Amanda was my fiancée. That word has a considerably more romantic sound to it than "wife". A wife is what my dad has. "Wife" comes from the old Anglo-Saxon word "wif" which means simply "woman". "Fiancée" is French, from the Latin root "fidere" which means a promise, a vow. It is the same root as for "fidelity."
My fiancée was tall, like her mother, almost as tall as me. She held her blonde hair back in a low, careless ponytail so often I wondered why she bothered to grow it long at all. She knew that with her sculpted features she could pull-off a bob or a pixie cut. She had high cheekbones a strong jawline, not masculine, but definitely strong, and it elevated any sort of look she attempted. She wasn't exactly a tomboy, and would eagerly do the satin ballgown with up-do and curls for her sister's wedding and she would look like a movie star doing it.
There's that point when dating a beautiful woman when I can't entirely believe what's happening and I would wonder "What in the world does she see in me?" I start to worry if she'll be expecting something of me which I can't deliver. Then one day, looking at the reflection of the two of us in a mirror, I realized she was lucky to have me too, because we were a match. That's not to say I ever completely understood Amanda or that she was exactly the perfect mate I had in mind before I met her. But she did make me feel good about myself and she did make me fearless about a few things. Like when she convinced me to start surfing for the first time, or going to a roller rink. Then there was that perfect day at the beach watching her skate down the boardwalk with her bikini riding up her firm butt. She was fit but if there was a part of her body she ever seemed self-conscious about it was her butt, which, despite her athleticism, was maybe bigger and rounder than she wanted. I, however, had no problem with it whatsoever.
Amanda had always had an irreverent streak, even considering some of her staunch political views. She would joke about almost anything and was a proud owner of every Cards Against Humanity deck. It's not that she had no boundaries. Her boundaries seemed to always make her actions seem acceptable to me because she knew where the limit was. She knew when too much was too much. Or she always had until that night when we moved into our new apartment.
* * *
We were engaged for three months when we moved to the new place. We had been living together in a dreadful studio apartment in the city. The new one was in the East Bay suburbs, nestled in the trees and the steep hills about twenty minutes from everywhere. The house was California craftsman, recently converted into a stack of irregular apartments. Our unit was one flight of stairs up from the street level where we had access to a supposedly communal. There were many houses on the street but out back, beyond the porch, only the trees could be seen. It was too good for us, perhaps, but we found we could afford the rent if we subletted the master bedroom. It had its own bath and rear entrance, so we might never have to even see our tenant most days. The remaining bedroom was big enough for our queen bed and a dresser.
We met Dante at a coffee shop the week before. He was a film student, in his early 20s, taller than me, black, and with a thin goatee and dreadlocks hanging just past his ears. He was in offensively good shape, I could tell even when he was fully dressed. Men will wear a collared shirt and tie to appear more attractive, to level the playing field to some degree, but Dante would still stand out with his slim but-not-too-slim waist, broad shoulders, and long arms and legs. I could imagine this guy, with a slightly cleaner shave, on a poster in the window of a department store.
He was early that day he moved in, as he had been early at the coffee shop. He knew how to make a good impression but I wasn't his boss. He arrived in an old, white sedan, a car I could easily imagine was handed-down through three family members because it still ran and the youngest of the household was moving out. It reminded me of my first car in high school. It looked rough but Dante looked like he had just left a date or a job interview. He had a burgundy dress shirt tucked into slacks and a pair of black loafers.
"Welcome home!" I greeted him and showed him the way to his room.
Dante began unloading his things, a mattress, a desk, a few suitcases, everything else was in cardboard boxes.
"You should offer to help," Amanda chided me through closed teeth. I sighed.
"Do you need a hand with any of that?" for a moment I felt like a ornery schoolboy having just been prompted to make an insincere but polite offer.
"Nah, I'm good, everything I got is a one-man job," Dante said.
