stepping to the golden tub chair by the fireplace, holding my breath so I don't spill a drop.

I reach the chair and set my wine on the little table to the left without a spill. Better not at twelve dollars a glass! I sink into the soft chair like a warm, buttery palm enfolding me. I smile and take a deep sip of wine while the flames flicker orange and yellow. My hand glides over the silky velour of the chair's arm--nothing like the tattered fake leather chairs at home, almost threadbare in spots and sticky with juice.

I smirk at my making love to a chair, the only thing I'm making love to tonight. Pete, my husband, can handle June and Rudy for a weekend. That doesn't mean they'll get regular meals, change their underwear, or brush their teeth, but they should be alive when I return home too soon.

I trade domestic life for big city, big lights, once in a while, to keep my sanity. Wine tonight, Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow. I sink deeper into the chair, prying one ugly black pump off of one foot with the toe of the other, and shove them nearly all the way under the chair with my feet. Practically barefoot, but who cares? There's no one else over here. The guys at the bar laugh and yuck it up. Good to hearsomeone laughing.

I tuck my legs underneath me, then swirl the glass beneath my nose, inhaling the distinct scent deeply just before I drink. I close my eyes, reminded of the free days; single, doing whatever I wanted, drinking any evening I wanted, yet waiting for that dazzling day that would change my life forever. But it wasn't the chime of empty wine bottles that announced a life-changing event, but the hollow, tin-dented sound of an empty beer can falling out of a car and onto the pavement. Thankfully, the life-changing eventwasn't the yeast-ridden drunk dad driving his son to little league in the park, and hitting on me as I sat sketching, but his tall friend with curly, dark hair. He put an arm around the drunk dad and led him back to the ball game and a bench upon which to stretch out and sober up. Later, the dark-haired man returned and apologized for his friend's behavior. He wiped his palm on his jeans, extended his hand and introduced himself, "My name's Peter, by the way."

Pete. Hope he remembers to start the dishwasher tonight. Maybe I should call? Shit, no, I left my phone upstairs. Upstairs, that's right. Oh, relax! I try to put home out of my mind and think back on the day. My eyelids feel heavy and my cheeks tingle from the long walk up 7th Avenue to the hotel, followed by a nap on a hill in south Central Park this brisk late afternoon in April. So beautiful, waking up to the sun touching the skyline on the West Side before its descent, before my escape back to the hotel at dusk, before some bald guy staring at me through mirrored sunglasses could approach. Ha! I should flatter myself. Who fancies a middle-aged stay-at-home with silver strands in her shoulder-length brown hair?

I take a long sip, put the glass down, and close my eyes again. The crackling fire contrasts with the murmurs behind me, perhaps at the bar. The bartender says to someone, "... picks up later."

The melting effect of the wine merges with a scent like the daffodils in the park, sending me in a drifting, downward spiral. The hotel shampoo, perhaps? No, there's a touch of spice.

A dainty 'ting' rings to my left and I open my eyes. Peering over, I glimpse a man's elegant hand placing a full wineglass next to my nearly depleted one. I don't recall ordering a second glass, but what the hell? Sitting up, I turn to thank the bartender, but no one's there. I look to my right and catch my breath. My eyes widen.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you," a bald man smiles, "I saw you sitting alone with an empty glass, and took the liberty of getting you another. I hope that's okay?" He smiles and settles back in a chair near mine.

"Yes, thank you," I whisper, averting my eyes briefly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Just had the night off, wandering around. I can go," he leans forward, gripping his lime-garnished drink in an Old Fashioned glass.

"Oh, no, you don't have to go," I hold up my hand. I look at him--he's got beautiful eyes, blue with the outer ring of the iris dark. "I was daydreaming. You caught me off guard, that's all. It'll be nice to have some company." Slippery slope, girlfriend.

"You here alone?" he asks.

"Yes, on business." My gaze darts to the floor, then back to him.

"Business." One corner of his lips rise. He balances his drink on his thigh. "So, what is yourbusiness?"

I take a deep breath, "Uh, I write. For women's magazines, mostly." Fiddling with my wedding band, I figure women's magazines should keep him distanced. Ido write, mostly Dear Diary drivel and weird stories, so I'm not totally lying. I look at him again. Why does he look familiar?

"Ah, I see. I'm Jimmy, by the way." He leans forward to shake my hand; strong, warm fingers wrap around mine.

"Caroline, my name's uh, Caroline." He holds my hand a moment longer than necessary. I jerk my hand back, yet smile slightly.

"Pleased to meet you, Caroline. So, anything else bring you to New York, or are you all business?" The timbre of his voice flows beneath the jazz and the crackling fire and the laughing men at the bar. He takes a sip of his drink and sets it on the table before him. I hate small talk, but maybe we can hit on something interesting. I reply, "No, just business." Those high cheekbones...

