1 I shouldn't have been surprised when I met my husband's lover, but I was. This is the face of the woman in the mirror, the wholesome face of a woman who has been married for four years: I have brown skin and cinnamon freckles that come alive in the sun, delicate freckles that all of my former lovers loved to play connect the dots with, or pretend that my face was the sky and the freckles were the stars and find as many constellations as they could. I'm in my early thirties, but on a good day, with the right makeup and the right clothes, I can pass for early twenties. Men in their twenties are the ones who ignore the ring and flirt with me the most. I think it's the locks. Ever since I lost the perm, people say I look younger. This is the life of the woman in the mirror, the life of a woman balancing her marriage and career as a news producer: I drive an hour and fifteen minutes in traffic every day-and that's in one direction-to the 10 westbound so I can drive La Brea into the edges of Hollywood, trying to get to a job that stresses me out to the nth degree. Some days the Freeway God shines down on me and I only have to deal with traffic for an hour, but if it's a rainy day, it could take two and a half. If somebody has lost it and killed somebody on the freeway, make it closer to four. Pretty irritating, spending that much time in traffic, either alone or looking for somebody to call on the cell phone and talk with to help take the edge off the road rage. Before I bounce to work, I rush to cook dinner and leave it in the microwave or oven-ready for my husband. If not a full dinner, then at least sandwiches. Just like my mother always did for us, there is always food in the house. When I get home at night, after working on stories on all the freeway chases, and the murder coverage, and the child abuse segments, and earthquake reports, I leave the pessimism at the door; refuse to bring negative energy into my household. I stop being a news producer and focus on being a wife. That's the Pisces in me. The emotional and sexual part of me that believes in love and is ruled by spirit. Charles is from Slidell, Louisiana, a small country community east of New Orleans. He's a Libra, well balanced, has a high sex drive, is emotional at times, and hates drama. He has eight brothers and sisters back home, all by the same parents, all with the same black curly hair, the kind that looks wavy when it's brushed, but Charles and his mother are the only ones with hazel eyes. Very family oriented. Alligator meat, crawfish, and gumbo-that's what he was raised eating, and he can make some hellified beignets, and can throw down some thigh-fattening bread pudding with enough whiskey sauce to make you feel like you're DUI. And don't let him get his hands on some catfish. He'll fry the hell out of that bottom feeder. My husband has a solid build, broad shoulders, and a great smile. He has a few scars here and there from being in so many fights as a boy, and boxing as a teenager and young adult, the kind of marks that make him look more rugged than pretty. His soft hair makes me wanna run my fingers through it all night. And I love his Southern accent; it's mild, not too much twang. The kind that tells you he'll treat you like a lady, open doors, and defend your honor. When he smiles with one side of his face, I know he's thinking of the position he wants to get me in. Sex is communication. Sex is food. I believe in feeding my man. And I believe in being fed. Feed him or he'll eat somewhere else. That wisdom came from Momma. She told us that a woman has to be a woman to her man, or some other woman will be. Charles goes to bed by ten, nine if there's not a game on and he can manage to be done grading papers. He has to get up by six so he can drive thirty miles east on the 60 freeway to get to West Covina and teach social studies to middle-school rugrats. My post-show meeting runs over some nights because we have to go over what was good about the late night broadcast, what sucked, what could've been better, and if something was hot, have it ready for the next day. That can have me at the station until almost midnight, maybe damn near one in the morning. By the time I make the drive home, Charles is dead to the world. I come in through the garage and drag myself upstairs to a dark bedroom and silence. Sometimes I just stay downstairs, massage my temples, undress, then tip up to the guest bedroom and just have some "me" time. Give myself a facial and take a long bath by candlelight. With his early schedule, Charles hates to have his sleep interrupted. But I'm wired and up until two, maybe three in the morning, trying not to make too much noise. Those are lonely hours, when the world is asleep and I'm wide awake, no one to talk to, feeling like Tom Hanks in that movie Cast Away . All they have on Showtime are erotic movies-some pretty bad fucking, but fucking all the same. When the moon is high and my hormones are on fire, voyeurism is nothing but damn torture. In those bewitching hours, I creep into the bedroom, touch Charles, try to get his penis to rise, and he pats my hand, asking me to let him sleep. Then it's me, loving a capella. Or me, myself, and my little rabbit; mènage á trois. Sometimes Charles drinks a little too much ginseng mixed with Noni juice and wakes up at the crack of dawn with the energy of a sixteen-year-old, rubbing against me with a raging boner, kissing that sensitive spot on my neck, his morning breath uneven and wanting. After three hours of sleep, I'm a rag doll. My nipples don't rise, but I don't push his hand away, never have, not since we stood before God and made promises. He rubs against me and my hand drifts down, takes his girth and hardness and guides it toward my hollow. He moves inside with gentleness, but the dryness stings. Seldom do I come like that, being half-awake and barely aware, because by the time my back starts to arch and moans begin crawling from my mouth, he's holding my ass with a firm grip, his strokes strong, deep, and steady, shuddering because he's trying to keep from letting his orgasm get the best of him, and letting out that pre-orgasmic groan that sounds like an apology for being premature. He jerks inside me, fills me with pain and pleasure, with hot liquid, heat that excites me into consciousness, and I hold him, move up against him and watch him. I love to watch him come. He has the most amazing, intense look. And it's tender at the same time. He slows down, but I keep grinding against him, contracting the muscles of my vagina around his softening penis, and try to orgasm as he catches his breath. He runs his hands over my locks, swallows, then whispers, "You okay?" I sing, "Good morning." I rub his back, feel his solidness and strength over me, run my fingers through his soft hair, kiss his face. Then I tell him how good that felt, how wonderful he is, how much I love the way his dick feels inside me, and ask him to chill out with me for a moment. "Freeway time, baby. Can't be late." I put on a schoolgirl pout. "Thirty seconds?" I feel him, unfocused and on edge, glancing at the red numbers on the digital clock. In less time than I've asked for, he pulls himself out of my vagina, breaks our Siamese-ness, leaves my emptiness tingling to be filled, legs ready to open wide for another ride. His feet hit the carpet and he's a silhouette moving away from me at a fast pace. I say, "Maybe we can finish tonight." No answer. I hate it when he hops right up and runs to the shower. But he can't be late for work, has to beat traffic so he can get across the freeway at least thirty minutes before the bell rings for first period, even earlier on Tuesday because of the teachers' staff meeting. Sometimes I sit up, fight the sandman, and watch Charles shower. He knows I'm watching, enjoying the way the water runs over his body, but he's rushing, doesn't look my way. I think he's ashamed when he comes that fast, or takes me like that, invading my dryness with his hardness, all without warning. I like to think that he finds me so irresistible that he can't help himself, that he has no control when it comes to wanting me. That makes me feel as if I am the master, that he is the slave to his desires for me, and only me. That's what I pretend. He throws on his jeans, a nice polo shirt, grabs a jacket if it's cool, then kisses my lips. He says, "The remote is right here." "Have a good day. Love you. Call me." He leaves me, some mornings his honey drying between my legs, the smell of our sex on my skin, the remote at my side. He always leaves the remote within arm's reach because he knows that I go to sleep with the news and I wake up in search of Katie Couric. --from The Other Woman by Eric Jerome Dickey, Copyright © 2003 by Eric Jerome Dickey, published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted with permission from the publisher. Excerpted from The Other Woman by Eric Jerome Dickey All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
