Unraveling

Two's company and three's a crowd. So what am I doing here sitting with Ken and Barbie in sub-freezing weather watching the Baltimore Ravens and the Pittsburgh Steelers fighting it out for a playoff spot?

Well, if you want to know the truth, they invited me. They had an extra ticket and figured I had nothing better to do on a cold Sunday afternoon and they were right. Actually, their names aren't Ken and Barbie. Our circle of friends calls them that because they fit the mold. You know, all lovey-dovey, the Perfect Couple. They look the part too, Ken with his blond, athletic, all-American good looks; and Barbie, with her blond, girl next-door looks and hourglass figure. "Ken" and "Barbie" are really Keith and Petra Ash, and I'm Doug Raskin, watching these two love birds arguing up a storm.

I should say ex-love birds because it's no secret that these two are having problems in their three-year old marriage. Being sweethearts from high school into college doesn't guarantee matrimonial bliss as these two now know. They might have tied the knot too soon, too young. I'm also in my mid-twenties and there's no way I'm ready to tether myself to one person, presumably for the rest of my life. The same goes for others in our crowd, many of us friends since high school. 'A marriage made in heaven' is the way one of Petra's girlfriends (with a touch of envy) put it at their wedding, some dreamy eyed, naive chick who didn't know better.

Keith and Petra have had me over their apartment several times since then. Sometimes I bring a date; other times I'm alone. Lately, I've come up with excuses not to go, uncomfortable with the tension between them, the sniping and nitpicking. I figured they'd call a truce here, watching football in an open air stadium. I figured wrong.

"You promised we'd go out to eat after the game," Petra insists after Keith says he's looking forward to eating Petra's leftover meatloaf.

"No I didn't," Keith says. "I merely made the suggestion."

She adjusts her black, purple, white and gold Baltimore Ravens knit wool cap. "No! You said we're going out. 'We'll go to Bowman's' is what you said."

Keith smirks and shakes his head. "Don't put words in my mouth, Petra. I know what I said. I mentioned Bowman's as a possibility, not a certainty."

Glancing sideways, I see her lips forming the word "cheapskate." The steam floating from her mouth has taken on a double meaning: hot breath, cold heart.

Her anger notwithstanding, she looks so cute in that cap. Her long, curly blond locks fall out of it and then drop below her shoulders. Even wearing a heavy coat, you can tell she's built just as fine as those Ravens cheerleaders on the sidelines. Look, I'll admit it, Petra turned my engine when I first met her way back in tenth grade. In fact, we even went out a few times, chauffeured by our parents because we were not yet driving age. There was that first date at a bowling alley and then to a swim party at Red Fern, Petra's family's swim and tennis club. I felt important and proud to be with her, this girl that all the boys gawked at as she strode by in her bikini, wowing them with her shapely young teen body. We even necked a little in the cabana area. Then she hooked up with Keith and that was that. In the ensuing years, I managed to stay friends with both of them while never losing my ardor for Petra.

"Come on, guys, you're missing the action," I plead, stomping my feet to keep the circulation going.

It's third down and three and the Steelers are inside the red zone, threatening to add another six points to their nine point lead. My "hosts" take notice and scream with the rest of the fans, trying to drown out Ben Roethlisberger's play calling. When a Ravens defender blocks Big Ben's pass into the end zone, Pittsburgh settles for a field goal.

Keith and Petra sit tight-lipped, not looking at each other as the Steelers prepare to kick off. I hunch my shoulders against the cold, thinking how great a steaming cup of hot chocolate would taste. "Hot chocolate anyone? I'm buying."

Petra nods yes. Then, pointing her heavily gloved thumb over her shoulder toward Keith, she says, "I wouldn't expect this skinflint to buy."

"I'll take one too," Keith says. "And while you're at it, throw an ice cube into Petra's cup. She needs to chill."

Petra glares at her husband before I disappear into the bowels of M&T Bank Stadium. When I return with our drinks, encased in a cardboard holder, I find them bickering, pecking at each other like two angry birds going beak to beak. Meanwhile, the crowd is roaring. The Ravens are now first and ten on Pittsburgh's forty-yard line, but K and P seem more interested in tussling than watching the game. They raise their voice as if they're trying to compete with this enthusiastic crowd, on their feet, cheering the Ravens' drive downfield. "You're a man of principle, my ass," Petra growls, between sips of her drink. "A man of principle doesn't—"

"Shut the fuck up, Petra," Keith snaps. "As usual, you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Guys, come on," I shout against the crowd's roar, "Joe just gained a chunk of yardage on a quarterback sneak."