Looking into my eyes, he chuckles, "So, why are you sitting in the bar alone?"

I swallow hard and feel my face flush. "Ok, maybe not all business, but maybe it's a secret." Wiping a bead of sweat off my glass, I continue, "So, uh, any chance you were in Central Park this afternoon?"

"Sure. I live nearby. I'm there all the time. Why?"

"Well, I was in the park this afternoon and I could swear I saw someone like you there."

"Yeah? There'za lotta people in Central Park," he says.

"Tell me about it, but I took a nap on a little hill and when I woke up, I noticed a bald guy sitting on a bench nearby, wearing mirrored sunglasses and a yellow shirt. I could have sworn he was watching me, but of course, I can't know for sure. He looked about your height and build." Tall and trim.

He sits back in his chair, his blue eyes bore into mine. "Wow, yeah. That could have been me," he laughs, glancing down, tinkering with his drink. "Were you wearing black pants and a white blouse?"

"Yes."

A smile spreads across his face. He laughs again. His front teeth are pushed back just a little. "Yeah, I watched you awhile. I don't mean to sound creepy, but you looked so peaceful. I kind of wanted to, well...,"

I cock my head.

"You just seemed like someone I'd like to talk to."

"I'm married and older than you," I waggle my left hand in the air, showing off my impressive cubic zirconia engagement ring and wedding band.

Jim looks at the ring, then at my plain beige knit dress. "I don't care, and age is irrelevant. I talk to women of all ages." He leans a little towards me, barely smiling, "Just talking, of course."

"That's fine. I'm allowed to talk to other men. I don't get out much. Pete, my husband, he's home with the kids."

"Yeah? How many?"

"Two. Rudy and June, eight and six." I reply.

"Nice. And where's home?"

"New Jersey, across the bridge from Philly."

"Ah, so how do you like it there?" Jimmy asks, picking up his drink.

"Well, it's justthere. I grew up in Connecticut, moved around, ended up in New Jersey. It just doesn't feel like home to me, like I'm still drifting and got caught up on something." I shrug, stroking the stem of the fresh wineglass.

He gazes into his drink, gently swirling it. "Do you ever wish you were somewhere else?"

I swirl my drink, too, "Sometimes. I don't know. I never seem content where I am, but I don't know where I'd rather be. Too little discipline to figure it out."

"I don't mean New Jersey."

"I know what you mean. Both." I answer, looking at him.

"Yes, so, okay, you said you write, so you have work. You don't enjoy being married with children?"

"I do, but I get bored, stuck. I write because I can go anywhere, do anything. Don't get me wrong, I love my family and I don'treally want to change anything, but I can't silence myself, either. I don't know," I shake my head, watching the golden wine rolling around in the little globe.

"Like two different people," Jimmy suggests.

"I guess so. There's a critter or a monster or an irreverent girl in my head. Not a separate personality, but needs to be handled like separate people."

"Ordisciplined?" he grins and looks at me from under his finely arched brow. He turns his glass.

"I think a lot of people feel restless no matter where they are or what they're doing. They imagine something horrible will catch them if they don't keep moving." Quiet for a moment, he then asks, "If you could be free of responsibility again for one year, what would you do? Close your eyes and let the images in your head tell you."

"Really?Close my eyes?"

"Yes, close your eyes and think about the question."

I put my wine on the table, take a deep breath, and wrapping my arms around my chest, I close my eyes...

... jeans rolled up, feet numb in the icy water of a mountain stream.... I smile.... pigging out in Chinatown... lying on my back in a field of wildflowers....

"Now, picture walking down the street of a strange city. You walk one way, a stranger walks the other. Picture how he looks, how he walks, his scent," Jimmy instructs.

"Mmm."

"Make eye contact." Jimmy says in a lower voice.

I take a sudden deep breath, "Okay..."

"Now, what happens that night?"

I open my eyes, "Okay, that's far enough." My stomach tightens, and I reach for the wineglass, hoping Jimmy doesn't notice the slight tremble in my hand.

"You didn't enjoy that? Let your imagination take you somewhere. You want to, but you won't," he grins.

"Well, everyone knows your imagination can take you away, but your feet shouldn't." I mumble into the wineglass.

"And they don't have to--that's up to you. You said you enjoy writing because it lets you do anything, be anything, but magazine articles don't tap the imagination much. There's something else," he leans closer, lowering his voice again, "but you don't have to tell me. We all have secrets."

I like him, but I don't like him. He knows enough about me at this point--so turn the tables. I trace the curve of the chair's arm with my fingertip. "Okay then, so what doyou do for work?"

He sits back, "Public relations."

"At night?"

He tilts his head.

