Noon, Saturday, May 25th, 2024
Alone in her kitchen, Lyrou poured the Cabernet Sauvignon and sat at the counter. She looked to some family photos on her refrigerator, held in place by souvenir magnets. Among them were a couple of photos from her wedding to Garin in a Rococo Rouen cathedral, and beside them a third photo of Garin on Omaha Beach, paying homage to his grandfather. But beside the photo of them reading their vows was a photo of her own maman and tata seated together in the front row. Sipping and staring, she thought about them.
Lyrou’s mother had once wandered the cobbled streets like a 20th-century Atalanta, slipping from the comfortable bounds of her nominally Catholic vieille bourgeoisie class to mix and mingle with the breadth of her ancient city’s 2.3 million people. Her gracile, round-headed Alpine features in a kaffiyeh; she was in her 20s, an over-the-top limo-leftist who couldn’t miss joining a street demonstration. She read and recited subversive social commentary as if stocking up and practicing shooting intellectual ammunition for a revolution she knew deep inside would never come, but which was fun and meaningful to her just the same.
Her boyfriends were Brown, Black, and Muslim without exception, and she was saying something transgressively hypogamous by that. She was hot, spoiled, pampered, and White, and her boyfriends were saying something anandrogamousy recalcitrant by that. She married the one who came back for more of her, her bullshit and all, the one who asked to marry her.
She gave birth to Lyrou and returned to the office as soon as she’d stopped lactating. She’d climbed the ranks of a Belgian pharmaceutical corporation, with a métisse baby on her hip, until she was granted total command of their Île-de-France operations. She’d remained the finesse duchess of capitalism there, to this day. She was 62 now, and she looked the part of the altruistic affluent urban Euro-boomer, spending on her lifestyle but then also on humanitarian causes to assuage any money-Marxist guilt.
Her round face, pale and lightly flushed, had started puffing and drooping slightly, but the features of her facial bones were as sharp and defined as ever. Her hair, once a deep reddish-brown, had become mousy gray, often pulled back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She loved Lyrou. Rather, it was her microaggressive family who couldn’t mask looking down on her, always picking at faults. Lyrou had given them nothing to grab by the scruff of the neck, hoist, and mount on their walls as proof of failure, and that would remain so if she could help it.
Lyrou’s tata was a stand-up comedian, a bouncer, a restaurant manager, and when he got his big break, the part-owner and later full owner of an Afro-chic comedy & music bistro club. His bricolage life, born to a hard-laboring, polyglot, immigrant Burkinabé father from the Upper Volta, and a Petit Blanc mother, he’d known love and loss, success and failure, riots, gangs, discrimination, and hard policing.
His marriage had fractured, and he closed it up, set it aside, and carried on as if it were the sad end to a long novel he’d finished reading. Oh well, or such is life. He was 65 now, his hair a soft mulatto-frizzy peppered gray, his skin deeply wrinkled with smoker’s lines. Lyrou didn’t speak to him but very rarely, a penalty he barely felt anyway. He’d been through too much to give a sliver of a damn, least of all the resentful accusatory emotions of the women in his life, daughter or not.
⚜
Evening, Saturday, May 25th, 2024
Garin and their kids came home, and the two spoke nothing of it. They’d wait until later that night. The evening passed without aberration. Lyrou worked at her cleared off dining room table on a mosaic she’d started, the purpose and content of which she didn’t say and kept covered when not hunched over it. Calling it a night and concealing her mosaic, she went to the fridge and popped a can of vegetable juice. Downing it and crunch-throwing it empty into the trash bin, she turned back with a twirl to the basement door, leaving it ajar as she sauntered downstairs.
“Mon roi,” she called out, “I’m left wanting.” She found Garin on the rec room couch. She straddled him, her breasts parting the robe and falling on him, and kissed him deeply. “I got a show, and not much more. You have to give me what he didn’t.”
“He didn’t bite, then?” Garin put his finger to his chin.
“No. A mere spectacle. He gave me his shot, and he was spent. Maybe that’s all he can do with me, just look and tant pis.” Lyrou made a jack-off gesture, her face an embarrassed red smile suppressing an audible laugh.
Garin had pulled his member free and guided it so, then penetrated Lyrou in the cowgirl position she’d taken and began to thrust, “When new toys disappoint you, go into the basement and dig your old toy out.”
“Mmhm, yes, but I’m the one getting dug out in the basement,” she moaned, her hips rolling to meet his thrusts. Her hands caressing his shoulders as she bounced on his lap.
