UNNAMED Story--because Writing is Therapeutic

I. Elena My past life unfolded like a wave—strewing bits of crackled sea shells and remnants of bloody guts on pristine, sandy shores. Nighttime was an easy place to hide, but morning always dredged up shit and guts from my past for the whole world to see. Needless to say, I washed it away with whatever the doctor prescribed and awoke just in time to bathe and get to work on time. I played saxophone at a very romantic night spot where I saw so many goings-on, I found it impossible to believe in anything—until she walked through the door. She wore a white magnolia blossom at the side of her face, like Billie Holliday and she was just as gorgeous as France, herself. I didn’t believe in reincarnation until I heard her voice—beautiful, throaty, resonating. She could do anything and have anything she pleased, if she dared ask. She reminded me of myself in another place and time—except I wasn’t a woman. “You look like a cool glass of Beaujolais. Can I buy you a drink?” I asked after she settled into the seat at the bar next to me. I was never a connoisseur of wines but always liked the way the word, “Beaujolais” rolled off the tip of my tongue. I smiled and waited for her lips to part. She seemed to ignore me so I asked her again. “Can I buy you something to drink?” Her gap-toothed smile had to be the sexist thing on earth. A subtle fear took shape somewhere in my brain. “Oh, I’m actually waiting for someone.” “Oh, that’s not what I meant—I just wanted to offer you a drink.” “Oh, all right,” she said, pushing back the curly red hair fallen slightly over her eyes. “What are you drinking?” “Courvoisier.” “Then, I’ll have what you’re drinking.” I signaled the waiter and he came back with Courvoisier with a twist of lime. We shared a toast and talked until it was time for my next set. During my solo, I watched as expressions of admiration for me replaced aloofness and although her date seemed attentive, she didn’t stop looking at me. At last call, I hated seeing her leave but was relieved to stop looking at his mugly face. What we did behind closed door took over a week to achieve, but once we connected, my life was never the same. By my standards, I wasn’t married, just living with someone. But women have a way of knowing when competition lurks in the background. Her name was Elena, and she came to the club every night "because the music is good," she had said. After we’d been seeing each other for a few weeks I agreed to meet Elena for lunch just outside of town where we were least likely to run into someone we knew. I noticed her reddish hair before anything else, but suddenly she disappeared from view. Then my cell phone range. “You’d better stop flirting with that woman,” said the voice on the line. “I’m not flirting,” I said out of habit, “I’m having lunch.” The words took their familiar place at the tip of my tongue and slipped out before I recognized the voice came not from my roommate but from Elena, the red-headed goddess I knew would be trouble I couldn't resist. “Good,” said Elena as she approached the table and sat across from me. “So…you are in the habit of defending yourself,” she said. “And you are in the habit of playing the bitch?” “Not usually. But when a guy plays saxophone so well as you, it never hurts to check his pulse and responses.” “It doesn’t take a rocket magician to know that everybody likes saxophone players—men, women, itty-bitty children and puppy dogs.” “Everybody?” I liked when she swooshed up her hair and tucked it behind her ears. “Most everybody--and that was a dirty little trick. Never do it again.” I felt exposed and slightly betrayed. I wanted to retaliate but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t cause me to lose her before I even knew her secrets. We ordered crab legs—messy, but worth it. She spoke sometimes in English but switched to French from time to time. Then she said she had to return to work. “I’ll call you, tomorrow,” she said. I hadn't asked what she did for a living and was gripped by the thought of never seeing her again. She knew so much about me, and I knew so little about her. As she left the restaurant, I watched her bottom bounce side to side, like it did when we—“You have to stop,” I told myself. “It’ll only make matters worse. She’s just a piece of ass—nothing more, nothing less.” I paid the check, walked next door and rented a car, for taking a drive up the countryside. I felt conflicted enough to run and hide but I wanted to see Elena again already. At the same time, I wanted to see my wife.