Unspoken

This is just a little story that's been rattling around in my brain for a while. Fair warning: It's all talk and no action, which I suppose is ironic given the title. It's also not particularly bright or cheery. Apparently I, like the main character, was in a sour mood.

Enjoy,

-FoF

'Dusty Rose'.

That's what I'd call it. Or maybe 'Desert Sunset'. No, 'Dusty Rose.'

I cringed inwardly. Could I be more trite? More banal? There was obviously a reason I wasn't in charge of naming cosmetics. Whatever it was called, it was painted across an intriguing pair of lips that had captured my attention. Lips that quavered between pinched reticence and a furtive smile, never quite coming to rest.

The coloring was uneven, imperfect, as if it had been hastily applied or perhaps... smudged. Now there was a thought - that lipstick finding its way across another set of lips, onto a shirt collar or maybe even down a...

"You look like you need this drink almost as much as I do." The playful voice jolted me back to the present. Had I been staring? Had she caught me? The attractive, young brunette placed the two glasses of wine I'd ordered in front of me, red for me and white for my wife, as her dusty rose lips finally settled into a conspiratorial grin.

Her words irked me. I knew she was only joking, probably flirting a bit for a better tip. But that harmless little statement still rubbed the wrong way. Almost certainly because it was true.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I grumbled, the irritation in my voice largely proving her point.

"Oh, nothing," came her sing-song reply. She didn't seem at all ruffled by my rebuke. Instead, her eyes held mine, sparkling with a hint of... something. I had definitely been staring, I decided. And I had definitely been caught. We both knew it, but neither of us acknowledged it. Unspoken. "This just doesn't seem like your scene. That's all."

The scene in question was the annual holiday party at the home of Louis Dalton, III, executive vice president at a major financial services corporation and my wife's skip-level 'grandboss'. It was a big, swanky party in a big, swanky house and every detail was arranged to impress. It was the kind of party with designer decorations, professional catering and attractive, young bartenders who may not know when to keep their intriguing mouths shut. But she was right. This wasn't my scene, and I was in a sour mood. None of which was her fault.

"Sorry," I said, rolling my neck to ease the tension. "I think you're right, about both the drink and the scene."

"If you do this enough, you get good at reading people." She hesitated, biting her lower lip as if deciding how to proceed. God she was cute when she did that.

Finally, she pulled two glasses from beneath the makeshift bar and poured a measure of something brown in each. "Peace offering," she intoned, sliding one glass in front of me. With a glance from side to side, she raised the other in a small toast. The cheap whiskey burned on the way down.

I glanced down to her name tag, trying not to linger too long on the rather appealing curve beneath it. I wasn't usually this much of a creep, but I wasn't usually in this bad of a mood. "Thank you, Sydney. I'm Michael." Her grin widened to a smile.

"Hi, Mike. My friends call me Syd."

Dropping a twenty in the tip jar, I collected the wine and headed back to join the party. The brief conversation looped in my brain. Her words were simple observations, not particularly controversial, and I was definitely making too much of them. It was just banter, right? Did I really look that unhappy? My cynical side guessed that it was all just part of some coy little act designed to separate extra cash from people's wallets. The already half-filled tip jar hinted at its effectiveness.

I found my wife, Allison, in the same small circle of people I'd left her in. Next to her was Dalton, our host. Several others I vaguely recognized but hadn't bothered to remember rounded out the group. Allison was deeply engaged in the conversation and only acknowledged my return to accept her drink. She was the only woman in this particular boys club, and I spied more than a few admiring glances.

By all accounts, Allison was beautiful - tall, blond and shapely. At 42, her appearance made few concessions to the passage of time and she spared no expense to keep it that way. A rigorous exercise routine helped keep her body fit and her mind focused. Obsessive skin and hair care, combined with a keen eye for fashion, ensured she was always well presented. Her silky, cream-colored blouse and gray skirt attested to her generous bust and toned figure while remaining office appropriate. She had removed the matching gray jacket, the sole change marking the transition from office to party, and her dark lacy bra was faintly visible through the thin top. Yeah, she looked good. She always did. And her coworkers noticed.

Dalton touched her arm as he delivered the punchline to some joke. The contact was not exactly intimate, but it seemed a bit too familiar. It was also not new. I had complained to Allison before about all of the looks and all of the touches, but she dismissed my concerns. These were her close colleagues and they always kept things professional. Besides, all of the attention could be good for her career. "She'd probably drop to her knees for Dalton right now if it meant a promotion," I groused inwardly. My mood was definitely not improving.

