Two Wives, Two Lives

I couldn't help it; I laughed. "So are you asking me out on a date?"

"Well," she said, smiling foolishly, "I guess I am. Kinda."

We both laughed at that. "Okay, Gretchen, you win. I have two tickets -- at least, I think I still have them -- to see Bill Cosby at the Forum next Saturday evening. Interested?"

Her eyes widened. "You better believe it!"

I won't belabor the rest of the evening. Suffice to say, we had a nice time chatting, then went our separate ways.

I found myself running into her during the next week, and looking forward to being with her. I even remembered to drop a discreet note on her desk asking for her address and phone number. I found a little yellow note with her information on my desk a couple of hours later.

I called her that evening and spent two hours talking to her. It was the best I had felt in a while.

The next several weeks went very well. We began to see one another virtually every evening. I was cautious, though; I didn't want to go too far too fast. I was still more-or-less in rebound mode. We canoodled, but innocently enough.

That came to an end one Friday evening as I walked her to her apartment building. We had had a nice light dinner and attended a book signing be one of my favorite authors. It may sound dull, but we were very comfortable together.

As we approached her door, I said, "You know, you really should let me cook for you sometime. I'm pretty good at it."

She looked at me with a crooked smile and said, "And I'm lucky if I can boil water without burning down the building."

I took her hand. "So how about chicken cutlets with wilted spinach and sun-dried tomatoes, rice, green beans, fresh-baked foccacia and an apple-compote dessert?"

She laughed uproariously. "I can't even pronounce half of that!" she gasped.

"Oh, sure you can. My place, tomorrow at three, you can keep me company while I cook."

She held both of my hands. "I'd be delighted,"she said, and leaned forward to kiss me. It wasn't our first kiss, but the first really deep, romantic-bordering-on-erotic kiss. I gathered her into my arms and held her, albeit at a respectable distance; my penis was paying attention, and I *know* she felt it, but I didn't want to ruin things.

Once again we parted on a very high note.

The next morning I hit the floor at 6am and began cleaning everything. I'm pretty clean, but I wanted to impress a woman, and that meant the pube patrol had to be on high alert.

After cleaning, I showered and made a banzai run through the market, grabbing fresh everything.

I had just laid out the final ingredients when, right at 3pm, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there stood Gretchen. I pulled her in, and planted a huge kiss on her; she reciprocated, and we pulled back a fraction of a second from not giving a damn about dinner.

She sat at the kitchen table while I scraped, peeled, kneaded, coated, and arranged everything. She was suitably impressed with my abilities; I was in heaven just talking to her about her family and mine, school, work, whatever.

We ate what I cooked, and drank a bit of good chardonnay. We had dessert; I believe we wanted one another instead.

As we were sitting on the loveseat, allowing dinner to settle, there came a frantic knocking at my door. Suddenly, I knew what was going to happen. I excused myself.

I opened the door, and there stood Becky. "He dumped me!" she sobbed, "the bastard dumped me!" She tried to enter, but I blocked the way.

She looked at me, her eyes matted messes. "Didn't you hear me?" she wailed.

"Becky," I said softly, "lower your voice. I have company and neighbors. No one wants to hear you shrieking about what someone did to you."

She sobbed. "But I thought you *LOVED* me!" she cried.

"DAMMIT!" I hissed. "Keep your voice down!" She looked as if she'd been slapped. I continued, "I know, the love-of-your-life dumped you after taking a victory lap on the SS Becky."

"How did you know?" she asked softly.

"A little bird told me. Now get out of here."

She was suddenly silent. "I thought you loved me," she repeated.

"Until you dumped me. Now just get out of here. I mean it."

Tears flowed again. As she turned to leave, I said, "Becky? I'm sorry. I hope you find happiness. I already have."

She glanced toward my apartment, turned and ran down the stairs.

I went back inside and locked the door. Gretchen was standing there, looking curious. "Old girlfriend," I offered lamely. "She got dumped."

"There's more to it than that."

"Yes," I admitted. We sat on the loveseat. "Look, she was the one I was with when we met." I laid out the story, leaving out the fact I had known Becky in, literally, another life.

When I was done, Gretchen looked at me with moist eyes. "You're a sweetie," she said. "I need to tell you something, though."

Oh, shit, I thought. Here we go again. I flipped my hand and said, "Go on."

"I've been a little... well, wanton around you. You really fire me up," she said.

I waited a moment. "And...?" I prompted.

She sighed. "I'm feeling a little ashamed. I've been wanting to jump your bones, but after all these years... see, I'm virgin."

I was taken aback. Then it occurred to me -- so was I! I mean, technically. "Well," I said carefully, "I am too. I guess I should feel a little ashamed, myself."

She laughed, and placed her hand on my face. "I really want to give my virginity to you. On my wedding night," she added.

I looked her in the eye. "Are you proposing to me?" I asked with a straight face.

She nodded nervously.

I said, "You are *so* assertive!" and laughed. I leaned over to kiss her, and said, "I accept."

She laughed and wept and kissed me, and during the next three hours we planned out a life together. We spoke our sexual desires and taboos, and swore not to give into our temptations, with each other or anyone else.

I will not detail the next eight months. Suffice to say our wedding was a joyous occasion, and our wedding night was a happy shedding of inhibitions and innocence. I remembered enough of what I had known from before to make her inaugural orgasm (at my hands) the first of three that preceded the actual parting of her hymen.

To say I satisfied her is to understate to issue. As evidence, I introduce our children: a lovely daughter, ready for college at the age of sixteen; twin boys with a shared flair for football and tennis; and a pigtailed, strawberry-blonde caboose who surprised everyone, and then proceeded to wrap me around her little finger.

Which brings us back to where we started.

While my Gretchen snoozes and my children sleep under the blanket of their parents' mutual devotion, I find myself bedeviled, always, by the thoughts of Becky. She was my love a lifetime ago, and I hate myself for even considering her.

But consider her I do. Oh, sure, time has muted the pain; but it's always in the background. I hate myself all the more because there are times, just occasionally, when I think I might ditch all this for her. The temptation is momentary; I shake my head and slap myself (figuratively). But I still miss her.

And tonight is the thirtieth anniversary of the last time I ever slept with her.

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Epilogue

As I've been writing this elegy, I've had the radio on the local jazz station. As I typed the final words, the soft strains of George Winston started. It's his rendition of Vince Guaraldi's Cast Your Fate To the Wind.

I find comfort in that thought.

I don't know where I'll be when I wake up tomorrow. Thirty years may be a magical number, and maybe not. Perhaps tomorrow evening this time, I'll be here; and maybe I'll be with Becky, where I started. Or perhaps I'll be fourteen, and face the decision of what to do all over again.

But, just for tonight, I will go and snuggle behind my Gretchen, and I will cast my fate to the wind.