“Don’t allow him to know that I know anything.” Garin seized Lyrou’s wrists firmly as she bounced in his lap, her breasts jiggling in his face. He licked Lyrou’s neck flat tongued as a cat, tasting her sweat, excreted copiously.
“If you want it so, but…“ her hips grinding against him. “… I’m not a toy to be played with by your friend.” She leaned in, her breasts pressing against his chest as she whispered in his ear, “What does the future hold for our game?”
“I thought of that already. We have each downed three people since we made our arrangement: Paulo, Tom, and Joseph.” Garin moved slowly as he spoke.
“Are you counting Joseph?” Lyrou interrupted, furrowing her brow.
“You don’t?” Garin was puzzled.
“I mustn’t have been clear. I downed no one, he downed himself.” Lyrou smiled at the awkwardness of it.
“He wouldn’t touch you at all?” Garin’s voice was pleased his friend had been so reluctant to cross whatever line it was he’d drawn for himself.
“No! He touched himself.” Lyrou shook her head, her hair landing in her face.
“You see? I was not completely wrong about him. Then keep Joseph in reserve.” Garin rocked beneath her.
“Reserve?” Lyrou cocked her head, intrigued.
“Reserve. You can try with him again, whenever you’re down to down him. But for the record, whether you break him or not, and now I think you won’t, I’m tallying him for you.” Garin said sternly.
“You think he won’t? Oh, I think he will. It’s just as well he is tallied for me. Then three for me, agreed.” Lyrou leaned and kissed Garin on the mouth.
“Jia, Andrea, Lindsey. Three for me,” Garin added.
“Fair, like we intended.” Lyrou kissed Garin again.
Stroking her waist as she rocked on him, “But we have been so transparent. For you, gone must be the high of having someone without me ever knowing, without me having a clue. And for me, I have never had that electric secret. I have never taken someone without your knowledge. Not once.”
Lyrou pouted in sympathy, “You want your own secret?”
Garin smiled big, “Yes. So, would you like to hear my idea for our fourth round?” Garin positioned under her so that they’d have more bounce, and he continued thrusting into Lyrou, stroking her arms and shoulders and enjoying the sight of her breasts, now with the fresh memory of other women’s breasts mentally superimposed for a visual comparison he needn’t mention.
Lyrou breathed more deeply, “Oh? You know I’ll listen, chéri,” she gasped, her body responding to his attention.
“Three rules for round four. The first is that it must be a man neither of us has met. And for me also, a woman you and I have never met, a completely new woman. Not someone from our past or someone we work with or someone we consider a friend, but a totally new man for you and a totally new woman for me. That’s rule one.” Garin relaxed and relished the feel of Lyrou’s waist and arms in his hands as she continued to bounce in his lap. “The second rule is that we’ll only have sex with them once, you with him and I with her, and then it’s goodbye with no further contact or communication.”
Lyrou subtly angled herself to get more clitoral contact with each slap of their bodies. “A new lover for both of us, hmm? That adds a twist.” She leaned back, her movements slowing, her breathing steady. “And one-and-done, that might be easier said than done, but if you abide it, so will I. Now, what’s the final rule, ma moitié?”
Garin’s face became serious, “The final rule is that you’ll tell me nothing about it, and I’ll tell you nothing about it except only that it was done. We’ll not share the names of our lovers this time, where we met them, what we did with them, how we felt, or what we thought. We’ll keep these flings secret to our graves. This time I’ll be made to wonder forever, and you’ll be made to wonder forever.”
Lyrou interrupted, becoming alarmed, “Garin? No… nothing is too much to carry. We could omit names but…”
Garin continued, “… but we both swear never to tell a thing, no matter how I plead with you or you plead with me. Can you agree?” Garin’s eyes had closed as he spoke and enjoyed groping Lyrou’s thighs, guiding her on him.
Lyrou snapped to, for a second coming to a stop, “Chéri, you truly wish to add such mystery to our lives?” she breathed, her hips then rocking gently against him. “Very well, I accept your challenge.” She leaned in, her warm breath on his neck. “It’s my turn to grapple with not knowing.” With a mischievous smile, she kissed him deeply, her tongue meeting his as she ground her pelvis into his, her breasts pressing against his chest.
“Tell how you’ll never tell me anything about it. Taunt me how I’ll never know.” Garin came alive, excited that she agreed to such stipulations.
“Chéri, when I take this new lover,” her voice wicked, “I’ll savor every touch, every moan, every beat, knowing it’s a secret that you’ll never uncover.” Her hips began to move faster, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. “I’ll leave no trace, no hint, no record of his name. The vault here will hold the only evidence.” She ran her fingers back through her hair, seizing her head on either side.
