From Day 1—Maybe
Monday, December 3
LAST WEEK: Danger: “I’m looking for the elevated heart rate emoticon.” This week, still mostly SFW… with just a bit of slide… maybe just read on your phone. So. Where were they?
// Did you find the emoticon that captures your feelings? //
I don’t have to respond. But. I do.
// —No. Maybe there isn’t one. I’ll have to express my emotions live.
Or we could go old school. Use adjectives. I’ll start.
“Jane?” it’s Nicola. “What do you think?”
I have no fucking clue what she’s talking about. It’s possible my pulse rate is elevated and my breathing jagged. Fuck. And my eyes glassy. Marie jumps in.
“Don’t bother her,” she says. “She’s dealing with some client emergency.” Nicola feels slighted, but I am saved. And grateful for my bizarre work-from-home job, so esoteric and complicated that no one really understands what I do—and, in this circle of stay-at-home-moms and ladies-who-lunch at least, treats me with cautious respect as a result.
When they’re not thinking I neglect my children and my husband’s career, that is.
“Clients,” I say. “And with these phones, we’re always on call.”
Really? Pulse pounding.
—Not an adjective.
I have to cover my mouth with my hand. Oh, my fucking god, Matt. Really? From hopeful to hard in two adjectives? Some things never change, I think. And I type:
// —Some things never change.
Like your effect on me.
—Things slow at work today, are they?
Not at all. Give me an adjective.
—Anticipating. (Is that an adjective?)
I’ll allow it.
What will you wear?
Not for long.
“Jane?” it’s Marie. “Cassandra, waving at you madly.”
I drop the phone into my purse, and leave the cafeteria. Behind me, Nicola is passing around her iPhone, showing screen shots of the rat-fuck bastard’s texts… and naked photos of the girlfriend. I choose not to think about what was involved in transferring these from his phone to hers—oh, fuck, I thought it—did he forward them during their brief “we must be open and honest about this if we are to save our marriage” phase? Did she forward them to herself during the following, and still on-going, “I must gather evidence if I am to skin his hide” period? Why am I thinking about this?—and go to find out what’s up with my children.
Nothing much, as it turns out, but the candle-making isn’t as horridly uninteresting as I thought it might be, and the metal-ornamenting is actually really cool, and Henry and Eddie really want me to go with them to see the cows, so I stay with them for the rest of pioneer Christmas. And then back into our minivan. And home, with Marie and her crew of two on our heels.
NEXT WEEK: Cyber-adulteress: “I don’t want you to judge me.”
Her: “What the fuck? That’s it?”
Me: “It’s a teaser, babe.”
Her: “NOT. IMPRESSED.”
…but just wait until next week. I’ll make it up to you. In the meantime, TOMORROW: Confession 4: I get hit by a truck (it’s a metaphor).
Do you want to read the book?
“God, yes! Where, how?”
“Soon, soon! Coming from Mischief, the erotica imprint of Harper Collins UK, in March 2015. In the meantime, sign up to follow this blog? Teasers (taste Tell Me) coming every Tuesday. And… a deeper taste, here.”