They manage to cease long enough to watch Joe Flacco complete a fifteen-yard pass, putting the Ravens at first and goal. On the next play, running back Alex Collins takes it in for the score, followed by Justin Tucker's field goal. The third quarter ends with the Steelers 12, the Ravens 9.

The Ravens enjoy a winning record at home, so I'm optimistic for them to go ahead in the fourth quarter. But I'm wondering if I'll even get to see it. K and P are at each other's throats again, with Keith threatening to leave if Petra doesn't shut up. Her problem with Keith's frugal ways segues into her suspicions about an affair, which he vehemently denies. He then goes on the attack about what a slob she is around the house. "I'm tired of being your janitor," he says, "tired of cleaning up after you."

"Then get yourself a fucking maid," she snarls. She holds her hot chocolate against her chest, swinging her arm back and forth as if she's about to douse his face with it. "And speaking of messes," she adds, "you ought to clean up your own before you start in on mine."

"You're paranoid," Keith barks, confirming my guess that Petra had referred to his alleged affair. "You know, Petra, your allegations make me think that you're the one who's cheating." He turns toward me. "Sorry, Doug, you shouldn't have to be dragged into the middle of all this."

Petra looks at me sympathetically. "Aren't you glad you're not married?"

I shrug, tell her that being single has its issues, too. What I don't say is that being single also gives one the freedom to hightail it out of these kinds of contretemps. Speaking of escapes, I can't help but regret them picking me up—I should have taken my own car.

They manage to stay civil through Pittsburgh's first fourth quarter possession, one that forces them to punt on fourth down. Then things flare up again. Petra once again starts needling Keith about his so-called extracurricular activities. "Why shouldn't I be suspicious? You haven't fucked me in a month." At least she has the presence of mind to utter that second part in a near whisper.

Still, Keith looks around, checking for eavesdroppers. Then, in subdued voice, he says, "Well, maybe it's because you're not very fuckable."

He can't mean in a physical sense, because she's still damn hot. Keeps herself that way through Brick Bodies, I've heard. Obviously, he means her attitude, though I can't put all the blame on Petra. I've been in enough romantic liaisons to know it takes two.

She fires back. "Oh, is that right? Well, I'd think you'd find yourself in the minority there, pal. Most men find me extremely fuckable."

When she looks at me, I throw my hands up, my sign to leave me out of it. Not that I disagree.

Meanwhile, cool Joe is moving the Ravens downfield. So far, they've converted on two third downs during this possession. The crowd, sensing a score, roars.

Keith's roar has nothing to do with this game. "Most men wouldn't put up with your shit, no matter what you look like. You might find yourself a very lonely woman some day."

Petra gets in his face. "And just what is THAT supposed to mean, jerk-off? You're threatening to leave the marriage? Is that what you mean?"

I shake my head and take another sip of hot chocolate just as Flacco hits Breshad Perriman in the end zone to pull the Ravens ahead by three. A field goal makes it six, and the crowd is on its feet, yelling and screaming, stamping their feet, waving team banners.

Keith looks too distraught to care. Turning to me, he says, "Take her off my hands, I've had it."

Despite the crowd noise, Petra hears every word. "Really, well I've had it, too, you big loser."

The next thing I know, we're heading for the exits, with the game deep into the fourth quarter. Petra refuses to walk beside her husband, and that seems okay with Keith. He's storming ahead, taking long strides, widening the distance even more. Being around his height of six-foot two, with long legs, I can keep up with him. However, that will drop the five-foot four Petra entirely, so I stay with her. It only seems right. She takes my hand and squeezes it, then apologizes. "This wasn't fair to you, I'm sorry."

Abruptly, she stops on the spiral exit ramp, hides her face and begins to cry. Keith is yards ahead now, mingling with the few others that decided to leave before the game ends. I wrap my arms around her, offering words of comfort.

She looks up, chokes back sobs and wipes her eyes. "Doug, I don't want to go home with that man. He told you to take me off his hands. So, can you, at least for tonight?"

This is a first for me, comforting a distraught, married woman on the ramp of a football stadium, pleading with me to take her away from her hubby. I begin to rub her back. "Petra, I can't do that. Look, I'm sure you and Keith will work things out once you get home."