“Will you tell me if I threaten to leave you?” Garin said hostilely.
Rolling her eyes at the bluff, “Not even then, ma vie. But fear not, I’ll always come back to you, craving the peculiar love and protection only you can provide.”
“What if I cry and beg you to tell me who you were with?” Garin’s rod became solid within Lyrou.
A fiery determination in her brown eyes, “Even then, my love, our vow of secrecy will stand.” Her pace grew more frantic, her breath coming in high-pitched gasps. “But I swear to you, what I feel for you will never waver, no matter this looming night, I’ll keep hidden in the shadows of my heart.”
“But will you tell me not one little detail?” his voice seemed so sincere in wanting to know.
Lyrou slowly shook her head in the negative, “Chéri, the beauty of the illicit affair is in its mystery. Each time you look at me, you’ll see a woman who has known the touch of another, and you’ll wonder. It’s a terrible, prohibited subject that will keep us alive, a black garden that only I can unlock the gate into and visit by lantern to water in the sanctum of my memory.” Her hips rocked more vigorously, her breath hot against his neck. “But I’ll leave you with one thread of the truth now.” She leaned in closer, her breasts pressing into his chest. “The sound of his voice, whoever he is, whispering into my ear, will be a symphony that only I’ll hear.”
“A rendezvous I can never know my wife had?” Garin squeezed Lyrou’s thighs too tightly, but she took the pain.
A glint in her eyes. “Mmhm, a fill-in-the-blank quiz with no answer key that will only fuel your wild, crazy imagination, chéri.” Her hips bucked against him. “A delicious mystery to savor, an unspeakable confession chiseled and hammered into my… deep inside my womanhood.”
“You’ll let a man cum inside you and never tell me? Not his name, not when, not anything?” Garin’s voice was pleading.
“C’est ça, mon beau, it will be top-secret, shared only between my new lover, whoever on this vast earth he might be. Think, at this very second, he is out there somewhere. Maybe his ears are ringing, and his dick is rising as he asks himself why. How amusing if that’s so?”
“I would be amused if I were him, but whoever he is, he’s not me. Amuse me this; if I look for evidence in your phone, or in receipts, or cross-examining your friends, I’ll never find a single clue?’ Garin sounded despondent just as he was visibly at the height of pleasure.
Lyrou smiled, “Chéri, if you truly wish to play this game, you must trust that I’m as clever as a sleeper cell in the bank to defraud it.” She leaned back, her hand trailing down his chest as she rode him. “I’ll leave no breadcrumbs for you to follow, mon petit Poucet.”
“Lyrou, what if I plead that I regret the same rules I made, and I wish you to tell me who you fucked and how you fucked, will you tell me then when you see how I regret my own stupid rules?” Garin’s body blushed with arousal.
Amusement nearly breaking into a laugh, “Ah, chéri, but where’d be the fun in that? The unknown is the burn of the fire dance we’ve begun.” Her hips began to move in a sensual rhythm, each roll and grind pushing him to his last reserve. “You’ll never ever know about this one.”
Garin fondled Lyrou’s breasts as her cheeks clapped about in his lap, “Eaaah, I’ll have to crack you somehow.”
Lyrou laughed but suppressed her voice, “Mon désir, I’ll roll in the sheets with this new lover under the moon’s soft glow, our bodies entwined in a symphony that only we’ll hum to thereafter. The thought of you longing for this secret, yearning for what you can never possess, will be the sweetest nectar for me.”
“Somehow I’ll make you tell me.” Garin winced; he was nearer and nearer.
A smile and a little shake of her head, “You’ll see me, smell him on me, feel him in me, but never, ever know who he is.”
“A new man you never met, a stranger?” Garin’s body clenched; he struggled to control his pace.
“D’accord, chéri. Someone who knows nothing of us, no strings attached.” She leaned back in the sweet agony of his question, and it etched into her expression. “It’ll be a fleeting encounter, having happened and never spoken of. The impenetrable veil of the unknown is what makes our hearts race, what makes our love so inebriating.” She leaned in, her breasts brushing against his chest. “I’ll seek out this stranger, a man whose name I’ll never speak to you, whose face and body will be clear in my recollections for years and years to come.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll feel him, taste him, know him in the most intimate way.” She bit her lower lip, her hips moving faster, building towards climax. “And when we come together again, you’ll feel his aura within me, you’ll sense I’m thinking of him, but if you dare to ask, I’ll deny it and play that you’re being silly. But of course, I’ll be thinking of him, how could I not? I’ll be wishing I could meet him again, but for you I’ll deny myself a half-second more of him.”