I had long since given up on trying to insert myself into these conversations. This was Allison's world, full of power ties and one-upmanship. So I just stood there as the dutiful spouse, trying not to roll my eyes at the barely concealed posturing and brown-nosing while letting the words fade into a distant, buzzing murmur. Even if Allison's coworkers were never visibly rude to me, they made no real attempt to include me in their shop talk and inside jokes. I suspected that my presence was an unwelcome deterrent to their familiarity. I may have imagined it, but I thought I saw the slightest hint of a smile from Dalton as he brushed her elbow, daring me to object.

Allison and I weren't always like this. We were inseparable when we first met. She was relaxed, charming and way too smart. I didn't stand a chance. But we drifted apart over the 15 years of our marriage, each moving further into our respective corners. I found my satisfaction in analytical challenges as a software engineer while she leaned into life as a corporate power player, rising quickly through the ranks of middle management.

We learned early in our marriage that children weren't in the cards for us. Allison claimed that she'd made peace with that reality, but I think it hurt her more than she let on. I also suspected that it was at least partially why she poured herself so deeply into her career. Without the forced unification of parenthood, our growing differences pushed us into largely parallel lives. Ours became a marriage of convenience. It was civil and cooperative, presenting the appearance of a healthy relationship, but devoid of any actual passion or romance.

So I watched with detached indifference as several eyes, not to mention Dalton's hand, continued their subtle objectification of my wife. I bristled at my inability, or at least unwillingness, to step in. But it was only my pride that truly objected, not some notion of loyalty or betrayal. Allison assured me that she'd never cheated. I'll admit that I sometimes wondered, but I chose to believe it and never looked for a reason to doubt her. We acknowledged the issues in our marriage, usually along with half-hearted promises to make things better. And we did still occasionally have sex when one or the other needed to scratch the itch. So even if our love life wasn't the stuff of legend, I was still the only one who got to fuck her. And right now I wanted to rub these assholes' smarmy faces in it.

Damn, I really was in a sour mood! So much for detached indifference. Unsurprisingly, I found my drink empty so I excused myself to get another. I don't think anyone even noticed.

"Hey, Mikey. Back so soon?" Syd greeted me warmly.

"I think I need to switch to something stronger." I glowered, surrendering my wine glass.

"Ouch. That bad out there?" Her voice was playful, but held a note of sympathy. "Whiskey?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Well, there's not much of a bar to belly up to," she motioned to the collapsible contraption in front of her. "But feel free to lie back on the imaginary couch and tell Doctor Syd all about it."

I studied her over the rim of my fresh drink. She'd already caught me staring once, and this time I didn't bother to hide it. Syd had a very different kind of beauty than Allison, a different intensity. In place of the sculpted lines and precisely curated intentions lurked the messy, chaotic unknown. Stray wisps of hair refused to conform to the dark mass piled on top of her head. The edge of a tattoo peaked out beneath a partially rolled up cuff. And those hastily colored, tantalizingly smudged lips promised all the best sorts of trouble.

Syd didn't shy away from my appraisal. Instead, she maintained her casual grin as she arched one eyebrow expectantly. I took a large gulp of courage. "You said you're good at reading people, you tell me."

"That's easy," she laughed. "You can't stand all of these sales bros and the alpha bullshit that comes with them, so now you're trying to figure out your quickest escape route."

I gave a little chuckle at her bluntness. "Certainly true, but that's amateur hour. I'm sure you can do better."

She looked a little miffed at my dismissive attitude, but rose to the challenge. "Well, your wife is beautiful." She nodded towards Allison. "But she seems to have attracted quite the fan club. That's got to piss you off."

"Better. But you're supposed to be a pro, Doctor Syd. What else you got?"

She leaned forward, scrutinizing me as she settled into the game. "You sure?"

I knew I should have put an end to whatever this was and gone back to my wife. No good would come from it. But I was pissed that Allison had dragged me to this stupid party and I was more pissed at the way she ignored me while preening for her coworkers' stares. If some pretty young thing wanted to give me the time of day, I was more than willing to project all kinds of insightfulness onto her. Go ahead, sweetheart, peel back the layers of my soul. I fished another twenty out of my wallet for her tip jar.

"Do your worst."

Syd watched me for a long moment, considering. The lip bite returned. It was quickly becoming my favorite thing about her. Her eyes never left me as she retrieved her own tumbler and poured another dose of the tawny liquid.

"Okay." I could almost feel her gaze wash over me as she sized me up. One large swig later, she set the glass down.

"You swore you'd never become one of these type-A corporate stooges. Let me guess, creative type or maybe... computer geek." I nodded in agreement, which earned me a smile. "Right. Maybe the cool kids picked on you when you were younger, maybe they stole your girlfriend or maybe you just always considered yourself above their macho bullshit. But you landed a good job and you got the girl, so none of that mattered anymore. You'd won."