When she shakes her head and begins to cry once more, I move us over to the railing. "I don't think so, Doug," she sobs. "We've tried to work things out over the past year, tried to get along, tried to recapture what we had back in the day, with little success. We even tried family therapy a couple times. Didn't work. The truth is, we're starting to hate each other."

Lost for words, I put my arm around her and lead her down the ramp toward the exit and parking lot. I can't help but notice that the crowd has gone strangely quiet—not a good sign if you're a Ravens fan. Approaching their aging black Honda Accord, we decouple. Keith is already behind the wheel, with the car idling, the heat on full blast, the radio tuned to the game. We climb in, Petra in the front seat, me in back.

Keith slaps the steering wheel. "Shit, they blew it," he says, shaking his head at the injustice of a Steelers last minute touchdown and field goal. "What is it with this Ravens team? Against Pittsburgh, they always seem to unravel late in the fourth quarter."

"Flacco's good but he's no Big Ben," I offer.

"That's for sure," Keith says. "Maybe it's time for Ozzie to search for another QB."

Petra, now silent, sits with her head down. I can't help but wonder if she, like me, is thinking about something else that appears to be unraveling.

Silent tension fills the car as we creep along through the bumper-to-bumper maw of downtown Baltimore. Then, as we exit onto the ramp of I-83, conduit to the suburbs, Petra turns to Keith and says, "I don't want to go home with you, not tonight."

Keith nods. "And I'm not crazy about being around you either."

When she turns around and looks at me, I shake my head and shrug.

Keith makes eye contact with me through his rear view. "Hear that, Doug? Not to impose, but are you in the mood for a house mate for the night?"

"You, you mean."

"No, my good wife here. I've got business to attend to at home that can't wait."

I glance out the window, nervous and perplexed, trying to ignore Petra's face, sad and pleading. "Um, well, I don't know. I mean—"

"Listen, we've all been friends for years," Keith says. "And right now Petra and I need our space, and we're not going to get it back at our place. But if you'd rather not, she can stay at a hotel and I'll—"

"No, you'll stay at a hotel," Petra cracks, "and I'll go back to the apartment."

As we speed north on I-83, they bicker over who stays where, cacophony to my ears. Finally, I say, "Okay, if you two insist, Petra can stay with me."

We say little for the rest of the way back to their apartment, where Petra picks up her toothbrush and some clean clothes. Keith then drives us over to my apartment, a garden style, two-bedroom less than ten miles away.

"I owe you big time for doing this," Petra says when we get inside. "You're a great friend." She hugs me, followed by a quick kiss.

"Well, I just hope you and Keith can work things out. All those years invested, it would be a shame if you split. Ken and Barbie aren't supposed to do that." I grin.

"Yeah, well, if only we lived in a doll's world, if life was only that simple."

We're both hungry. However, there's not much here so I suggest Bowman's, the charming bar and grille that she and Keith had fought over during the game.

"That would be great! Let's go."

Less than an hour later, we're sitting in Bowman's, perusing our menus. The place is crowded. Among the noise, I overhear patrons grumbling about the game. Petra looks so pretty in the dim light of this place. She's got near perfect skin and silky blond locks that fall over her blue sweater. If she wasn't married...

"Now look, Doug," she says, after we order, "this is on me, including our beers."

"Are you sure? We could go Dutch."

"No Dutch. I've got it."

We chat through our meal, her crab imperial and my well-done T-bone, moving on from the present situation to the past. "You know," she says, "if Keith hadn't been in the picture, I have a feeling that we would have hooked up at some point. Don't think I've forgotten that time at Red Fern."

"Me neither. I can still see those boys staring with envy because you were with me. Also..." I knock back a swig of my Coors, wondering if I should get deeper into this.

She holds her fork in midair. "Yes?"

"Well, the way you smelled and tasted when we necked in the cabana club. Not easy to forget."

Her blue eyes glaze over in a wistful longing. "It was awkward. I mean, we were so young. But I'll confess, I enjoyed it, too. I always thought you were cute. Another confession—I still do." She giggles.

"Thanks. And I'll confess that I was envious of Keith when you two became an item. But I reconciled to it because you seemed so perfect together."

"We were...until we weren't."

After coffee, Petra pays with her credit card. We get back to my place just in time for 60 Minutes, which we watch on my big screen on the living room sofa. After that, we catch a couple cop/court shows, and then I show Petra the guest room, spare except for a twin bed and night table. She then takes her bedclothes, a yellow nightgown and matching panties, into the hall bathroom to shower. Try as I might, I can't repress the fantasies that spin in my head. She's a married woman, married to a friend of mine, and I'm filled with taboo thoughts. It's normal, I suppose, for what guy in my shoes wouldn't be?