Garin’s hands moved rapidly over Lyrou in all directions, “I’m going to cum.”
Lyrou’s hands found Garin’s, and they locked hands, fingers intertwined, “Ma vie. Let this suffice. When I take this stranger into my body, the deed and its terms will then be sealed.” Her hips bucked, and her eyes locked onto him. “I’ll never tell you his name or anything about him and our little moment together, but I’ll always come back to your arms, craving the sanctuary of your love.”
Garin ejaculated into Lyrou, embracing her in a tight hug, his face in her sweaty cleavage, “Eeeeuuuhhh, yessssss…”
Lyrou’s body constricted around Garin’s, her eyes closing. She leaned back, panting and smiling, her body still glowing from the penetrating session. “Ah, Garin, Garin, Garin,” she murmured, stroking his hair. “The things we do for our dearest. I have a fourth rule.”
Garin rolled his face in her hair, still high on his orgasm, “Yes? What could it be?”
Lyrou began to speak, stopping to word it exactly, then beginning surer, “After… after one of us has informed the other that they’ve broken the tape, we can’t have one another like this again until the slower one has come across the finish line.”
Garin paused in thought for a moment and then nodded, breathing in her hair. She kissed him softly on the forehead before climbing off his lap. She graciously wiped herself and headed up the stairs and to the bathroom to clean up, leaving Garin with his thoughts and the lingering aroma of their encounter. As she showered, she contemplated the day, then mulled choosing an unfamiliar face from the infinite sea of possibilities on the dating app or some physical location. She wondered and wondered. She stopped herself from thinking about who Garin might find, or how she’d cope with not asking him who he found. That was a long-fallen bole this little beaver would need to nibble in bits over the long season, she thought, washing her privates below. The water cascading down her body, an increased sense of power and control over herself, and yet she couldn’t determine whether it was a proportionate loss of power and control over her husband, or an amplification of her force and weight on him.
⚜
Afternoon, Monday, May 27th, 2024
The waiting room was filled with soft lighting, quiet music, and a low hum of conversations from other patients, one looking gaunt and jaundiced, another gangly and fidgeting out of her skin. The chairs were cushioned and inviting, the walls a warm shade of beige, with potted plants placed around the room in the corners. There was a magazine on the table, well-thumbed, the edges curled from being passed between patients, and a small table with a pitcher of water and a stack of disposable cups, lavender in the air.
To have an STD would not be surprising or all too scary; they can be cured or treated to near cure except for one. It was for that one he came, and not because of any single woman, but all of them. He ran through his mind an array of factors that might make it more or less likely he’d contracted the big one.
Who were his partners, who were their partners, if they’d done anal, did they match the profile; drug use and socioeconomic standing, what was the infection rate in the Jersey City area (which he looked up), what was the likelihood of contracting it from an infected woman through straight genital sex (which he also looked up), and among infected straight men how many women did they have to blow through before coming down with the sickness (which he spent some time researching). All in all, Garin felt his odds were so low. Lyrou was at greater risk than he was, and yet in his mathematical mind, he calculated and tabulated she’d be struck by lightning before contracting.
But if either of them did, would it be cosmic justice? Would it be that God visited on them their iniquities seven-fold for running around heathen-like? To think that would be like a former Amish person repenting that they’d taken up the ways of the English after crashing their vehicle and coming out with quadriplegia. To sail the seas, you might sink and be eaten by sharks. To fly the skies, you might come tumbling out of the clouds. To climb the mountains, you might freeze or fall off a cliff. To hunt big game, you might be eaten alive. To fight a war, you might be blasted dead on the battlefield. What glory is there but by braving risks? Death is there accompanying anything worth doing, and so shrinking away from the party at the sight of his name on the guestlist is to have no life at all.
That’s not to say it wouldn’t suck. It would suck very badly. Everything would change. Don’t begin to think about the kids; that weight would be thrown on once the bridge of knowing was crossed.
A nurse called, “Garin?”
Garin stood from his seat in the lounge and followed her back down the hallway, the walls lined with soothing artwork, soft blues and greens, nothing harsh. No sterile white. No gleaming metal.
When she opened the door to the exam room, it was to sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. Everything about the room said comfort, not clinical coldness, a chair in the corner draped with a cozy blanket. The nurse didn’t seem to notice how his heart was thudding in his chest.
He took a seat in that examining room, and before he could say anything, she held out his results form, “All came back negative. That’s good.” She said with a little smile.
Garin raised his eyebrows and returned the little smile, “Nothing, then?”
The nurse shook her head, handing him the freshly printed form so he could read it himself, “I have seen many people in here wish they could have results look just like yours do today. You should guard that, keep it that way.” She spoke as if she could intuit that he had some pertinent reasons to get tested.