"Until tonight, when you find yourself back in the lion's den. You're out of your element, feeling vulnerable. Meanwhile, your smoking hot wife is over there holding court for these overgrown frat boys, ignoring you while she basks in their attention." I flinched, feeling the knife twist. God, was it really that obvious? But there's no pity in her voice, no patronizing disdain. Just cold, objective honesty.

"You can't stand to watch it, so you retreat here, to me. And given the way you've been fidgeting with your ring all night, I'm guessing things weren't great at home to begin with."

She sipped her whiskey while searching my face for a reason to stop. Finding none, she pressed on. "So you start second guessing your life. How did you get here? As close to fifty as to forty, with a strained marriage and surrounded by the stuffed shirts that you hate. Worse still, you feel like your wife is choosing them over you. Like you're losing to them... again."

Syd paused once more, letting her words sink in. Then she leaned onto her elbows with affected disinterest, dropping her gaze to where her finger idly circled the rim of her glass. Traces of dusty rose lipstick marred the edge.

"So you flirt with the bartender to distract yourself. Where's the harm? It doesn't mean anything. She's pretty... She's twenty years younger than you... And she has that hint of a wild side that promises an escape from the doldrums of your routine, structured life. For whatever reason, she seems more than willing to flirt back. Maybe she's just being nice, hoping you'll keep stuffing cash in the tip jar. Maybe she's bored and just likes fucking with you. But maybe, just maybe..." Her gaze lifted to meet mine. "She's actually into you."

Syd's eyes gleamed with mischief and I felt my face grow warm. Her voice took on the dark, husky tone of a shared secret. "And why not? You're handsome, you're successful, you're probably fun when you're not so pissed off. What if she is? Stranger things have happened. You let your imagination run with the fantasy."

"But deep down, you know you'll never act on it. You're married. You're too nice. You've grown too complacent. You're just not bold enough. How would that even work? Your wife is right over there."

"Now these fuckers," She gestures vaguely to the room. "They're not too nice, and they're certainly bold enough. Maybe one of them will act on the fantasy. Who knows, maybe one of them will even get lucky. Maybe one of them will win. You can just imagine one of these smug assholes getting a blowjob from that bartender in the front seat of his shiny, new BMW. Your blowjob... from your bartender."

She took an unhurried pull from her drink, giving the notion time to simmer. Her tongue dragged across her lips, savoring the lingering booze and hinting at exciting possibilities.

"You tell yourself that the fantasy is enough. A little fodder for the ol' spank bank. Maybe your wife will be all hot and bothered when you get home, worked up by some testosterone-soaked contact high. Maybe she'll let you fuck her while that fantasy plays out in your brain. More likely, though, you'll just imagine all the crazy, sexy, twisted things that your pretty, young bartender would do to you as you spray your load against the shower wall."

Syd wore a self-satisfied grin as she watched me stew in her words, my cock hard and my face flushed. Then she straightened abruptly. "Is there anything else I can get for you?" I heard the click of heels behind me before I caught the familiar scent of Allison's perfume.

"There you are, Michael. Lou wants me to join him on the patio so he can smoke a stogie." Lou? Apparently we've moved from Dalton, right past Louis to Lou. As I turned to face her, I spied the extra button open on her blouse. Nothing too overt, just loosening up for the party, I'm sure. "He wants to discuss a project that could all but guarantee me the SVP position."

"That's great, honey." I replied without enthusiasm. It took all my will to tamp down the urge to scream. Her eyes went to the glass of whiskey in my hand and then found the matching one in front of Syd. She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

"Really, Michael? The staff? Don't be such a cliché." Her voice was light and jovial, but the implication was clear. "It looks like you're driving the poor girl to drink."

Syd smiled, cool as a cucumber. "Oh, I don't know. He's doing better than you give him credit for."

Allison fixed the young bartender with an icy stare, weighing and measuring. "I bet." Then she turned to me and softened. "Listen, Michael. I know this is supposed to be a party and not work, but this is too good of an opportunity to pass up. Why don't you just head home and relax a little? I know you don't really like these things, anyway. Don't wait up, I may be a while."

One by one, emotions took their turn careening across my brain. Denial crumbled away to disbelief, which swelled to rage before fading to calm resignation. What was I even fighting for? I exhaled my anger with a slow breath, and looked at Syd. One more contemplative lip bite, and then a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Calm settled across me as I faced my wife. "I'll just stay here while I finish my drink. I trust you can make it home okay?"

Allison hesitated for just a moment in the unspoken understanding that was forming between us. Unspoken - but there was recognition in her eyes. We stood at a crossroads, a precipice, and our future dangled over the edge. Then her decision was made, and the die was cast.

"Don't worry, Lou offered me a ride. He wants to show me his new BMW."