Chapter Three: Karen

I let the water cascade across my body. Turning from one side to other while the stream diverged as it met each nipple, I paused for a moment to live in the memory of yesterday. I replay every touch, every kiss, and every caress and shudder slightly when I remember how they felt on my skin. Ask me if I can recall a memorable night with Dean in recent history and I couldn’t. All of the beautiful memories of our sweet, lustful, sexy moments have become increasingly distant.

Sex between Dean and me feels routine. When I feel him nudge his body against mine at night grinding his pelvis on my backside I never feel that it is out of desire for me, but desire for it. And those nights where I don’t protest are simply because I know it’s time and I cannot deny him any longer. We would’ve been the last to imagine ourselves in this place where we both feel so disconnected. Earlier in our marriage we behaved like any newlyweds would — we didn’t have sex everyday, but it happened on most days because we couldn’t get enough of each other. Now, quite honestly, I’m annoyed at the sight of him.

I believe it started sometime about six years ago.

We’d been married for about 10 years at that point. Up until that time I distinctly remember feeling second to everything else in Dean’s life. I felt like a burden, like I’d somehow stopped him from being all that he intended to be. He never said anything to confirm that feeling for me. In fact, he’d often say that I was the best thing to ever happen to him…that he loved our life together…that I was a fantastic person. Yet whenever his subconscious mind was in control, his behaviors spoke of contempt, annoyance, and derision. It still continues, but Adrian makes it bearable. I sleep with my husband just often enough to buy myself a few days of pleasant treatment between the opportunities I steal with Adrian.

“It is what it is.” I whisper as I turn the knob stopping the water and the memories — good and bad — at once.

I step from the shower and grab a towel from the linen closet. It smells of fabric softener and mildew. I quickly toss it in the hamper and grab another.

“These towels stink. They should probably be washed again.” I say sharply to Dean as he brushes his teeth. He closes his eyes to avoid showing that he’s rolling them at me. We carry on like this for the rest of the morning each of us trying to outdo the other in noticing our minor failures fracturing our marriage a half-inch more before 9am. Despite our childish behavior, we kiss each other goodbye before leaving this and every morning.

The door closes and my phone chimes at the same time and I smile. I know it’s Adrian.

“Good morning, beautiful,” the message read. I reply almost immediately. I always tell myself that I’ll make him wait a bit longer to hear from me, but I fail each time. If it takes me longer than 3 minutes to respond, it’s intentional and usually because he’s pissed me off. This morning, though, I have nothing to be pissed about.

Me (8:39am): Good morning! :-* How are you?

Him (8:41am): Better now.

Me (8:42am): What’s going on??

Me (9:00am): ???

Him (9:34am): Just a little stressed. That’s all.

Me (9:43am): I’m sorry to hear that. Can I help make it better?

Him (9:50am): You’re making it better already.

Me (9:52am): That’s sweet. On my way into the post office. Call you in a few.

I toss my phone into my purse, slide on my sunglasses, and retouch my lip gloss in the rear view mirror before stepping out of the car. My ears pop as I open the door and the air inside feels quiet, still, and clear yet smells musty and old. Maisey, one of the clerks, notices me the minute I enter.

“Long time! How ya’ been?” She calls at me as she tears off a strip of stamps for the customer in front of her.

“I knooowww! It’s so good to see you! I’ll come through the line before I leave!” I yell across the lobby bringing far too much attention to myself for a Friday morning. This is not my regular post office. In fact, I only started coming here about two years ago after Adrian gave me the key. I’ve come only sporadically since — perhaps every 5–6 weeks and around holidays when he asks me to. The few visits I’ve made have been enough for Maisey to develop a fondness for me. It’s as if I have a post-it note on my forehead that says, “Yes, I’ll talk to anyone!”

Standing in front of the box, I turn to dig the key out of my purse. I open the small door to the box and see a small orange box, a note card, and for the first time one piece of actual mail. I’ve gotten accustomed to seeing a small gift or a note in here from Adrian, but I’ve never seen mail. I grabbed everything quickly and placed it in my purse along with the key before walking over to chat with Maisey.