Garin gave a little cough into his elbow, “Right. I’ll do my best.”
⚜
Morning, Saturday, June 1st, 2024
A week later, Garin was in the park, in a sports tank top, shorts, and sneakers. His wedding ring was locked away in his safe in his office, there with a special cash envelope. He’d come to exercise on the pull-up bar. He watched the ducks and geese in the pond, and the fountain in its middle between sets. It was then he saw her by chance, a woman in a pink baseball cap, a ponytail, and yoga pants sitting at a table under its sun-umbrella, eating a cup of ice cream with a little plastic spoon. She’d taken a glance at him and turned quickly, not to allow him to see she was looking. But she turned a second too late, and he’d locked eyes with her so briefly. These kinds of eye games had occurred in Garin’s life with a woman there and a woman here, but he hadn’t done anything in over a decade because he was married and loyal.
He felt angry at Lyrou that she’d been enjoying herself with dozens of men over those years while he remained torpid and true. But he’d decided not to blame her; Lyrou couldn’t have known or expected he would not react badly, in despair, in rage, or with divorce. Besides, all that time of being a good boy made being a bad boy much more rewarding. Lyrou’s promiscuous mode was the norm for her; she could not feel the sudden gust of freedom and appreciate it as Garin did. The joy of being unchained after one had grown comfortable in shackles and forgotten they were on, the massive bounty of delayed gratification accumulated now there to be reaped. Garin could now respond to these occasional instances of women eyeing him in public. He could approach if he wanted to, he could flirt, he could get her number or her… at.
This woman here was attractive and in compliance with the rules of round four, a woman he’d never met. Yes, he’d do it. What was there to lose? It’s not as if he’d be hurt by a rejection. He approached her. If she liked him, then good, if not, so what? Nervously, the woman at her table with the sun umbrella shading her looked up to watch Garin approach. Feigning a touch of agitation, hands on his hips and cocking an eyebrow, he stopped before her and looked her straight in the face.”You think you can do more pull-ups than me?”
The woman looked up at Garin, her eyes widened slightly before a smirk told Garin he’d landed that line. She took a bite of her ice cream, the coolness of the mint berry casting him as a cool mint berry himself. “What? Is that a challenge, mister?” she asked, her voice dripping with sass. “Do you wanna go?” she licked her lips, self-conscious that she might have green ice cream on her mouth.
“Miss, did you really come out here today to fitness mog a sigma in public? You’re the one eating the sugar, sugar.” Garin took a seat at the table, his muscular forearms folded on it, and he leaned in, “If you can do three pull-ups, I’ll bring you a duck out of that pond. If not, I’ll eat your remaining ice cream.” He pointed seriously at her ice cream and smacked his lips in hunger, “Smk-smk!”
She couldn’t help but laugh at Garin’s playful antics. “Alright, OK,” she said, setting down her spoon. “Is that the deal? Will I get a duck? I didn’t know I wanted one.” Her eyes were sparkling.
“You’ll get a duck if you do the impossible and do three pull-ups with your stick arms. Sally.” Garin mocked, flirtatiously.
The woman smirked, dimples forming in her cute buccal-fat full cheeks, and she set down her ice cream with resolve. She stood up, her lithe figure revealed to be surprisingly fit. “Stick arms, huh? This is a sleeper build.” She mimed that she rolled up her invisible sleeves, showing off her toned biceps. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been hitting arm day.” She blushed and smiled widely, then headed towards the pull-up bar, her hips swaying gently with each step. She grabbed the bar, jumped up, and pulled herself up with ease. One, two, three. She let go, landing gracefully. “Now, where’s my duck?” She giggled, walking back to the table.
As Garin held out his hands in feigned amazement, the woman saw that he was holding her spoon, her eyes darted to her ice cream bowl, and she saw that he’d eaten it. Her eyes widened, and she playfully slapped his spoon-hand. “Hey! What? That’s not fair!” she exclaimed, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. “You ate my victory ice cream!” She pouted, leaning over the table slightly to give him a playful look. The sun danced in her eyes, the light playing with the red-orange pheomelanin highlights in her hair. She was tall, with a lean, athletic build, small breasts, a firm butt, and the way she moved exuded confidence and grace. Her skin was tanned golden from the hours she spent outdoors, and her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. She was the kind of woman who could make any man feel like the main character in a romcom movie, and she’d Garin’s full attention. “Now you owe me,” she said, holding another laugh, “A duck and an ice cream!”
