A WOMAN'S STORY OF LOVE PT-1

A WOMAN'S STORY OF LOVE PT-1

"It's like a room-mate situation. It really is. No sex life. A terrible mistake. But not so bad. I live with it. And one day I'll die with it. It's already like a living death."


That was how you described your marriage, assuring me it shouldn't prevent us from getting together. 


You seemed almost to be talking to yourself.


--


She had her hair dyed pink, purple and brown, a blend. Her lipstick was the same colour. That was what did it for me. 


He saw, among other things, her visual sense, that she was an artist, as he knew. 


"Do you think you have a crush on me?" she asked. 


The question surprised me. I pretended ignorance. 


"It's natural for someone to have feelings for their teacher. Nothing wrong with that." She smiled. "But don't you think it's better if we know?"


She wore a wine coloured nylon top and dance skirt. The thought crossed my mind, a far-fetched one: Had she dressed up for me? She was acting in her capacity as a tutor but we were people. 


I steadfastly denied her suggestion. I wasn't ready to handle it. 


Later I told my friends about the encounter, wanted their take, advice. Not that it helped much. 


Next time we met in the student lounge at the college, about to go off to a classroom to work. You spilt the contents of your heart then and there. 


"Yes, I do have a crush on you." 


You took me in your arms. I responded, melded with you. You kissed me squarely on the lips to focus my attention. 


That was a public place, with students around. You managed to at least get us on the far side of a pillar, big solid square one so that fewer of them had a view of our embrace. Some still did, and of course, there was also the glass wall to outside, all those people coming to and going from the college front door. 


"I like this place," you said, your hand on the small of my back, under my top. "And all these others." 


You told your friends about that encounter too and what followed, this time not asking advice but telling them a tale you all found riveting. 


--


I was at the party with my friend Kaori, met and got along with you very well. There was a spark, more than a spark. A flame had lit. I was all for going forward with you, but my friend, protective, argued for checking first. 


She looked at one of your hands, turned it over, saw no ring. To be sure, she did the same with the other. 


"Nothing," I cheered. 


"That actually doesn't matter," you said, being honest. 


"Married?" Kaori asked. 


"Yes." 


He wasn't pretending to be unattached. Going ringless was just his habit, but it gave me hope- that maybe his marriage was deficient. He might long for more in his life without realizing it. 


I wasn't ready to give up. My friend saw that, continued though she saw little hope for me with you. 


"Kids?" she asked. 


"No," you said. 


"Sex?" she asked. 


You paused. 



"So-so." 

"Your comment was not about quality but frequency, and you'd paused to recall the last time you and your wife had made love. The "so-so" was a fully negative assessment delivered mildly out of respect for the feelings you still did have for your wife, which I appreciated, though she was my rival. It reflected well on his character. 

"Then there you go!" I said. I was ready to move, steam ahead again, take a chance. Kaori still urged caution, but she couldn't hold me back. 

--

"You're going to have a deep, dark sleep. I like that. A blue-black sleeps like a storm." 

"You do?"

He thought she might stir to the image he drew, see he was talking about something else, the exhausting pleasure that led to the profound sleep they might enjoy together, but she didn't. He walked away, and she talked to others at the party. Then she asked him in all innocence, "You seem not in a very good mood. Do you know why?"

"Can I answer frankly?" 

"Of course." 

"I was hoping to sleep with you but saw you're not interested." 

Conversation in the area went silent. 

"See? That's what happens on the rare occasion someone speaks frankly," he said with some bitterness. 

They did talk together later. She spoke about corruption in the art world. The revelations surprised him as they had her at one point. 

"Gangsters- enforcers- work alongside well-dressed businessmen, charm, elite-educated, tasteful people with good manners who find even raised voices objectionable yet rely on those who use violence, though of course there was an effort for the two groups not to be seen together- anyway, as seldom as possible." 

She told about a violent incident, drawn guns. 

"Large sums of money are on the line, so it comes to that. Personal enrichment is the concern. Art is overshadowed. Everyone is dirty. Just some see and at least wish things were better." No one worked for reform, but those who wore blinders were the worst, she maintained. 

She spoke of art dealers, art thieves, forgers, bankers and gallery owners in the same breath. 

--

He saw her wearing white cotton pants with yellow pinstripes, pyjama-like, watched her walk. As she turned, at a certain point in the swivel the curve of her ass showed through the fabric just right to his eye to confirm all her charms as a woman he liked, as a person he wanted to connect to. 

He watched the video again and again to catch the exact moment- it was so fleeting. He felt rather bad about himself, as a lecher, looking at her in her naturalness for the objective beauty, allure. 

He remembered he was married. Of course, he could break up with his wife. But at his age, could he really make such an explosion and leap into an unknown, take a gamble that might fail? When younger, you had a chance to recover, try again. Past a certain point, that was no longer so.




Another guy showed photos of her- this was not a dream. He must have gotten images I'd sent to you. Nothing was secure online. Like you in my dream he made a story, mixing photographs and text, but he did so differently, actually adding images to supplant, replace words, convey concepts directly; rather than illustrations distinct from the writing, they became part of it. I felt strange watching myself in the hands of a stranger within a scrolling movie others could see as well, men presumably- how many I could not guess because while they saw me I couldn't see any of them. 

Read also: MY NEIGHBOR - STORY OF A MAN WHO FUCKS HIS NEIGHBORS - PT 1

We got along. I invited you into my room and showed you some of my artwork I had there. You looked at photographs by another student, young Chinese woman, slight but strong, with fine shoulders, a narrow face, straight nose and focused, coffee-brown eyes, a collection she had assembled to show professionally. Eleven-by-fourteen prints on stiff board stacked in precise alignment, black and white this particular group, soft contrast tinted a faint, steel blue. They were excellent; you saw success for her in her chosen field, yet it was photographs you yourself had taken that continued to hold your attention, exclusive of others.