"Your turn," she says, emerging barefoot from the bathroom in her "outfit." She giggles watching me gawk, taking in her natural beauty, her smooth, pale skin, her near picture-perfect Texas Cowboys cheerleader face and body to match. "I don't mean to tease you, Doug," she says. "Really, this is what I normally sleep in."

"You're no tease, I know that," I say, then duck into my bedroom and hit the shower in the master bathroom. After blow-drying my hair, I emerge wearing just my blue briefs. Had I known that Petra would be sitting on my bed, waiting for me, I'd have put on my PJs before coming out.

"Like that bod, Mr. All Jacked Up," she gushes. "Guess you're still pumping iron."

"Right." I reach for my clothes drawer and then slip on the bottoms of my plaid PJs, not bothering with a top.

Petra, her legs crossed, sits on the edge of my bed. "You didn't think I could simply fall asleep without first doing a little cuddling, did you? Because right now, I could really use it. Seriously, I could." She begins to tear up.

She wipes her eyes while I hold her, sitting next to her on the bed. "Doug, I'm so lost right now, I can barely think straight."

"Disillusioned too, I would imagine," I say, rubbing her back.

"Disillusioned, yes, good word. Our friends told us we were the perfect couple for so long that we began to believe it ourselves. You know, the Ken and Barbie thing. We'd get married and live happily ever after, a perfect Hollywood ending. Look up the word naïve in the dictionary and you'll see my picture."

She stops crying and rests her head against my chest. Then, a few minutes later, she says, "What about you, Doug? Are you seeing anyone?"

I chuckle. "Yes, but nobody I'm about to get down on one knee for. Maybe when I turn thirty."

She nods. "Smart man. Keith and I should have waited. Well, maybe not. We'd still be the same people at thirty-something that we are now. It still might not have worked."

Moments of quiet pass as I continue to hold her, rubbing her back, planting light kisses on her head and neck. I'm trying to make her feel better, not seduce her, although I can't deny the temptation. She smells so fresh after showering and her nightie leaves more flesh exposed than I ought to see.

"Life takes strange detours, huh?" she says, breaking the silence. "I mean, I never would have guessed I'd be sitting here with you half-naked, as a married woman yet."

"Me, the kid you necked with at Red Fern."

"Yes, and the first boy I ever French kissed. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"

"I didn't. For the record, you were my first as well. You tasted sweet as honey."

"In a way, we've come full circle. That is, if you'd like to, because I sure as hell do."

Before I can answer, she gets up and cuts the overhead light. Then we embrace on my bed, kissing, not as the "friends" that we'd been for over a decade, but as something else—not lovers, exactly, but as two people yearning for something we'd always wanted but couldn't have because of circumstances.

"You still taste sweet as honey," I say.

She pulls me on top of her. "We were just teens that time at Red Fern. Now we're grown adults with adult needs. Make love to me, Doug. I need you."

My body is more than willing—my erection alone tells her that, never mind the heavy breathing. Morally, there's conflict aplenty. I mean, come on, she's a married woman, one married to a friend no less. Not sure if I can consummate. I almost laugh at the comical absurdity of this, being morally conflicted while sucking on Petra's firm boobs and dry humping my cock against her crotch. Am I at the point of no return? Probably, as I take down her panties and then put my head between her legs to perform oral. "Yes!" she shouts as my tongue stabs furiously over her wetness. My chances of stopping diminish by the second. They are, at best, slim and none, and slim is almost out the door. If Petra feels any ambiguity herself, she's keeping it well hidden. Her moans give way to shrieks and shrieks to demands. "Now, Doug, now, make love to me!" she orders, grabbing my arms to pull me up into position.

I defy anyone to say no in my present state. No is for those with the moral discipline that left me somewhere between the time my tongue left her boobs and touched base with her clit. She tells me she's on the pill just before taking me in. Other words follow, superlatives and synonyms of superlatives that hardly require complete sentences to get their gist. "Wow!" is all I can manage to say. She's so luscious, so beautiful and so mine—at least for now in the semi-darkness of my bedroom on this cold Sunday night. We're in sync, we're in rhythm, not as Ken and Barbie but as real people who at this fragile moment need each other. Yes, we're being naughty; and no, it's not right. Yet here we are.