“I’m new.” She looks up at him. “Moved here last month from New York. A ‘cidiot,’ I believe we’re called by the locals?” She slides an olive from the plastic stirrer with her teeth, and he’s imagining how salty her lips must taste when he feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Reggie Mayer, the pharmacist. His wife, Natalie, is a patient; she thinks Reggie smells like salami. “Natalie’s not feeling well,” Reggie says, holding up a plastic to-go bag. “Bringing home some soup.”
“Tell her I hope she feels better,” Sam says, leaning in a few inches, detecting no smell.
“I will, Dr. Statler. Thanks.”
“Doctor?” the woman says after Reggie has left.
“Psychologist.”
She laughs. “You’re a psychologist.”
“What? You don’t believe me?” Sam reaches for his wallet again and pulls out a business card, which he slides next to her drink.
“Weird,” she says, reading the card. “Would have sworn you were a podiatrist. So, you want to analyze me?”
“What makes you think I haven’t already?”
She closes her book and turns to face him. “And?”
“You’re smart,” he says. “Confident. An only child is my guess.”
“Very good, Doctor.”
“Two devoted parents. Private school. At least one graduate degree, probably two.” Sam pauses. “You’ve also had to become adept at shouldering the burdens of being an exceptionally beautiful woman in the world.”
She rolls her eyes. “Wow, that was bad.”
“Perhaps. But I’m serious,” he says. “I’d bet if you were to survey every man in this place as to who they’d want to take home tonight, one hundred percent of them would say you.”
“Ninety-nine percent,” she corrects him. “The bartender would say you.”
“Constantly being on the receiving end of the male gaze can have an effect,” Sam continues. “We refer to it as objectification theory.”
Her face softens. “So, it’s like a thing.”
“For some people, yes.”
“Do you think I should get a therapy dog?”
“Are you kidding? A hot girl with a dog? That’ll make matters worse.”
She smiles. “Did you come up with all of this while you were walking behind me up the hill, staring at my ass? Or was it while you were standing outside, watching me through the window?”
“I was on a phone call,” Sam says. “Existential crisis that needed immediate attention.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping you were out there building up the courage to come hit on me.” She keeps her eyes on his as she lifts another olive to her lips and sucks the pimento out of the center, and there it is, the feeling he’s been chasing like a drug since he was fifteen years old, the thrill of knowing he’s about to plant his stake into a beautiful woman.
“You do have an exceptional ass,” Sam says.
“Yes, I know.” She looks down at his Johnnie Walker Blue. “Speaking of exceptional, I’ve heard good things about this drink of yours. May I?” She holds it up to the light and studies the color before lifting it to her lips and draining the glass. “You’re right. That’s a good drink.” She leans in close, the scent of his whisky on her breath. “If you weren’t a married local therapist, I’d invite you inside my mouth for a taste.”
“How do you know I’m married?” he asks, the heat rising on the back of his neck.
“You’re wearing a wedding band,” she says.
He slips his hand in his pocket. “Says who?”
“Does your wife know you’re out tonight, analyzing the confident only children of Chestnut Hill, New York?”
“My wife’s out of town,” Sam says. “What do you say? You want to join me for dinner?”
She laughs. “You don’t even know my name.”
“It’s not your name I’m interested in.”
“Is that right?” She puts the glass down, turns to face him, and reaches under the bar. “Well, in that case . . .”
“You guys doing okay?” It’s the bartender. He’s back, scratching an itch over one eye, as she slowly slides her hands up Sam’s thighs.
“Yes,” she says. “We’re doing great.”
The bartender walks away as her right hand arrives between his legs, where it remains for another minute at least, her eyes locked with his. “My goodness, Doctor,” she says. “From what I can tell, the poor sucker who married you is a lucky woman.” She returns her hands to the bar. “Be sure to tell her I said so.”
“I will.” Sam leans forward and softly cups her cheek, his breath hot on her ear. “Hey, Annie Potter, guess what? You’re a lucky woman.” She smells like Pantene shampoo and is wearing the earrings he gave her last night. “Now put your hand back on my dick.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Statler,” she says, pulling away from him. “But that was just part of your anniversary gift. You’ll have to wait until we get home for the rest.”
“Well, in that case.” Sam raises his hand and signals for the check as Annie picks up the stirrer and bites into the last olive.
“How was your day, dear husband?” she asks, smiling at him.
“Not as good as my night’s going to be.”
“You see your mom?”
“I did,” he says.
She brushes a hair off his shoulder. “How was she?”
“She was fine.”
Annie sighs. “Everyone over there seemed so grumpy yesterday. They hate the new management.”
“It’s fine, Annie,” Sam says, not ready to replace the feeling of his wife’s hand between his legs with thoughts of his mother sitting alone and unhappy at the five-thousand-dollar-a-month nursing home he moved her into six months before.
“Okay, fine, we won’t talk about it,” Annie says. She raises her glass. “To another successful week of marriage. These past six weeks have been so good, I give us at least six more.”
Sam adjusts Annie’s tank top to cover the bit of bra strap on display at her shoulder. “You sure you don’t resent me for all this?”
“All what?”
“Giving up New York. Moving to this shithole town. Marrying me.”
“I happen to love this shithole town.” She intercepts the check from the bartender and quickly signs his name. “And if nothing else, you’re very rich. Now come on, Doctor, take me home and pleasure me.”
She stands up, slowly slips her jacket back on. Sam follows her toward the door, so content at the sight of his wife walking in front of him through the restaurant that he barely registers the seductive smile from the pretty blonde at the podium as he passes. He has no need to notice things like that anymore. He’s a changed man.
No, really.
Chapter 2
I wake up hot, the sun glaring at me through the window, a warm square of light aiming right for my eyes. There are footsteps coming up the driveway, and I sit up, seeing a woman in a flimsy blue sundress and two-inch sandals walk decisively past the porch, down the stone path lined with zinnias I planted, to the door to Sam’s office on the garden level. It takes me a minute to reorient myself and remember I’m not in my one-bedroom apartment in the city but here, waking up bleary-eyed from a nap in Chestnut Hill, New York, Sam at work downstairs.