As the elevator comes up to the twenty-fifth floor, slows, and I wait for the door to open, the last of them, Harv, I think, slaps me on the back as if we're new best friends and says, "Ok, now. Give 'er!" He laughs at this, too long and too loud, and looks into my face waiting for me to laugh along with him. If I don't laugh, I fear he's going to say it again, he's that kind of guy. The elevator door can't open fast enough.
Give 'er. Give 'er. Give her. Give her... away. To this guy, Harv? It would hard to swallow, if that's who she ends up with tonight. But I stop, stop and talk to myself. She's my wife. My
wife
, not my possession, free to do what she wants, or so my head says. But I'm wondering if she and I, if the whole thing is finished, because she sure needs more than what I can, uh... give her. That's the essence, I think. All I need to do is to convince my heart.
I need to be by myself. I need time to think, but I'm not going to get it. Another fifteen minutes and the hard part begins.
So I can't bring myself to give Harv the laugh that he seems to want so badly. All I can muster is a fake, shit grin. At first it looks like he's bought it. At long last the elevator door opens. He steps out into the hallway and turns right. But then, when I can't see him anymore I hear a quiet, "Asshole." Now, I can laugh at that. When an asshole calls you an asshole, that's a good thing. The elevator doors close and, finally, I'm alone on my way up to our - my? - suite on the thirty-third floor. Suddenly, I picture Beth still down in the Chandelier Lounge, taking the marker from the woman beside her and writing 3327 on the back of her room key, putting the key back in its folder and dropping it into the bowl.
Harv was one of the worst downstairs at the Chandelier, leering eagerly at the five women, six counting his own wife. He was practically licking his lips, alternately sitting back trying to be cool but then, unable to stop, propelling himself back up to the front of the couch in full man spread.
I could almost see inside his head. Would it be her? Definitely fuckable. Her? Immensely fuckable. Jesus, what if it's her? I'll have died and gone to Heaven. Even her. Could lose five pounds, but still pretty damned fuckable. Every time his eyes fixed on Beth's breasts I wanted to launch myself off the couch and take him out.
Beth. My Beth.
And there's the problem. I've got to stop thinking of her that way, My Beth. I tell myself that that's another era's concept of marriage, not mine. It's out of date these days, especially for the two of us now, but it's vestigial in my mind, deeply rooted from my upbringing. My head tries to convince me. My wife, yes, but not my possession. It's about two independent people, isn't it, two people, partners in life? Me with her, she with me. That's marriage isn't it? We had just worked through a lot of this, hadn't we? All those long nights of talking it out? Renegotiating faithfulness? Levelling the field? It was how we ended up here.
Harv wasn't the only one to leer. All five of the guys were doing the same, not just at Beth, but at all the women. In about half an hour one of these women would be unlocking the door of my room expecting to be fucked. I looked at them, primping and preening, fluttering their eyelashes, tossing their hair, tracing their fingers at their necklines, sticking out their chests and crossing their legs, every cliché of flirtation. I wondered whether I'd be able to go through with it with any of them.
Any of them but one, the one named Galina. A stark contrast to the other women in their too-tight clothes, plunging necklines and short skirts, she was dressed elegantly, as if her lace dress were her armour against the trashy mendacity of Las Vegas. The dress an understated classic, an ivory sheath with a high collar, sleeveless, it fit her well. Her jewellery was gold, subtle, small dangling earrings, a thin chain at her neck, another at her wrist. Oddly, she wore no rings.
Not reclining, she sat upright on the couch opposite me with her legs crossed and her hands quietly folded at her knee, as if she were bored and waiting for this nonsense to be over so that she could move on.
She wore her blonde hair clipped up in the back. But more than anything, it was her face that caught my notice. She had a simple, authentic beauty, the kind of beauty that came naturally, a beauty that needed no effort because it simply was part of her.
As my gaze had come to her I saw that she had been looking at me first. The briefest moment of eye to eye contact, intense, a connection made, then suddenly, the slightest tilting of her head, knitting of her brow, the most subtle expression, but unmistakable. Puzzlement. It passed quickly and our gaze held. I felt as if she were reading something off the back of my skull. Unable to bear the intensity, I looked away.
What the fuck am I doing here? Why did I agree to this? I wonder if Galina feels the same way.
~
The contract signed, I'd caught an earlier flight home. My bag was the first onto the carousel so I was out of the terminal, hailing a cab before the stores would close. I remember thinking, I'd make a couple of quick stops, for some champagne and roses, something to surprise her with, to celebrate, before going into the apartment.
I know her sounds, the sighs that turn into soft moans, the shuddering breaths and, when she's getting close, the urgent little chirps, the last one cut short almost like a hiccup. And finally, just before she comes, the long, gathering silence, one, two, three seconds before she releases the great, guttural grunt as if she's giving birth to her orgasm and she completely vanishes from the world and the whole universe becomes her convulsing pussy.
I heard it start as I quietly came in the door, recognizing it before I could even call out her name. And by the time I stood silently in the bedroom door, she had disappeared inside her orgasm, slouched in the bedroom chair, legs spread wide and the splayed fingers of both hands pulling the guy's shaved head hard onto her pussy.
Unnoticed, I didn't confront them. I retreated to the kitchen, quietly set down the champagne and flowers, took a seat at the island and waited and listened while he took his turn.
He came out first, naked, his limp cock still glistening and swinging like a rope, and when he saw me, he put his arm out protectively to stop her.
"What?" she said, laughing, but then she saw me. Shock registered on her face but she quickly composed herself.
"How long have you been here?"
I didn't need to answer.
"You should have called."
Or maybe you should have been faithful, I thought.
~
The pain is palpable. It's a tornadic explosion of thoughts and emotions. A desire to kick the living shit out of the guy and throw him out into the hall naked and bleeding. An urge to scream and yell and throw things.
Then come the questions that swirl inside your head. How long? When did it start? Is he the only one? Are there others?
And when you calm down a bit, the word why, why, why clanging loudly around inside your skull like rocks in a cast iron cauldron.
Finally, and most painfully, the dreaded possibility settles into your mind: is it me?
You make a choice. You can end it right then, right there, or you can wait, wait until you can sort some things out, wait until the pain subsides enough that you can even look her in the eye and talk.
For me, shocked and damaged as I was, the love was strong enough for me to wait.
All I could muster was, "I'll be... I need... couple days."
Her whole body slumped. I picked up my bag again and headed for the door.
