She sips her tepid coffee and reads the
newspaper, trying to decide what to do after the bills
are paid and some sort of dinner is prepared. The
house echoes heavily with memories of past birthdays,
some bright, some dark, all sharing the presence of
other people. Making a face, she takes a marking pen
and circles a movie as the best alternative to a solo
evening of television or mingling with anonymous
strangers at a bar.
As she sits up and sighs, the quiet is broken by
the abrupt ringing of the telephone. The voice at the
other end is familiar, one of her office colleagues, a
friend if not a close friend, for she has not allowed
herself the danger of close friends since he left.
“What are you doing tonight?” Her normally
attractive face creases into a frown, the question an
unwanted reminder of the malaise and anomie assailing
her. “I was going to catch that new Adam Sandler
movie…” she begins, but her colleague dismisses her
plans with unexpected enthusiasm. “Oh forget *that*,
there’s always a new Adam Sandler movie. I’m having a
little get-together tonight, and you simply *must*
come!”
The phrase “simply must”, echoing as it does the
image of blonde debutantes and Junior League members,
would normally elicit a polite but firm dismissal. On
the other hand, there *is* always another Adam Sandler
movie, and the tone of excitement in the other woman’s
voice is at least intriguing. Her attempts to clarify
the nature of the get-together are politely but
effectively sidestepped, and directions are given with
a target of eight o’clock.
She hangs up the phone, wondering briefly at the
unexpected gesture of friendship, then shakes off most
of her mood and heads to the study to take care of the
household finances.
Dinner, when the time comes, is a diet tray from
the frozen food section of the grocery store. The
microwave, she sometimes thinks, is the recluse’s best
friend. Once the table is cleared, the question now
arises, what to wear? The simple housedress that
suffices during the day indoors is of course out of
the question, even had the invitation specified “come
as you are.” Lacking any helpful suggestions, she
rummages through her closet and puts together a simple
ensemble, comfortable pants with a blue-and-purple
shaded pattern blouse, one that neither hides nor
accentuates her figure. She checks her watch; yes, on
schedule. A visit to the bathroom to brush her teeth,
and she picks up purse and keys for her first outing
in quite some time.
Her destination is a simple ranch-style home in
one of the better-off neighborhoods. She brings her
car to a stop a half-block away from the address,
idling, a sudden hesitance about dealing with people
in a social setting giving her pause. But an accepted
invitation is a social contract, so she puts the gear
back into Drive and pulls up to park. For a moment
she wonders where the other guests have parked, then
shrugs and opens her door to stretch her legs.
Clicking the car alarm behind her, she walks up the
paved stones to the front door, initial hesitance
quickly covered with an assumed facade of pleasant
anticipation.
“Marge, I’m so glad you could make it. Come in,
come in!” Her hostess flutters around her, pointing
out a place to lay her purse, asking after her day,
all of the niceties of a standard party greeting.
They leave the entryway and move deeper into the
house, arriving at a small dining alcove where a
birthday cake, a glass of champagne and two crystal
glasses sit beneath dimmed lights.
Unexpected is an inadequate word.
She could turn and run home. She briefly wants
to cry. The touch of her colleague’s hand on her back
urges her forward, helping her sit down at the table.
“Surprised? Well, I have a friend in Personnel,
and when I found out that it was your birthday, I said
to myself, April, you can’t let that nice Marge go
without someone remembering her.” A knife appears,
two slices of the cake are cut, and the champagne is
poured, all without disrupting the flow of words.
“Now I do apologize for not having a whole group here,
but I’m afraid it’s a little difficult to get a group
together from our office, you know how everyone has
their other commitments.”
She finds a fork in her hand, and automatically
inserts it into the cake. The piece she brings to her
mouth tastes of vanilla and amaretto. April lifts a
glass, and so she must also, hearing a cheery “Happy
Birthday” toast. April eats her slice of cake with
the grace of a social director, timing her last bite
to finish with Marge. “Now, dear, for your birthday
present!”
Marge finds volition returning to her, as she
begins to demur. “Oh please, April, this was a lovely
surprise, but I couldn’t possibly…”
It is as if she has not even spoken. April takes
her hand in a warm but insistent grip and leads her
away from the table, through the elegant living room,
and down a hall to a room with a closed door.
The door is opened…
“Oh. My. God.”
The boy – no, not a boy, but certainly a young
man – on the bed lays nude, hands tied over his head,
a pair of stereo headphones covering his ears and a
pair of leather pads covering his eyes. The hair on
his head is fair and full, that on his chest is downy,
and further down…
She blushes, staring at his semi-aroused state.
What can she do? Her legs are shaky, rooted to the
spot. And her body generates its own messages,
nipples brushing against her thin bra, a heat building
inside. It’s been so long, after all…
Somewhere outside she half-hears words, like a
radio broadcast in bad weather. “… woman like you
needs … didn’t know until my friend told me …
you’ve been so nice around the office, not like those
other … longest time to find just the right …”
A tug at the back of her neck, and the cool air
in the room washes over her suddenly warm neck.
Another tug, and the buttons down the back of her
blouse give up their attachments. Hands slide the
garment forward over unresisting arms, and those same
hands slide the zipper of her slacks down to push it
to the floor. Her mouth gapes, breath echoing loudly
inside her head, eyes looking hungrily between the
young man’s legs, watching the member pulse on his
stomach. A pat on her bare bottom rouses her to step
forward, leaving her clothing behind, stopping just a
handsbreadth away from the bed.
“Go ahead,” comes the voice at her ear. “Touch
it.”
She reaches out as if in a dream, laying her hand
along its length, feeling the heat and the sudden
answering growth. Her tongue peeks out to dab at her
lips, and she knows what she wants.
As the door behind her draws closed, one last
comment enters her consciousness. “And just wait
until you see what he can do with his tongue!”