married hooker camouflage—slightly faded jeans and a plaid blouse.
As I walked down Eighty-fifth Street toward York, I checked my phone messages. A call from Charmaine—“The cable bill’s in your condom drawer”—and another from Milt, sitting in his car: “If you get this before five-thirty, call me back, kiddo. I’m a prisoner of the Garden State Parkway for the next twenty minutes.”
The sun wasn’t ready to set. In my bright yellow sneakers, I felt like a small town schoolgirl playing hooky on a warm afternoon. York Avenue has that effect on you during the summer.
Damp hair brushed against my neck. Uh-oh. Will it be dry by the time I get home? This might be hard to explain! I stopped and dabbed my hair with my sleeve.
Then I heard a man’s voice—“Nancy is right here”—slightly formal, yet warm and familiar, that made me turn around. Allie’s boyfriend, Lucho, was standing near the entrance to Arturo’s talking into his cellphone. His free hand held a slightly dog-eared copy of The Nation. “Of course,” he said, beaming at me. “I will do that, my dear. See you at the bar.”
Lucho must know I just left Allie’s apartment. What do you say to a guy who’s waiting for his girlfriend to tidy up after a session that you’ve been part of? And he obviously knows it! I stared back at him and felt myself blushing as he put his phone away.
“Lucho!” My voice was unnaturally high. “What are you—” doing here sounds wrong, rather hostile. As if he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t! Why can’t she meet him on the West Side, where he lives?
The last thing I need is to be running into a best friend’s boyfriend on the corner of York Avenue when I’ve just turned a trick with her, and my hair is still damp from—did he see me doing that? When he cuddles up with Allie, later tonight, my bra will be right there, in its plastic bag, hiding beneath her bed.
Suddenly, I felt naked. His polite nod was almost a bow, and there wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his eyes—or flirtation, either—as he greeted me. “How are you doing, Nancy?” He gestured toward the restaurant door, as if nothing strange had just happened. “Will you join us for dinner? We can wait for Allie at the bar.”
“Oh—I—um—I can’t!” I said, taking in his knit tie and his summer suit. His dark wavy hair is well-managed, though it falls below his ears. I felt not just naked, but silly and immature in my jeans and sneakers. Allie must be getting a little dressed up to meet him for dinner. “I’ve got a loin of pork marinating in the fridge!” I exclaimed.
“Allison tells me you’re a very accomplished cook.” He flashed an affectionate smile. “Another night then. Perhaps we could all go out. We would both love to have dinner with you and Matt.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “You know, Matt—Allie—I’m not sure about Matt’s schedule.”
Allie’s been trying to engineer a double date with Matt and Lucho for the last six months!
Last year, when we ran into Lucho and Allie at a party, Lucho was unfailingly discreet. And Matt’s always hinting that he’d like to hang out with them because, well, you don’t meet a lot of trendy Latin American professors on Wall Street.
But the whole idea of Matt dining out with three people who know something he doesn’t? I can’t. No matter how discreet Lucho is, I can’t put my husband at a table with people who know he’s being deceived.
There are times when a wife must quietly become her husband’s loyal opposition.
Allie doesn’t get it. There’s no room on her romantic hard drive for these tricky nuances of infidelity. Because the New York Council of Trollops has taken over her personal life! Sometimes she forgets how normal people actually live.
On days when Allie’s not working, she’s chairing NYCOT meetings, planning the next conference, or distributing condoms in Hunts Point. I used to think activism was a phase she would outgrow—until Allie met Lucho at a harm reduction conference. Any “phase” that yields a devoted boyfriend isn’t something Allie can be expected to take leave of lightly. Bohemian courtship has its own rules—I’m afraid to find out what they are—but it’s still courtship. It still, somehow, works, when the right people are in the right place at the right time.
A double date with my best friend and her boyfriend? It’s just another one of those things everyone else does—but not me.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
“Honey?”
This morning, Matt was surprised to find me in the kitchen wearing cotton panties and a work-out bra. He gave me an appreciative but quizzical look. I’m almost never up first.
I was in a cautious mood, because the last time I had an appointment with my ob-gyn, Matt wanted to be there too. I will never get used to seeing other women’s husbands in a gynecologist’s waiting room—is nothing sacred anymore? And I refuse to contribute to this trend.
“I forgot to organize the coffee last night!” I lied. Matt’s coffee is a built-in excuse whenever I need to rise early. As I filled the coffee maker, he came closer. I felt his bare skin against my back, boxer shorts against my prim white briefs. “There’s a new class I want to try.”
His hard-on was distracting, and so was his right hand on my panties. I was tempted to turn around, but a quick glance at the clock made me stop. Dr. Peele’s office agreed to squeeze me in early.
Matt kissed my neck while the coffee brewed, and teased the cotton-covered parts of me with his finger. I was beginning to swell and relax. If I’m late for Dr. Peele, she’ll make me wait two hours. I’ll have to cancel my quickie with Ted. And Dr. Peele’s receptionist will be furious.
“Your exercise class can wait,” he whispered. “There’s another one tomorrow. And you want this.”
“I—I do, but we can’t,” I told him. “My period …” Though it just ended, I insinuated that it was just beginning. As I turned around, I felt his hands in my hair. “Can I do this instead?” I tried to lower myself to the floor and felt my panties tugging against my pussy. My mouth was already half-open. I felt like that playful Mafia wife in Goodfellas who takes care of her husband in her kitchen.
“No.” He was holding my upper arms, firmly enough to stop me from moving. I was breathing harder. “It’s better when you have to wait.”
“But—”
I was beginning to regret that my period “just started.” I like to think I can do anything I want with my period—hide it, fake it, or have it. Now I’ve outsmarted myself, and waiting three days seems more like an ordeal than a successful parry.
Though I was on time for my appointment, I was battling the sensations of unsatisfied arousal as I changed into my paper gown. The stirrups on Dr. Peele’s examining table are never left uncovered. Today, they were dressed in soft, inviting cashmere booties which I was eager to feel against my bare feet. When she entered, I was already on the table, day-dreaming about what might have been if Matt hadn’t stopped me from getting on my knees. Though I felt pampered by the booties and tantalized by our skirmish, it’s just not possible to stay turned on during a transvaginal sonogram.
“Is there any such thing as a mini-miscarriage?” I asked. “My last period was ten days late. Was I twenty-four days pregnant?”
“That’s hard to say.” She was looking at the screen. “We may never know. Long cycles are more common than miscarriages.” I felt the probe moving to the left. “Which are also common,” she added.
“So, if I have a c-section …”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about the scar. How low can you make the incision?”
“Most