Drunk And Chatting

I did not expect her husband to approach me at the party. Sure, we knew each other a little, but it wasn’t the sort of conversation you ever really expect to happen. No matter how many times you fuck other men’s wives.

“I wish we had a fucking balcony,” he said, resting his glass of wine on the ledge. Twenty floors below us, Park Avenue, was eerily quiet.

“Better than a yard?” I asked, casually. Real Estate is always a safe topic in New York.

“Oh, definitely. Just look at the view! If we had a telescope, I imagine we’d catch a few glimpses of people getting into trouble. If you know what I mean.”

“Bit of a voyeur?” I asked innocently.

“Probably,” he said with a hint of a slur. “Don’t tell my wife. Although to be fair, I’d rather watch her, so what the fuck would she have to complain about anyway.”

I tried to mumble something as I looked out over the city, my martini too full for me to pretend I had to run back inside. Susan, the wife in question, was standing inside next to the piano looking decidedly striking. Was he hinting at something or just drunk and chatting? Some men liked to wear their fetishes on their sleeve, but I had to tread lightly — no need to ruin a good thing.

“Well, she is beautiful,” I said as politely as possible.