The Affair (2 page)

I’d feel sorry for the guy if I weren’t so angry. Instead of turning to me as an ally, he has turned away. I feel like such
an impostor. Big-shot psychotherapist. How
can I possibly help my clients when I can’t even manage my own marriage?

The good news is that Eddie came by to water my tree this morning. Since when does he work in the morning? And why did he
tend only my tree and no one else’s? Am I wrong to think this has something to do with me?

He was wearing a baseball cap, chinos, and black high-tops. He looked like a street kid but I could tell that he was about
my age, maybe a little older. Black hair, olive skin, and—yes!—slightly bucked teeth, that orthodontic imperfection I happen
to find attractive. I’m no gardener, but I could see that he wasn’t doing anything productive with my ficus. Then he said,
“So, uh, you think you’ll be working late tonight?”

“Actually, I have an appointment this evening,” I answered, wishing that I could cancel the dinner we’d planned with that
vulgar producer and his wife.

“Uh-huh.” His back was toward me so I couldn’t see whether there was disappointment or indifference on his face.

’Til next time,

My first appointment wasn’t until 10 so I stopped at McD’s across from the Center for a cup of coffee. I was scanning the
local paper (Council Approves New Stoplight. Charity Run Rescheduled Due To Flooding. Farmer Reports Pig Theft) when he walked
in. I didn’t recognize him at first because he looked out of context without his watering hose. He said something goofy
like, “Is this a private party or can anyone join in?” I swept my newspaper off the table (a bit too eagerly, I’m afraid)
and he sat down.

It seemed like we talked about everything: white-water rafting, tobacco companies,
Chicago Hope
, micro-brewed beer. He was so easy to talk to. He talked about his kids (three, all girls), but not his wife. I told him
about Peter, but never mentioned Roger. I saw his wedding band. I caught him glancing at mine.

I looked at Eddie and wondered if this is what his wife saw when she fell in love: celadon eyes, sun-toasted skin the color
of café latte. As he talked he ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup, and I found myself hypnotized by that finger,
going around and around and around.

I raced back to the office and almost crashed into Millie, the coffee lady. (She carries this picture of her dog on the cart,
wedged in between the bagels. She’s convinced that the dog is her mother, reincarnated. “Just look into those eyes,” she tells
me. “What kinda dog has eyes like that? I swear, it’s Mama.” The really weird thing is, I’m beginning to believe her.)

Millie grabbed my sleeve as I ran past her. “Hey, where’s the fire?” She looked into my eyes and smiled slyly. “Hey? What’s
all this? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love.”

“You’re nuts, Millie,” I told her. “I’m a married lady.”

’Til next time,

Last night I dreamed about a man, a stranger. He was older, tall, strong. No sex, just hugging. I vaguely understood
that I couldn’t be with him because I was already married, but I couldn’t remember my husband’s name. I fleetingly worried
about my stretch marks. The overwhelming feeling in this dream was pure astonishment and gratitude that anyone could love
me so profoundly. When I woke up my arms were curved in an embrace. I cried when I realized it was a dream.

I had lunch with Elaine yesterday. She’s been single for years and it’s beginning to dawn on her, horribly, that she may be
single for the rest of her life. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone.”

I wanted to tell her, “You bet your ass I do.” It’s possible to be married and still feel alone, and in some ways that’s the
worst kind of solitude. Little Pete gets a surfeit of cuddling and attention; we snuggle him on the living room floor, Roger
on one side, me on the other. I watch Roger stroke Pete’s hair and think, at least someone in this house is getting Roger’s
affection. I suppose he could say the same about me. I have little interest in touching my husband now.

Yesterday was our eighth anniversary. I could barely find the motivation to pick out a card, let alone buy him a present.
He hired a sitter; I almost feigned illness to avoid going to dinner. What a farce. What are we celebrating, after all? He
bought me a sweater in a color he knows I cannot wear (peach), and I bought him a book. We ate at Pico’s in silence as I mentally
clicked through all our material possessions and imagined how we’d divvy them up. Suddenly I envisioned the torture of hammering
out a custody arrangement and knew I could never divorce him. I may be celibate and miserable for the rest of my years, but
I will not leave Roger. If only I could have it all, a husband and a lover. The
French do it, don’t they? Or is it only French men? What do I know?

