“No,” he said, and sat up straight. “No, you have to go.”
She’d looked at him curiously for a moment. Then those lush lips had frowned, and her pretty face settled itself into a mask of indifference. She’d swept out of the bed, curvy bottom flashing, bending down to snatch her clothes off the floor and sashay into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Eli got dressed and collected two hundred dollars—all the cash he had. He’d never paid for sex, and had no idea how these transactions were conducted. When the woman emerged, he said, “We didn’t—I mean, we never discussed—” Wordlessly, he thrust the money at her. She looked at it, then at him, indifference replaced by hurt.
“I’m not a prostitute,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, feeling embarrassment in addition to shame. “A gift, then.” He held the folded stack of bills. She looked at him again, then snatched them, slipping them into her pocket, and walked out the door with her head held high.
Eli had gone to the bathroom, where he stood under scalding-hot water until there was no hot water left. Then he stood under the cold water until he was shivering and his lips were blue. He forced himself to endure it, resting his head against the tiles as the icy water beat down.
His own father had cheated on his mother, endlessly, almost compulsively. Eli had sworn to himself that he’d be different; a different kind of man, a different kind of husband. And yet there he’d been, not even three months after his own wedding, buried between a strange woman’s legs. He was so disgusted with himself he wanted to vomit, or scrub until his skin came off. Never again, he told himself. Annette can never find out, and I’ll never do this again. He’d called Annette’s sister’s number three times that day. No one picked up.
And then, that night, somehow, he found himself back at the bar. The woman was waiting for him, as if they’d made plans to meet; standing by the jukebox with hair cascading down her back in those glorious waves, that sweet dark-red lipstick on her lips. As he walked toward her, she gave him a wink and a slow, knowing smile. She wore a dress that night, a tube of jersey fabric that clung to every inch of her, riding the curves of hip and waist and bosom. “No buttons,” she’d explained, as they grabbed at each other in the elevator. “I can’t have you wrecking every piece of clothing that I own.” Five minutes after they’d walked through the door the woman was lying back on the bed and Eli was kneeling on the floor with her legs resting on his shoulders and his face between her legs. She tasted like honey and salt, Eli thought as he licked her, like candied apples and the sea.
“What’s your name?” he asked, after she’d thrashed and keened her way through her first two orgasms.
She’d opened her eyes, and he’d watched the calculations that were surely taking place behind them. “Jane,” she’d said very softly. “Call me Jane.” It was clearly an alias. Maybe she, too, had something to hide, a boyfriend or a husband at home. Eli waited for her to ask his name again, or even to make a joke about how he could be Tarzan, but instead, she’d worked herself down the bed, down his body, and then her mouth was full, and he wouldn’t have been able to answer her, even if he’d wanted to.
For the next two nights, they were together. They did not exchange histories, or confidences; they didn’t talk about their pasts or their futures. He didn’t know where she lived, or how old she was, or what she did for a living, and she didn’t ask him a single thing about himself. It was nothing but chemistry, the alchemy of bodies coming together in a seemingly unstoppable way.
On the third morning, the last morning, he’d propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. Her skin was lit gold by the morning sun. Her full lips were parted, each exhalation stirring the fine hairs on her forearm as she breathed. She was gorgeous, Eli thought; the most beautiful woman he’d ever touched.
She opened her eyes and gave him that now familiar smile, but for once, for the first time, Eli didn’t feel an answering surge from his traitorous body. The fever had broken; the infection was over. His voice was steady when he spoke.
“I can’t see you again. I’m sorry.”
Jane had stretched, one long, languorous shudder working its way from her curled toes to her fingertips. She had gotten out of bed, gathered her things, and walked toward his door, hips swaying their clockwork sway. At the door, she’d turned and winked at him, a see-you-tonight kind of wink. But Eli had finally found his strength. He hadn’t gone back to the bar that night. Instead, he’d taken the sheets and pillowcases to the laundry and washed them in hot water, and cleaned the apartment, scrupulously wiping down every surface the woman had touched. The next day, after class, he’d gone out and gotten dozens of yellow tulips. Annette’s favorite. Then he’d driven to Annette’s sister’s house, handed his wife the flowers, told her that he loved her, and brought her home.