Still, I could tell he was showing-off, as I have many times before, trying to make a heavy lift look easy to impress someone else's girl. Dante walked up the steps holding a trunk on his shoulder like a casket. He didn't come with a lot but as he unpacked he showed us some of his old movie cameras. It's almost a requirement for any film student to own a few pieces of obsolete camera equipment he would never be able to use.
Amanda and I didn't have much from the old place, everything fit in two trips with our humble Volvo station wagon. I learned again how communication is always important in a relationship, but particularly when trying to carry a couch up a flight of stairs. Once Amanda and I finished moving the last of the big items to our bedroom we were tired and sweaty. She removed her damp T-shirt and was now only wearing her sports bra and volleyball shorts, and her shoes and socks.
"Babe, will you give me a back rub?" she said while removing her hair tie.
I don't think I had ever denied her a back rub before. I loved making her feel good, I loved touching her, and, where our relationship was at that time, back rubs and massages would lead to sex about half the time. Earlier Amanda had joked about "breaking-in" the new place by having sex in every room before Dante arrived. That was something I didn't plan for. I was physically exhausted from the move and mentally exhausted from everything leading up to it. Now was not a good time for me, even though Amanda was wearing those volleyball shorts which were very short, very tight, and very thin. A lot of guys supposedly like lacey lingerie but to me there is nothing more attractive than a fit girl in athletic clothes. All those clean lines of the smooth, shiny fabric stretching around her body drives me crazier than she knows
"Oooh, Sweetie," I said, "I would love to, you know I would. But I'm exhausted and my wrists are both sore from lifting."
Amanda moaned, as if I had already agreed to give her a back rub and was changing my mind.
"Sweetie," I said, "I promise I'll give you one, just not right now."
"Hmmm," she complained, "Okay, I'm going to take a shower."
I considered going with her, but I didn't even want to stand anymore. Plus, she'd likely wanted me to wash her back for her which, again, normally I would do happily, but functionally it would be like a back rub except I'd be standing up on a slick surface.
I crashed in an armchair, not wanting to mess the bed with my sweaty body. Then I waited for Amanda to return clean, naked, and probably in a better mood.
* * *
I woke-up to the sound of laughter. I must have dozed-off, but it couldn't have been for very long. The sun hadn't moved much, as far as I could tell. I needed a shower though. But when I went to the bathroom I saw that Amanda hadn't used it, it was untouched. Where was she? Dante's door was open and Amanda was sitting on his mattress.
"Oh, hey Babe, Look, he found my bracelet!" she held up her wrist with her yellow and silver bracelet. Her voice sounded relaxed, almost sedated, "I've been looking for this for two days, it got lost in the move and I was afraid it got thrown away!"
"I just found it under the front steps, like it fell out of a box maybe, that's all," Dante tried to sound apathetic but I suspected he was pleased with himself for so easily getting a reaction from Amanda.
He did acknowledge me and smiled like we were old friends and like Amanda was incidental. I couldn't tell if my discomfort was showing but I wanted to smooth things over. Mostly, I wanted to get Amanda out of that room. I've never been the most skillful socializer, especially with new people, and alcohol had become by social lubricant of choice. That's not to say I'm a heavy drinker. Sure, the buzz helps, but mostly I found it was the framework of the ritual of sharing a drink that made everything make more sense. It was something I could manage better than other customs. I'm useless at funerals, for instance. But I know what glasses to use, what drinks to serve when and with what food, and I can even improvise a few mixes when I have to.
"Hey, listen, someone gifted us some scotch whiskey as a housewarming gift, we should go have some drinks, help us celebrate and settle in?"
"Scotch sound good!" Dante said.
Amanda stood up very slowly and joined us in the kitchen. The architecture of the building was visibly of the 1970's, with exposed wood rafters, large windows, and some natural stone in the entryway. But the kitchen had been renovated. There was a white countertop and a new stainless steel refrigerator with a water filter and ice dispenser I couldn't get to work. The control panel made a frustrated beep that sounded like an alert every time I tried to use it.