Saw Eddie flirting with Gail, my secretary, and felt an awful rush of jealousy. She seemed to glow under his gaze. He caught
me staring and winked. Why do I care? This guy isn’t even my type. All my boyfriends, and now my husband, have been pale and
rangy. In retrospect I realize that what attracted me to Eddie was his attraction to me. I saw his desire and suddenly it
didn’t matter what my type was.

’Til next time,

Lauren Chapman, another senior partner, cornered me after the management meeting last night. “You gotta hear this,” she says,
giggling. Lauren has three kids and easily fits into her high school gym shorts (this I know because she wore them to the
family picnic). And after fifteen years of marriage to her investment broker husband, she still comes to work with marks on
her neck that look suspiciously like hickeys.

She pulled me aside and told me a story I’m sure was meant to entertain but only made me more depressed. Last night she went
to meet her husband at his office for a quick bite before heading back home. Living up to his name once again, Randy insisted
they make love in the conference room. On the table. “Can you believe him?” Lauren cackled. “He’s got the hormones of a fourteen-year-old!”
I wanted to slap her. I know I shouldn’t let this get to me. I’m a therapist, for God’s sake.

I can hear Roger lifting weights in the next room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was having sex. All that grunting
and gasping. He’s having this love fest with his pectorals and I’m alone in the bedroom watching
Lucy
reruns.

I haven’t given up altogether. Inspired by a magazine article (and, I suppose, Lauren’s tale of unbridled conference room
lust), I crept up behind him tonight while he was loading the dishwasher and reached for his fly. “What are you doing?” he
asked, genuinely perplexed. “Relax and enjoy,” I whispered, determined to get him into bed. He turned to face me, pulling
up his zipper. “Honey, did you forget that tonight’s NYPD Blue?”

I know I should have “communicated my needs in a non-threatening way using ‘I’ messages.” (How many times have I given that
advice to my own clients?) But in a perverse way, I’m glad he reacted the way he did. Now I can savor my fantasies of Eddie
without guilt or remorse. It’s an amazing feeling, knowing that somewhere in this world there’s a man who really desires me.
Right now, I need that.

’Til next time,

Tomorrow is Halloween, and as usual, Pete still hasn’t picked out a costume. First he wanted to be Captain Hook, so I ran
out and bought a pirate costume at the party supply store and even found a stuffed alligator I’d planned to rig to his pantaloons.
Then last week he decided that pirates weren’t cool and he’d rather be a
policeman. So I ordered a cop costume from the Lillian Vernon catalogue, paying extra for overnight delivery, but when he
put it on, inexplicably he started to cry, so I shoved the whole damn costume back in the plastic bag and told Pete he could
go trick-or-treating stark naked for all I cared, which only made him cry harder. Now he wants to be a pepperoni pizza. I’ve
just spent the last two hours on my knees in the garage trying to cut a giant circle from a refrigerator box I pulled out
of the Dumpster at Sparky’s Appliances. I’ve painted it, I’ve glued on construction paper pepperonis, and I’ve devised an
elaborate harness so he can wear it and walk without tipping over. And if he decides he’d rather not be a pepperoni pizza
after all, I will have no choice but to strap the damn thing on and go trick-or-treating myself because I will, most assuredly,
need the chocolate!

’Til next time,

This morning I found a red velvet heart hanging from a branch of the ficus. It had to be from Eddie. I felt a hand on my shoulder
and turned. “I see you have an admirer.” It was Diana Pierce, the Center’s comptroller and, as it happens, an old college
buddy of Roger’s. I always suspected Diana had the hots for Roger. She’s divorced, testy, flamboyant, always on the offensive.
“It’s that studly plant guy, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” I tried to sound confused.

“I’ve seen him hanging around your office. I mean,
how much time can it possibly take to water a plant?” Diana threw her head back and cackled, her mouth opened so wide I could
count her fillings.