“Sally, lady, I don’t owe you anything, I don’t even know your name, or your phone number, or even what you kiss like. Take your spoon, please.” Garin poked with the spoon with each of his points made.
A spark of intrigue captivated the woman. “Well, you know I can handle a pull-up bar,” she said, pressing her lips together to contain her smile, reaching for the spoon. “But I suppose I can’t blame you for being curious. I’m Contessa, that’s Contessa who has never been mistaken for a Sally. And I must admit, your cheekiness works for you.” She took the spoon, her fingertips brushing against his. “And as for the ice cream,” she leaned closer, her voice dropping, “I might just let you make it up to me. How does a date sound, Mr. Fitness?”
Garin realized he hadn’t thought of a specific date idea, and as he spoke, his mind hurried to rummage for an idea… “Mister Garin Fitness, Contessa. I like your name. I’ll make it up to you if you let me pick you up tomorrow morning.”
“But where to?” Contessa hooked her fingers together, knees crossing.
Garin steepled his fingers over his face, and then, with the utmost import, “There is an outdoor farm machinery expo.”
Garin watched as Contessa’s eyes met his, a blend of surprise and excitement flickering. “Tomorrow morning is fine. But, um, a farm machinery expo?”
It was whatever it was at this point, Garin thought. “You heard me. I don’t want to spoil it if you’ve never been, but it’s much more than just old farmers looking at crop metal to take out more state-subsidized loans on. I’ll tell you they have ice cream, though, among other fantabulous things, will you go with me, Contessa?”
Contessa threw her arms up in a giggle, “Farm machinery expo it is,” she said playfully. “But only if you promise not to make fun of me when I get overly excited about the tractors.”
“You watch the farmers; they jump out of their overalls at the sight of a shiny tractor with the right engine in it. They flip their hoes to hear the horsepower.” Garin gave Contessa his phone to tap in her number.
Contessa’s fingers danced over the screen as she keyed in her number, her eyes darting up to Garin’s. She handed the phone back with a wink. She couldn’t help but be intrigued by his choice of date location. It was so unexpected. Her heart fluttered a bit at the prospect. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” she said with a smile. “But just so you know, I’m more of a manpower kind of girl.” She winked, the flirty remark leaving a trail of heat in the air, and she jogged off, dust in her wake.
Garin stood and mimed that he had a lasso and threw it around Contessa. “See you soon.” And he turned and walked off, in awe at how well and fluidly it had gone, asking out a completely new woman.
⚜
Evening, Saturday, June 1st, 2024
Later that night, Lyrou brushed her teeth in a spot she rubbed clear in her fogged mirror. Garin drum-sang in the shower, slapping the tile surround, “Duh duh, deung deung baow!” Lyrou cocked her head and grinned at his cheery mood. Could it be? In the mirror, a perceptive smile. “Chéri,” she called into the shower, “What’s happened? Something good?”
“I can’t say. It’s a round four rule. No nothing. I can’t tell you a thing.” Garin continued to happily rub the shampoo into his hair.
Eying his reflection behind the shower curtain in the mirror, curiosity piqued. “Ah, so you’ve found someone new,” her smile widening as she rinsed her mouth. “I can hear it in your song, mon amour. You glow with the untold.” She stepped into the shower, her wet skin pressing against his, the warm water cascading down their bodies. “I trust you’ll be discreet, as you know I’ve been. But I can’t help but wonder, did your latest fling satisfy you as I have?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’ll tell you when I have that I have and nothing more.” Garin enjoyed the hot water, nearly scorching his back, hands to the ceiling.
“Mon beau, the anticipation is, indescribable.” She stepped closer, her wet body sliding against his, her breasts pressing into his back.
“I’ll inevitably ask you to tell me, Lyrou, I’ll pry for any detail.” Garin took the shower head down into his hands to spray it more directly onto himself and Lyrou.
“Ah, chéri, I’ll tell you nothing, on a wing, a secret fling, no bird may sing.” Her hands traced lazy circles in the soapy water on his chest. “Perhaps I’d wish to spill it all. But it’s round four, isn’t it? I’ll refuse.” She kissed his neck, her voice seductive. “Your curiosity will drive you wild, it’s a cobra full of venom, and I’m the snake charmer.” She stepped back with a wicked smile. “And I promise you, the moment I return from my secret tryst, you’ll feel the electricity I’ve charged up inside me.”
“It’s already killing me, Lyrou, the need to know.” Garin’s cock sprang up, the water running off it like a long jutting rock in a waterfall.
“Ah, chéri,” she wrapped her soapy hands around his growing erection. “The voracious hunger for off-limits information is a powerful aphrodisiac.” She began to stroke him gently, her thumb teasing the sensitive underside of his tip. “With great secrecy comes great responsibility.”
