Таррин Фишер - The Wives

“I guess so,” I say.

“Well, I wouldn’t put anything past them. Or myself for that matter. I know what I’m capable of.”

Our heads bent together, I try to picture cheerful, plump Debbie as the conniving type she’s referencing and can’t.

Debbie looks around to make sure no one can overhear us, and then she leans so close to me I can smell the cherry blossom shower gel she uses.

“I stole him from my best friend.”

“Bill?” I ask, confused.

Bill has a potbelly that sits on top of two spindly legs and only a horseshoe pattern of hair left on his head. It’s hard to believe he ever needed stealing.

“And you still, um...look at her profile?”

“Of course.” Debbie pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and offers me half. I shake my head and she folds the stick onto her tongue in a perfect half.

“Why?”

“Because women don’t ever stop wanting what they want. They see another man who’s considerate and handsome, and it reminds them of what they’re missing in their own lives.”

There is a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I’d taken the half stick of gum she’d offered. If Debbie is worried about Bill’s exes twenty years past, how much should I be worrying about the women my husband fucks on the regular?

Just then, her pager buzzes, and she shoots me a wry look as she unclips it from her hip and glances at the screen.

“Have to run, doll. Talk later.”

I watch her go, the wide gait of her steps as her white Reeboks squeak down the hall. Before she reaches the junction near the elevators, she turns around and faces me. Her arms pump at her sides while she walks backward.

“It’s even better when you spy on them in person, by the way.” She winks and then she’s gone.

Nosy, annoying, no-personal-space Debbie just might be my new best friend. I hear a ping on my phone. When I look down, a notification has appeared at the top of the screen. It’s from the dating app I downloaded. Regina has sent you a message.

The front door swings open and Seth walks in, carrying two large bags of takeout. Ah, it’s Thursday. I’d forgotten. Lately, all I think about is my husband’s wives. Somewhere along the way, Seth has been replaced. I give him half a smile. We both know it’s forced. A bouquet of white roses rests in the crook of his arm. Roses for no reason, or roses because he sent me a text meant for one of the others? Normally, I’d rush over to relieve him of what he’s carrying, but this time I stay where I am. He never even attempted to explain his mistaken text. And I waited all week for something...anything. My mood is dour—and I don’t plan on faking a good mood for his sake.

I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.

The lines on his face are relaxed, his eyes alert. I fold a towel and place it carefully on the put-away pile as I watch him kick the door closed and come sauntering down the hallway toward me. Everything about his demeanor bothers me. He’s not playing the part of the contrite husband.

“For you,” he says, handing over the flowers.

I stand awkwardly with them in my hand for a few seconds, and then set them aside to deal with later. I’m a mess again—hair loose and air-dried to waves. I’m wearing my favorite yoga pants, the ones with the hole in the right leg. I brush hair out of my eyes as he holds up the take-out bags and shakes them at me.

“Dinner,” he declares.

The smile he’s wearing is almost contagious, except I don’t feel like smiling. I wonder if he’s pleased with himself for picking up dinner, or if he has good news. It’s a risk grabbing takeout without knowing if I cooked, but I suppose he suspects I am on strike.

“Why are you so happy?” I fold my last towel and pick up the pile to carry to the towel closet. Seth smacks my butt as I move past him. I think about shooting him a death glare, but I keep my head stiffly pointed forward. Why does his effort bother me now? I would have reveled in this attention a few weeks ago.

“Can’t a man be happy to come home to his girl?” Can’t a man be happy to come home to just one girl?

I press my lips together to keep from actually saying those words and busy myself arranging the towels in the linen closet.

When I’m finished with the laundry, we sit down at the kitchen bar to eat. I’ve said no more than a few words since he walked through the door, though he hasn’t seemed to notice. Or perhaps he’s ignoring my silence as a way to pretend everything is fine. I watch as he unloads grease-stained containers onto the counter, glancing at me every few minutes to gauge my reaction.

The smell of garlic and ginger wafts from the boxes and my stomach grumbles. He stands up to get plates but I wave him back.

“No need,” I say, leaning forward and pulling a container of garlic chicken toward me. Flipping open the lid I pinch a piece of chicken between my chopsticks, watching him over the rim of the box as I chew. He eyes my UGGs, which are propped up on the counter next to the food, bewildered amusement on his face.

“First ramen, now Chinese takeout,” I say. “Next comes pizza...” It’s meant as a joke, but my voice is devoid of emotion. It sounded more like a threat, I think.

Seth laughs, dragging his bar stool closer to mine, reaching for the lo mein. “And shoes inside,” he says of my UGGs. “I like it.”

“To be fair, UGGs are practically slippers.” I’m flirting and I hate myself for it.

“I didn’t know you were capable of allowing yourself to breathe,” Seth says.

My toes curl in protest. I have the urge to yank my boots off the counter and grab proper plates from the cabinet, but I stubbornly stay where I am, staring squarely at my husband. Maybe I want to focus on knowing the man instead of impressing the man. Probably something I should have done in the first place. Instead, I’d been swoony, full of dreams and the belief that we had something.

I set the container of chicken on the counter and wipe my mouth with one of the flimsy napkins Seth hands me. For the first time, I notice that he’s wearing a T-shirt underneath a hoodie I’ve never seen before. When was the last time I saw my husband this casual, in a T-shirt? For the last year, Seth’s wardrobe has consisted of dress shirts and ties, distressed loafers and sports coats—work Seth, married Seth. He looks like an entirely different man in scuffed Chucks and a worn T-shirt. I feel something stir in my belly... Desire? Someone I’d like to hang out with , I think.

“You’re different tonight,” I say.

“So are you.”

“What?” I’m so lost in my thoughts, his voice alarms me.

“You’re different, too,” he notes.

I shrug; it feels terribly juvenile to do so, but what is there to say? I’ve found your wives and now that they have names and faces everything feels different? I don’t know who you are anymore? I don’t know who I am?

It’s difficult to put into words all the things I’ve been feeling, so I say the only thing I’ve actually worked out. “People change...”

I’m almost afraid of the casual way he’s looking at me, and then I remind myself that I’m trying to care less about what he thinks and to focus on what I think.

“You’re right.” He picks up his beer and holds it out to me. “To change,” he says.

I hesitate only for a moment before raising my bottle of water and tipping it toward his beer. His eyes hold steadily on to mine as we toast and sip our drinks.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. His T-shirt lifts to reveal a tanned, toned stomach.

I quickly look away, not wanting to be distracted. I am a sexual creature—he controls me with sex, and I control him with sex. It’s a merry-go-round of pleasure and servitude that I’ve always enjoyed. But being dick-whipped or pussy-whipped can sate you just enough to blind you. My mother once told me that a relationship could withstand almost any trial if the sex was good. It had sounded shallow and ridiculous at the time, but now I see that’s exactly what has happened with Seth and me. A lot happens in a relationship, probably a lot that you really need to pay attention to, but you’re too busy fucking to notice.