JAZZ LEMONADE
She prayed, "Don't stand so close to me."
His young body smelled of soap and sweat, of leather and another unique smell, one that she could only identify as his smell. He placed a bag of groceries in her cart then asked for the money.
Michael, his nametag read. She thrust out her hand with the bills. It trembled and shook like the body of a wounded bird. At least her eyes were hidden behind the dark glasses. She wouldn't allow herself to make eye contact, couldn't risk it.
Lord, she felt a blush rushing up her chest and shoulders. The heat rose, spread tellingly across her face. Her ears burned. How utterly out of control she felt around him. Her emotions raw and inappropriate--- he was half her age.
She drove home, trying not to think about him. Every night for the past three weeks he had come to her in her dreams. She hadn't any rest. Variations on a theme but always the two of them, always the knowledge that it was wrong but giving in to the urge anyway. She woke feeling as though the top of her head had been sheared off.
Still shaking, feeling his weight atop her, between her legs, the air around her permeated with his sweet aroma, she'd lay quiet for awhile, not ready to give up the dream until John rolled over, snoring gently.
The guilt came. How could she dream this while she slept with John next to her? Theirs had always been a deeply satisfying relationship. She trusted him. He was the love of her life. Yet here she was, twenty-five years into this forever marriage, fantasizing nightly about the young stranger at the grocery store.
During the day she walked around in a heightened state of sexual arousal--- it was amazing she got anything done at all. She welcomed any extra work Larry threw at her. At least it provided moments when she was not all consumed with her fantasy.
She should change stores. This she knew. At least she wouldn't be feeding the fire each evening when she purchased the next day's groceries. But she couldn't make herself drive to a different store, couldn't even get into a different checkout line. She lived for these moments, seeing him, smelling him.
Was it wrong? Was it a sin? She wondered about these things. In her relationship with John, she could honestly say infidelity had never been an issue before. Their lovemaking was passionate even after all this time though both agree, too infrequent. During the week neither had the energy needed to initiate intimacy--- they reserved their strength for Sunday mornings.
It might not have been a problem had she not been left alone the next weekend. John announced a sudden out-of-town meeting and as she watched him pack Thursday evening, she knew his leaving presented her with possibilities that seldom arose.
She drove him to the airport early the next morning before going to work. Once at the office, she mindlessly made changes in the Articles of Incorporation and Bylaws for PB Exchange. Larry stopped in her office at 11:30, carrying his golf clubs "I'm out of here. How are you coming with those drafts?"
She motioned towards the pile to her right. "I still have to fax the redlined copies over to PB before lunch. I haven't started on the closing documents."
Larry nodded, only half-listening, his mind already on the number four hole at the club, always a challenge. "Why don't you go ahead and take the afternoon off? The closing is postponed, again. You'll have plenty of time to work on that next week."
She drove home, the windows in her car open, letting the sweet May breeze blow through her hair. She needed to stop by the store. Remembering John wouldn't be there tonight, she purposely drove past Giant Eagle and through town to Shop N Save. Feeling smug, knowing she was avoiding trouble before it began, she filled her basket with a bag of endive and a rice entrée from the frozen food section. She snatched a copy of "The Way We Were" from the bargain movie rental bin. She heard John's voice in the back of her head chiding, "Chick flick." "Dick flick" she'd counter if he were doing the choosing which always seemed to feature Bruce Willis and plenty of senseless violence.
Climbing into her car, she tossed the bag onto the back seat. Lord, it was hot in there. A bead of perspiration streaked down from her forehead through her pancake makeup. She wound down the window and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. She tried again and again a third time. The engine didn't even turn over.
A shadow appeared beside her and a heady smell wafted through the opened window, "Need some help?"
It was he, her young man from the other grocery store. She couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "I'm sure it's not anything, thanks anyway."
She turned the key again. The engine was dead.
Through the windshield he motioned, "Open the hood. Let me take a look."
"Go ahead and try it again." She ought to just call the auto club; they could have a tow truck here in 30 minutes. He had been fooling around, head buried under there for ten minutes. To her surprise, the car started right up.
"Your spark plug wire came loose." He smiled lowering the hood, pushing it closed snugly.
"Thanks." Should she offer him money for his trouble?
He walked back around to her window. "Hey, not a problem. Would you mind giving me a lift? My car's in the shop." He pointed to the muffler shop at the end of the strip mall.
"Where can I drop you off?" The car idled at the light.
"I live on Morningside, ten blocks from here. Hey, I really appreciate this. I was gonna walk home."
She pulled into the driveway beside the house. It wasn't what she expected. The paint and trim were worn but the yard was freshly mowed, hedges trimmed, begonias lining the sidewalk. Behind the house the backyard looked shady, inviting.
"Can you stop in for a drink?" He asked. "I have some chilled wine in the refrigerator or I could make some lemonade if you'd prefer."
"Oh, I'd better not. I have frozen stuff." She left the ignition running.
"I have a freezer. Come on--- how often do you get a chance to enjoy an afternoon like this?" He reached out and placed his hand gently on her forearm, sending streaks of lightning up through her head. "Just for a few minutes anyway."
Sitting back in the worn wooden lawn chair, she lit a cigarette and exhaled heavily with a whoosh. How long had she been holding her breath?
Michael teased as he opened the screen door. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather try the wine?"
He set the tray of tinkling glasses on the picnic table. "The sun is way past the yardarm."
A lilting, light smattering of flute and piano flowed through the opened windows out into the leaf-canopied yard. A pair of mourning doves took flight from the ground beneath the hemlock tree by the back fence.
"What's that?" She nodded her head towards the house.
He tossed her an empty cassette case. "Suite for Flute and Jazz Piano, Jean-Pierre Rampal and Claude Bolling". She laughed at the illustration on the cover: a piano and flute in bed together in a motel room, the flute blowing smoke rings.
"So you write? Any chance I could read some of your stuff?" She asked.
She studied him as he sat on the picnic bench. The calves of his legs were tan and muscular beneath his shorts. Her throat felt heavy, as if she had swallowed a tomato. His tee shirt hung loosely on his broad shoulders, his chin, square and firm. She stole a glance into his eyes. They were darker than she remembered from the store, from her dreams. He stared back at her, a slow smile forming, "Would you?"
She stood holding her purse in clammy hands when he returned with a stack of papers. Puzzled, he shook his head; "You aren't leaving?"
"Oh, I have to. It's later than I thought. Thanks for the lemonade and for fixing my car."
He handed her the pages. "Take these with you. Let me know what you think?"
She drove the car down Morningside and turned twice before stopping to light a cigarette. Good god, get a grip.
A man mowing his lawn looked at her warily. She shifted the car back into first gear and pulled back out onto the road.
At home, she peeled off her stockings, changed into cutoffs and a tee shirt. John had left a message on the answering machine--- he had arrived safely, no problems, a second message from Kate, their daughter, inviting them to Cleveland the week after next for their granddaughter's first dance recital. Michael's pages lay under a stack of mail on the kitchen counter.
She brewed a pot of coffee. She felt muddled, as if she had smoked a joint or drank wine, though she had done neither. She started a load of laundry and turned on her stereo. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's melodious voices echoed through the rooms, "We have all been here before."
That night he came to her again. Although she didn't know it, it would be the last time.
"Did you get a chance to read my story?" he asked, the muscles in his arms bulging slightly as he held himself erect above her, his dark eyes searching her shadowed face.
"I didn't--- I'm sorry."
He lowered himself into her and she shuddered as he buried his face in her neck, his warm gentle tears falling on her shoulders.
"It doesn't matter" he whispered as they rocked gently back and forth.