Garin snickered uncontrollably. “Are you a comic book hero or something?”
Lyrou grinned. “Oh, Mon doux rêve,” she chuckled, her strokes becoming more deliberate. “I’m a sultry supervillain in a tight black leather catsuit and a whip, slipping into the shadows unnoticed.” She leaned in, her breasts brush-slipped against his back as she whispered in his ear, “Meow meow, I might be in heat,” and gently clawed his shoulders.
⚜
Morning, Sunday, June 2nd, 2024
Garin picked up Contessa; this time, they were both dressed for the warm weather, but not in the sticky gym clothes they’d first met in. As he pulled into a county college parking lot for the farm and construction equipment expo, Contessa acknowledged, “I looked it up online, and my friend Sandra told me about it from when she went a couple of years ago. I can’t believe I haven’t gone to this. Thank you for taking me.” Garin and Contessa walked together, and without asking, he quite naturally took her hand. “This way.” He guided her through the stalls and pedestrians.
Contessa squeezed Garin’s hand, her eyes lighting up as they approached the first row of gleaming tractors. “Oh my god, they’re so big! I can’t wait to see the loaders.” She exclaimed, her voice filled with childlike wonder. She pulled him closer, her other hand reaching out to touch the cold metal of the nearest machine.
Garin redirected her attention, “Contessa,” and as she turned to see what it was for that he was elbowing her arm for, he had in his hands a triplet mound of soft yellow baby ducks squeaking and adorable.
Contessa’s eyes widened with surprise as she looked down at the tiny ducks in Garin’s hands. “Oh, my goodness, where did you get those?” she squealed, her laughter bubbling over like a spring. She reached out to stroke one of the ducklings, her fingertips gliding over the soft down. “They’re so cute!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine delight, “Gosh!”
He gestured his thumb over his shoulder, “They’ve always got a pen full of chicks, ducklings, and goslings.” Garin watched her, his heart swelling at her reaction. She was so unguarded, so purely happy. Not the persona Lyrou had. The warmth of her hand in his, the way she leaned into him slightly as they walked, it was all so natural and delightful.
Garin and Contessa enjoyed the expo, watching a few local performances, playing a few traditional country games, eating corn dogs and nachos, and having a good time. In their talking Contessa asked if she could take him on a hike that her friend had planned for them next weekend, but had just canceled. “I need someone fit to go with!”
Garin agreed, “I’m the fill-in, then, I’ll go.”
Contessa gave Garin her apartment address, and he drove her home as it got dark. She saw his veiny hands on the steering wheel. She asked about his life, “I don’t want to get into your past, but…” and he told her a lie about how he and his wife had divorced, that she’d the house and the kids, but that he was doing very well on his own. “My heart aches, but it’s healing.” He turned the questions on her and found that she’d been engaged to her college boyfriend but that “he’d developed a mental condition.”
“You mean he was crazy, or do you mean that he was medically, as in professionals gave his mental condition a name?” Garin asked in a respectful, slightly somber tone.
Contessa’s tone was less respectfully somber, and more that of a distressed survivor, “No, I mean Arnold was legit insane. He had delusional disorder. He started talking about the devil, portals, and locking himself in the bathroom. He stabbed his mom in her knee with a fork, and my parents intervened to make me break up with him. I wanted to help him because I had such deep feelings for him, but I couldn’t. And I’ve just had a few short-term, less emotionally invested relationships since.”
Bravely prodding into her life, “Are you holding out hope that he’ll get better and you can reconnect?”
A painful laugh, “At first, I did, but now, no. He has a whole online video channel, or did before it was suspended talking about the…”
“The devil?” Garin suggested with a contorted grin.
Holding her hands out and nodding quickly, suppressing a pitiful laugh, “Well, yeah! About the deadly sins, and purification, and all this stuff!”
“What’s his channel? I’ll leave him a comment. I, too, am plagued by unsanctioned portals.” Garin offered flatly.
“Don’t!” Contessa forbade with a pressed smile, “If you have portals too, I’ll push you in one and walk away.”
“Oh? OK then! Portals are ick since when?” Garin allowed himself to laugh a big laugh from deep in his chest, and Contessa found it attractive.
Garin reached over and held Contessa’s hand as he drove, following the GPS. Seeing that the ETA was short, she said, “I’m happy to have spent this day with you.”
