From Judy Reeves' "A Writer's Book of Days" -
"Write about a a justifiable sin."A Justifiable SinI feel used and abused. And I feel cheap.
That's about how I felt every morning after Richard and I had a date. The routine was he would phone me at the office, ask if I'm free in the evening, convince me to see a movie with him. At the movie, in the darkest corner of the balcony section, we (or he, for most times, I happen to like watching the movie) would pet or neck until my lips were swollen from being sucked by him, my breasts aching from too much squeezing by him, and of late, when all has become too much for him to bear, he would do everything "except that" in the back seat of his car.
For two years that was the routine. A few months ago, he showed up at the office, all dressed up and carrying a big bunch of flowers. I got a good teasing from my officemates. We all thought I'd come back to work the next day with an engagement ring on my finger. Well, he did propose, sort of. He wanted me to be exclusively his and maybe someday we will get married. I took note of the word "maybe".
Instead of going to a restaurant, he drove up to an expensive and out-of-the-way motel, the kind where the rooms had a carport underneath so no one can recognize your car, just in case. The ante-room had a nice table for two with a small plastic flower arrangement in the middle. There was a menu card to order dinner at a nearby restaurant. The bedroom had a king size bed with white sheets and large pillows, and a checkered coverlet. The entire ceiling was mirrored. Yes, mirror-ed.
Needless to say, we went all the way that night. After that sex pretty much happened at least once a week since then. A pattern has developed. Somehow we managed to argue about something and fight. He won't call for days and when he does there's more arguing until somehow everything ends up being my fault. So I end up apologizing. Then he would "punish" me by not seeing me. I had come to a point when I really do not care if he sees me or not. But somehow, when he did come to see me, we always end up in a motel, having sex.
One night, he was on top of me, muttering how great it felt to be inside me, so on and so forth. When once I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of myself in the ceiling mirror, with Richard's naked body on top of me, one leg stretched almost at a right angle from my body, the other wrapped around his waist as he holds me by the knee. This was the night I realized there was no love in me for him. Not anymore. But I do it with him for comfort's sake, my body had become comfortable with him. This was when I realized that love and sex do not necessarily go hand in hand.
So. Richard had punished me yet again, this time by making a business trip somewhere. He wanted me to think about my actions. I wanted to but I forgot what it was that I did to deserve such punishment. He would call. Everyday. Wanting me to apologize. I had already said I'm sorry, but he wanted me to articulate what it was that I had done. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember it. He got mad. "Think about it!" he told me.
John appears in my office holding an affidavit. Can I notarize it? Sure, I say. I take out my notarial journal, jot in the details of the affidavit and I stick a notarial stamp on the paper. I ask him to raise his hand and swear that all he says in the affidavit is true to the best of his knowledge. He does so and he signs the affidavit and I sign the notary's portion.
"No date tonight?" he asks. I shrug my shoulders and pout my lips. "Awww," he says.
Then the surprise: "I'll take you to dinner, come!"
John and I have been exchanging stories about anything, mostly about his marriage that is crumbling. There is no other woman. Yet.
He stands by my office door with a "So?" look on his face. As I lock my desk drawers, I look at him and I say, "Sure, why not?"
At dinner, I voice out my discontent about Richard. Suddenly, I have a friend I can tell my Richard troubles to. My girlfriends all think Richard is a great catch, a sweet man and no one believes me when I tell them how Richard actually treats me. They all think I just invent the stories of mental and emotional abuse.
The next time I stay late at work, John shows up. He has just arrived from a business trip in Germany and has been away for two weeks.
"Dinner?" he asks. Then, "I missed you!" He lobs a small flowery box of Nina Ricci perfume and I catch it with one hand.
"Well, I missed you, too, buddy," I say playfully. "I had no one intelligent to talk to around here. So glad you're back."
In the car, as he drives, I think he might have thought my knee is the gear shift.
At L'Orange, a fine dining French restaurant hidden in the farthest corner of Forbes Park, he holds my hand like I was a delicate porcelain figurine. We talk in whispers, giggle discreetly at "green" jokes, and taste each other's food. Looking at him over the rim of my glass of red wine, I smile and I run the tip of my tongue on my upper lip. When he rubs my leg with his leg, I rub back.
That night, John and I start our affair.
