Triangles (15 page)

it was worth it or not. I confiscated her car keys. And her cell phone.

And she’s just so bored. Maybe

what she needs is a part-time

job. Something to keep her mind

busy and off Dylan. At the moment,

the most exciting thing about her

life is sparring with her brother, who makes every effort to approximate

a burr, working its way into her

hide. The bickering is relentless.

Someone has to referee, not to

mention make sure Mikki plays

by the rules. Mostly, it’s been me.

I can hardly wait to escape

the house tonight, the second

Wednesday in July. Maybe I’ll

even read a little of my writing.

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Beyond that, I’m really looking

forward to seeing Bryan again.

SO I’M A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED

That he isn’t at Starbucks tonight.

In fact, it’s all women—Betty, Sally, Sahara, a younger girl, and me, in a micro-mini that will go unnoticed by Bryan.

Welcome back, Holly,
says Betty.

You remember Sally and Sahara.

And this is Grace. I hope you brought
something to read tonight. I don’t
know about everyone else, but I
wouldn’t mind listening to a little
erotica. It’s been a little chilly
at home, despite the hot weather.

Everyone laughs, which only makes

my face burn hotter. “I brought some,” I admit. “But I don’t want to go first!” That isn’t a problem, as group protocol dictates we start with the youngest member. Grace reads a tolerable

ten pages of wizards and warriors.

Not my thing, so I don’t feel qualified to comment, except to say, “I could really visualize the world you created.

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And Lambert sounds really hot.”

Betty has more to say about unwieldy sentence structure, something

I struggle with myself, so I listen to her suggestions with interest.

As the second youngest here,

it now becomes my turn. Oh, why

not? I extract the journal from my bag, start with an apology. “It’s really rough, and it’s the first thing I’ve tried to write since college.” Everyone encourages me to continue, so I launch into
Vanilla,
read the whole thing, lowering my voice when I come to the words “fuck” and “cock.”
Don’t worry,
says Sally.
No one’s
listening, except for everyone within
earshot! I think that couple over
there are going to go home to bed.

Not a bad piece of writing,
Betty says.
A couple of suggestions.

Consider writing third person, so
it sounds less autobiographical.

And if you have kids at home,

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you might think about writing

only on your computer and locking
your files. The journal is a bust.

NOT SURE IF SHE MEANS

She thinks it
is
autobiographical, but either way, she’s probably right about both the third person and

the journal. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” After a few more pats on

the back, we move on to Sahara,

whose memoir is every bit as spicy

as my attempt at erotica. Wow.

She has lived a fast—and painful—

life. When she finishes this chapter, a humiliating episode of abuse at

the hands of her ex-husband’s father, we are all speechless. Sahara looks each of us in the eye.
I know it’s hard
to believe. But every word is true.

Oh, I believe it,
says Betty.
That
must have been extremely difficult
to relive, let alone write. Brave girl.

Major understatement. Respect

blossoms for this woman, who

has survived more than I’ll ever face.

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I can hardly concentrate on bodice

shredding and passionate lovemaking in a corporate boardroom. But I try.

POST-CRITIQUE

Sahara invites me to her place.

It’s quiet, and the alcohol is free.

She lives in a pricey subdivision,

in a perfectly kept three-thousand-

square-foot Mediterranean-style villa.

The spoils of war,
she calls it, and considering what she read tonight,

that sounds accurate. Inside, it’s painted in warm colors, and original artwork hangs on the walls. All in all, it is tasteful but comfortable, with overstuffed leather furniture, modern electronics, and lots of greenery.
Make yourself at home.

She lights several scented candles.

Do you drink wine? I’ve got a nice
cellar.
I ask for red, and she pours a pricey pinot noir into a couple

of Riedel glasses. Everything about 272/881

Sahara is a complete surprise.

Including the way she sits next to

me on the loveseat, though there’s

an entire empty sofa beside it.

She draws her long, suntanned

legs sideways up beneath her, so

that her bare knees kiss my leg.

I liked what you read tonight.

Was that fact or fantasy?
She sips her wine and appraises me with frank eyes. “A bit of both, though the fact didn’t measure up to the fantasy.”

She smiles.
It rarely does. I thought
marrying into gaming royalty

would make me a princess. But I was
just a concubine, with benefits.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

“But you would never know it, just

to look at you. You seem so together.

And writing a memoir. Wow. That’s …” 273/881

Probably really stupid. But even
if I never try to get it published,
the writing has helped me sort

through the bullshit, you know?

We drink wine—one bottle, two—

and discuss bullshit, though hers

outweighs mine, one thousand to

one. I am conscious of the thick

scent of candles—apple custard—and

the silk of her skin, where her knees have lifted the small hem of my skirt and now rest against exposed thigh.

She is talking about dancing—how

the girls so valued for their beauty quite often have low self-esteem,

something men eagerly take advantage of. I am tipsy as hell when I sputter,

“I heard lots of those girls are lesbians.”
Some are, though many more are bi.

