It happens when we fear there's nothing special about us: we allow our secrets to make us special. With our secrets, we set ourselves apart from the crowd. And when the secrets we're hiding are known by all, or when we realize our misdeeds are so commonplace our secrets aren't even all that remarkable, we set out to make new secrets. They make us feel important, unique. And the more insidious our secrets, the more distinctive we feel.
At nineteen, Mercedes thought she was the only woman of her kind, unparalleled in the civilized world, leading a life of opulent vulgarity. By twenty-three, she'd realized she wasn't the only woman in the world to sleep with a married man.
Nor, even, was she the only young thing to take up with a man in his fifties. It happened all the time. She saw these couples on the street: the girl in a summer dress clinging to the arm of the silver fox in Dockers shorts, forgiving him the hideous black sock-sandal combination.
'But I was in love with Simon,' she repeated to herself, like a mantra meditation. 'That girl with the French manicure and the blue shimmer eye shadow is only after the old guy's money, and he can only get it up for that tight piece of veal.' Cruel, to have these thoughts.
Not that Mercedes thought all that much about Simon anymore.
On some unconfirmed date next spring or maybe summer, she'd be marrying Anwar: young, energetic and distinctly not already married to somebody else. Simon could weave his own twisted way through life, because she was taken. Okay, so maybe Anwar wasn't always the generous, slow-going lover Simon had been, but he would learn. She'd have years to teach him when they were married. Years and years and years...
It wasn't only men who thought about sex every three seconds. And, really, how could anybody survive the wait at the passport office without imagining a lover's hand squeezing her ass as he left a trail of kisses down her neck, pioneering through the buttons of her blouse until his tongue was buried in her bra, searching for those straining buds...
"Mercedes?" It couldn't be that familiar baritone from long ago. "Mercy, I said your name three times. Where were you?"
Was it really him? Her heart leapt in her chest like an ambitious goldfish, and before she knew it, her hand lay there trying to keep it in the bowl. Act casual, stupid! "I was thinking about you, of course, Simon..."
Wrong kind of casual, but Mercedes always was hopeless with deceit. Not because she couldn't deal out total bull. She could if the need arose. Mercedes simply preferred devastating honesty over a honey-glazed pack of lies. And, anyway, it was Simon's mouth she'd been imagining on a self-guided tour of her body.
His pink lips broke into a wide smile. He seemed flustered, but did he ever look good! How many years since they'd...?
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Inside she was shivering like a naked Chihuahua, but Mercedes slipped on her suit of sarcastic armour. "Well, I came in for pancakes, but then I realized this was a passport office, so I figure I'll get my passport renewed instead."
"Me too," he replied under strained laughter.
In the silence that followed, Mercedes weighed her options: go home unscathed to the man she was engaged to marry, or fuck her ex-lover's brains out in the bathroom of a passport office?
"They're calling your number, Mercy," Simon was saying.
"What? Oh. Right." Oh, her old nemesis Doctor Disappointment was back for a visit.
"Will you wait for me?" Simon asked.
Hey, after an extended holiday, it was her good friend Archduke Anticipation! Still, she cocked her head, looked askance. "You still married?"
"Yep," he replied, eyeing his toes.
"Remember how I said five years ago that I was done waiting for you?" Mercy taunted, though her tone didn't betray that she was teasing. She softened a little. "We'll see."
Of course she waited for him. It was Simon, sexy Simon, four-time winner of the lovemaking World Cup.