There’s only one woman in the line by the time I make my way over to the service area. As usual, I start comparing myself to her. She has a great ass. It’s a little wide I guess, but it’s more than I’ve got. And shapely. Even though I’m staring at it straight on I can tell that the side profile of that thing must be lovely because part of the shirt is caught in a fold of skin (or fat…I can’t tell) at the bottom of her back. Both Dean and Adrian enjoy women with nice butts and unfortunately for them, they both have me. She and Maisey don’t talk much at the window so I assume the woman isn’t a regular. She quietly tells Maisey to have a good day, collects her things from the windowsill, and turns to leave. We make eye contact and share a pleasant “good morning”. She looks vaguely familiar although I can’t quite determine where we’ve met before.

“I love your dress!” she says with a genuine smile and bright eyes. I could tell this wasn’t a half-assed compliment and it makes me feel a bit better for having admired her ass for the full five minutes before.

“Oh, thank you! It’s one of my favorites.” I respond. I’m secretly proud of myself for just saying thank you without minimizing the beauty of the dress or me in it. Thanks to Adrian I’ve noticed that it’s a horrible habit that I need to break.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but where do you shop? I have a hard time finding pieces that look that good. And I need to add more dresses to my wardrobe.”

“Well, a friend of mine designed this one for me, but I have a few go-to places. Let me give you my card. If you email me, I’ll send you the names.”

“Ohmigosh that’d be perfect!” She says, beaming with excitement. I hand her my business card and she promises to email me that afternoon. I get so caught up in my short chat with her that we both start walking toward the door together. By the time I realize I’ve left the queue someone else had entered the line. I want to give Maisey a real hello, but it’s not worth the additional 10-minute wait. I know it’ll be at least 10 minutes because, well, it’s Maisey and she’s never met a stranger. I turn around and blow Maisey a dramatic kiss goodbye with both hands. She yells from behind the window that she’ll see me the next time.

After last night’s session, this morning’s messages, seeing the gift I’ve yet to open, and the compliment from the lady in the post office I’m feeling pretty damn sexy and walk out of the post office and over to my car with a glide like no other. I pull the small box and notecard from my bag and slide my finger underneath the seal of the purple envelope with “You” handwritten on the front. I stop my finger midway through when I glance in the rearview mirror and see the woman from the lobby plodding away from me toward the cars along the rear of the lot. That’s quite odd considering all of the spaces near the front door where I was parked were empty. Watching her walk away reminds me why I appreciate not having that luscious bottom. She climbs into her white Range Rover and pulls off just as slowly as she walked.

I turn my attention back to the envelope and finish ripping what remained of the seal. Inside is a flat notecard that reads:

Love it. -Me

He doesn’t waste time hoping that I’ll love it; he just tells me to. He’s such an alpha male and it turns me on. We never gift each other cards with elaborate messages. You know…risk of discovery. So while our spouses become He and She, we become You and Me. It works. I immediately turn to the small box and impatiently loosen the white, scallop-edged ribbon. I hold up a dainty gold chain with a thin piece of gold at its end shaped like my home state of Georgia. Engraved on the back are the words: Beautiful. Special. Loved.

I fastened the clasp of the necklace behind my neck while the phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. It feels like it’s taking him forever to pick up.

“Hey,” he finally answers.

“I do love it! Thank you SO much! It’s beautiful! I love that you pay such close attention to me.”

“You’re welcome. You deserve much more.” He speaks without much inflection yet somehow I feel the deep, abiding emotion connected with each word. “Did you open the mail?” he asks.

I’d forgotten about the actual mail. His question tells me that it’s intended for me, too, even though it has his name on it. He must’ve seen it when he placed my gift in the box.

“No, I haven’t. I’ll do that now. Hold on.” I fish for the envelope, which is already lost in my oversized purse. I have too much shit in here and vow to clean it out when I get home. I tear open the edge of the long envelope and slide out the letter that has a debit card attached to it. “Okay…” I say, the confusion clear in my voice.

“I opened an account and that’s the card. I need you to keep it, please. Just let me know whenever the balance gets low. I’ve put $10,000 in the account for now.”

My stomach sinks a little. Up until now we’ve financed our relationship together with neither of us taking on the burden of the extra expense. He’s not my sugar daddy and I’m certainly not a sugar mama, but we both know that it costs to spend time with someone and that’s before the hotels and occasional gifts. This card in my hand makes me feel like we are entering some uncharted territory. Sure, he’s been inside me and knows many of my secrets and fears and longings. But, this? This feels new and strange. I now have an obligation to manage “our” finances. And, I’m now carrying his name with me.

I rub my fingers across the raised silver lettering. A D R I A N M. J A C O B S. For the first time in four years, I wonder if he’s done this before.