Being with other women is easy.

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Fewer demands. Better orgasms.

At my doubtful look, she says,
What?

Don’t tell me you’ve never … really?

She rocks up onto her knees.
Want to?

I know nothing about being with

a woman. I rely on her—and instinct.

IT

GOES

INTO

MY

JOURNAL

FIRST-PERSON

I can move into third during revisions.

Not that I’d change anything else.

Hyssop and Rose

She is bold, kissing me without clear invitation, or maybe I did invite her somehow. No matter.

I can’t help but kiss her back. Her pout is yielding, her tongue, the gentle flick of a serpent, testing.

And she tastes of berries. “Lie back,” she says.

She lifts my top, licks me from my navel upward, her hair a soft trickle over my belly.

It smells of summer—hyssop and rose, a hint of grass. I close my eyes, give myself up to the carousel whirl—slick gloss lips and practiced tongue, circling. Circling. Lifting me close and closer to the horizon. And when she goes down on me, there is an eloquence no man could match, and I understand why she said being with women is easy. Naïve about how to give back, all I have to do is try. I reach into my psyche, tap some ancient well of instinct.

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In the same way that she carries me skyward, I sample her salt, bring her to climax, find immense satisfaction in reciprocal flight.

SATISFACTION

There’s a reason why

Mick Jagger sang about

a lack of gratification.

If he couldn’t get none,

back in the day,

who

might reasonably expect

that they might? Anyway,

what the Stones forgot

is that even if a person

can

find plenty of girly action,

the desired result

is only good for so long.

You can have sex for hours,

with multiple partners, orgy-style, get

off until you’re downright

sore. But rest up for a day

or two, restore bodily fluids,

rebuild desire, you’ll want

some

more. Satisfaction is transient—

an interim state of mind.

Marissa

TRANSIENT DESIRE

Is an unfortunate thing, at least

if your partner is on a different

trajectory. I had pretty much

given up on sex, after such a large span of time with zero interest from my husband. Then, one transcendent

evening brought it all back to me—

the power in a kiss; the coax of skin; the brilliant bolt of love in crescendo.

Pragmatism should have told me not

to believe one night of fireworks

meant anything at all. Christian is still just as driven. Still goes to work early.

Comes home late or not at all.

Still sleeps in the guest room, and he hasn’t returned even once to the bed I still refer to as “ours.” Guess I could look at it as a one-night stand, something 279/881

I’ve never done. Does every one-night stand make you feel so used the next day? So unworthy of love? So alone?

ALONE ENOUGH RIGHT NOW

To make me seek refuge in

the figurative arms of my computer.

At least it’s warm. There’s an email from Drew, giving me the lowdown

on his fishing trip. caught my limit.

WISHED I LIKED TROUT. DO YOU? I’VE

got plenty in the freezer. Why do

people who don’t care for fish go

fishing, anyway? I write him back:

adore it. bring some over. I’m not

especially wild about trout. But I do enjoy seeing Drew. Next I come to

ITV’s quarterly newsletter. Often

I hit delete immediately, but this

one has Christian’s name prominently featured in the front-page headline:
VP CHRISTIAN TRASK ANNOUNCES

GAMRICH, THE FUTURE PERSONAL

IN-HOME GAMING SYSTEM.

The article goes on to describe how the gaming system will revolutionize gambling. People will be able to lose their paychecks (uh … play for big

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bucks) in the privacy of their own

homes. And they’ll be able to do it on their flat-screen TVs, much like they now play Xbox and Wii.

InnoTechnoVent, with Christian at

the helm, leads the charge toward

in-home gaming. All it will take

is a little tweak of the current law.

Working on that is the company’s

imaginative young lobbyist Skye

Sheridan, who, according to the

newsletter, JOINED ITV IN 2006

AND IS, SAYS TRASK, “A RISING STAR.” Unbelievable. I haven’t heard one

word about GamRich, though

it has been in development for

quite some time. I understand

now why Chris has been so busy.

Distracted. Absent. But there was

a day, not so long ago, that he’d

have shared this kind of news

with me. Kept me in the loop,

updated me on its progress.

And if everything is going so well, 282/881

why doesn’t he act excited? Why

doesn’t he come home at the top

of the world? Why does he hit

the bottle and loiter inside it?

I FINISH MY COFFEE

Think about hitting the treadmill.

Scrap that. It’s a nice morning.

I’ll take Shelby out for a walk.

We both could use a little fresh

air before the breeze lifts summer

pollen, stirs it into the afternoon.

Shelby is currently hiking with

Dora the Explorer, but I know

she’ll prefer the real deal. “Hey,

sugarplum. Mama could use some

exercise. How about we go for

a little stroll? It’s pretty outside.” She answers with a big grin

and a small
Ow … si…
As I begin the complicated routine of getting

her dressed and into her stander,

her smile stretches wider and

wider. I think, for the umpteenth

time, how lovely she is when

her essence escapes the bounds

of exterior handicap. Shelby