He kissed her before she got out, and he walked her to the gate, sharing a second kiss as she slipped in and closed it to gesture that she wasn’t inviting him in this time, but poked her head out for a final third kiss, this one landing on her earlobe. She pulled away with a ticklish laugh before he could try for a fourth on her neck. With a gentlemanly “Goodnight.” Garin walked back to his car feeling excellent.
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Noon, Sunday, June 2nd, 2024
Lyrou had loaded up old children’s books, unused board games, outgrown kids’ clothes, and a number of dusty lamps and a dresser drawer that had collected in her garage. She’d donate them.
At the drop-off, she stood and waited as staff hauled her load inside the dock door. Pulled up behind her car, another donor arrived.
He walked by, and it was impossible not to notice him. In his mid-thirties, his face was a study in sharp, masculine features, a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and flawless, bronzed skin that looked as though he spent hours in a tanning bed. His hair was dark at the roots, gradually lightening to bleached blonde at the tips, styled meticulously with gel to achieve that perfectly messy yet controlled look. The slight stubble on his chin was kept precise, lending just enough edge to his polish. His teeth were unnaturally white and straight, too perfect.
He wore a light-purple silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a smooth, plastic-like chest, sculptural in its perfection; each muscle had been molded with the utmost care. His shirt was tucked into tailored khakis, his waistband cinched by an expensive leather belt that gleamed with quiet luxury. His whole outfit was a statement of wealth and fashion-consciousness, designed not just for function but to project his cultivated image. The scent of his cologne lingered in the breeze, something bold and unmistakably expensive. His movements were fluid, almost feline, as though each step was as calculated as his appearance. He wasn’t just well-groomed; he embodied the modern East Coast metrosexual ideal, the picture definition of precision and sophistication, from his impeccably fitted clothes to his sculpted physique. He was a walking, breathing testament to the art of self-presentation.
The two exchanged a couple of glances. While waiting for the staff to unload a dining room table and chairs, he looked away and then back again to see that she held her gaze on him.
“Hello,” Lyrou called out to him as he approached his driver’s side door to go.
The handsome stranger looked about as if she might mean someone else, “Me?”
“Yes, you. Would you donate something to me?” she flirted, popping her shoulder into her cheek.
Bewildered, “Uh? Like what?”
Lyrou held her hands out together as if to receive a treat, “You can donate your heart to me.”
The man snickered, “Oh? I get it.”
Lyrou slowly closed the distance between them, nearing his blue sedan, “You get me? I’m Lyrou. What’s your name?”
He held out his hand to take hers in a quick handshake, “Lyrou?”
She nodded and smiled, now toe-to-toe with him, “That’s it.”
He leaned back, as if she’d cornered him and he was avoiding any further physical contact, “I’m Evan.”
Lyrou had closed the distance such that if he weren’t leaning back onto his car, they’d have to embrace, “Evan from Heaven?”
Evan chuckled nervously and slid from between Lyrou and his car. Lyrou, taking notice of his discomfort, he began his rejection, “Um. I’m flattered, but uninterested.”
Lyrou took one big step back, clasping her hands together over her purse, “Oh!? I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
The guy opened his door and bent to get in. “Have a good day.” And in he went, pulling his door shut and cutting himself off from any further communication.
Lyrou turned and went back to her car as he pulled around her vehicle and drove away. She got into her seat and, disoriented, pulled her seatbelt on, clicking it into its buckle. She sat downcast without starting the engine; she hadn’t been rejected this way before.
Did she look bad today? She looked at herself in the visor mirror.
Was he gay? He might’ve been. Was he loyally taken? He might’ve been.
Was she weird to come onto a guy in a parking lot? Sure. But a straight single man wouldn’t take issue with the setting; most men love getting hit on and wish women would initiate more often. Right? She looked at herself in the visor mirror again; she thought she wasn’t looking great.
Was he racist? His haircut was kind of Alt-Right. No? Maybe?
Was she not looking good today? Was she hitting the wall? No.
Did she put him off by approaching so weirdly?
He was probably gay, a White nationalist, or both. Is that just coping?
She looked at herself in her makeup mirror. Did she look bad?
Lyrou started the car and began to drive. She thought about this monumental rejection as she went down the road, checking her face in the rear-view mirror at red lights, recalling his appearance and asking herself if she should have seen that he was a flaming bigot, a prejudiced queer. In a frustrated action, she pulled out the pins and clips in her hair, tossing them quickly into the cup-holder. Looking into the rear-view mirror, she messed her hair in a momentary flurry of her fingers. And this growing doubt in her looks seesawed with her revisionist need to misportray this man in her memory as the flamboyant grand dandy of the Ku Klux Klan. By the time she pulled into her driveway, her day had been ruined, and her disappointment was immeasurable.
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