"You said earlier that you had the night off. I thought public relations was a nine-to-five type of job, so you work PR at night?" I lean towards him, narrowing my eyes, "But you don't have to tell me what you really do, either." Cinnamon, citrus, gin.

He regards me with that half-smile and lowered lids, chuckling. Looking at my shoes peaking out from beneath the chair, he says, "Burgundy suede Mary Janes with a kitten heel."

"Pardon?"

"Burgundy Mary Janes. They'd look cute with your dress. Better than what you have, anyways," he shakes his head slightly.

"Public relations, huh?" I take another sip, suitably loosened up, but not enough to lose my head. He watches the fire and I steal a moment to look at him from above the rim of the wineglass. He's kind of odd-looking, but growing on me. The fire crackles, and I look away; it's rude to stare.

"Thanks for sitting with me," I murmur.

"My pleasure, and hey, you don't have to be shy around me." Looking at me right now, he seems older. The getting-to-know-you chat comes to a close. "How about you join me for a walk after our drinks? It's not too cold out."

"Where to?" I ask.

"Who cares? I'm a wonderful tour guide. We can walk 5th Avenue, visit Paley Park. It's a big city--walk anywhere and you'll end up somewhere."

That's what I'm afraid of, but what the hell, it's my night off. "Okay, but just a walk, and, uh, not that it has anything to do with anything, but may I ask how old you are?"

"Thirty-five."

"I've got nine years on you."

He gently sets his glass on the table with a click, "Perfect."

Jimmy declines my offer of a second drink for himself. "Let's walk around first," he says, and I wonder what comes second to his first?

I finish my wine. "All right, I'm ready!"

"Good, you'll need a jacket or something. I'll wait for you in the lobby." He stands up while I don my apparently ugly shoes, then offers his hand to help me to my feet. We leave the empty glasses on the table and go. The guys at the bar are quiet. Jimmy moves gracefully through the room, while I, woozy from the wine on an empty stomach and giddy about my 'date', cross the slippery floor of the lobby with utmost care.

***

The elevator seems miles away and reminds me of dreams I had when I was young. In the dreams, I ran from something unknown and terrifying, my body struggling, stuck in molasses, and I feel it now. With slight sickness, I board my private rocket ship, the elevator, and my stomach drops. I count and tap my toe until the elevator finally stops at my floor. It could have been the moon, and the doors open as if to ask, 'Well, what next, Mrs. Donnelly?'

My shaky hand pushes the key card into the slot of my room's door and the beady green light indicates go ahead. Inside, the lingering scent of soap hangs in the air. I flick on a lonely light, trade my pumps for socks and sneakers, and pull on a heavy navy blue sweater. Dumpy outfit, but I hadn't planned on a private tour of the city with a sharply dressed city dweller.

I take stock of myself. I feel normally buzzed, so I don't think he doped my drink. I touch up my lipstick in the mirror and pull the pink and teal scarf out from underneath my sweater. I check my phone. No messages. Nearly slipping the phone into the pocket of my dress, along with my room key and cash, I stop. My hands no longer shake, but a knot forms under my heart. Why? It's just a walk. But you should call your husband first. I don't want to.

Call!

Near the last ring, Pete picks up, "Hello?"

"Hey, Pete, just checkin' in. Everything's good, but, uh, I'm turning in early so I wanted to say goodbye, I mean, good night now. Everything all right at home?"

"Yeah, everything's good here." The TV babbles in the background.

"Did you guys finish the beef stew?"

"The what?"

"The beef stew! In the fridge, for dinner, I told you about it." I roll my eyes.

"Nah, we just ordered pizza."

"Well, that stew...," I sigh, never mind.

"Yeah, when you comin' home?

"Tomorrow evening. I told you that several times." I kick my heel against the bed frame by accident and wince.Stupid!

"Oh yeah, okay. See you then." Pete hangs up before I have time to say good night to the kids. I wanted to hear their voices, but then, maybe it's better that I don't.

This time, the journey down the elevator shaft to the lobby seems to whip by. I tuck my scarf in one way, pull it out, rotate it, rearrange it, trying to hide the frayed tip. I promised myself a new scarf from the Met tomorrow so I better not stay out too late. The Met was the reason for this trip.

The lobby button lights up and a cutesy ding rings get out and go! The bright, buzzing lobby and cold air hit me all at once, and all at once I feel that I and my beige dress should turn around and run back to my beige room at the end of the beige hallway, where I belong.

But I don't. I step into the lobby, one foot in front of the other. Maybe he's there, maybe he's not. Maybe he got tired of waiting and breezed out like he breezed in, searching for easier or younger quarry.

I turn a corner--Jimmy leans against a wall near the revolving doors, his broad shoulders turned at an angle to me. He seems to inspect his nails. I smile and pull one hand from my scarf with the other. As I approach, he turns, holds out his hand, and ushers me through the door.