Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

The spring storms were harsh that year. She watched Dave tame the weather and it thrilled her more now that she knew what he was like. When he told the region not to be afraid of this unusual weather, she felt like he was saying it just for her.

The mousy woman stopped leaving in the mornings; now she came and went all day, and her car occupied a guest parking slot, which, Janet noted, now had a number on it instead of Guest . As spring became summer and jackets were shed, Janet observed, happily, that the woman had gotten fat. Janet was certain Dave would dump her now, until she realized the woman wasn’t fat, but pregnant.

On the last day of summer, Janet smelled smoke as she sunbathed in her backyard. She stood up, sniffed and stretched, and saw Dave pacing his yard, sucking frantically at a cigarette. She skipped over to her fence and tippy-toed on the wooden ledge that ran along the bottom so her chest was visible and she could rest her arms casually along the top.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she called over. Dave jumped as if her words were a hot prod. He regarded her and then the cigarette with shame.

“I don’t.”

Janet tugged at the strings of her bikini top nonchalantly, jiggling her breasts. He wasn’t looking. “What’s with the cigarette then?”

“Janet,” he said, as in not now.

But yes, now, she thought, and began to tingle. She waited a beat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head. “It’s embarrassing.”

She smiled. “I’m good with embarrassing.”

He stared at her suspiciously, then shyly. He sighed. “My wife is so pregnant. We can’t. You know.”

Wife? When did that happen? Janet winced, but recovered quickly.

She snorted. “Oh, you’re just not trying. Get creative.”

“No,” he said sharply, and then flatly, “I’m trying. I really am. It’s just not happening.”

Janet nodded. She could work with this. She pictured his wife, that small awkward woman, lying limp on a bed, her belly jutting up like a hill in a prairie. Janet’s stomach turned. She wouldn’t do that woman either. She imagined Dave in the corner, tugging furiously but still soft, regarding the mound with disgust. “Maybe I can help.”

“Help?” he snapped, and then, as if a wind had pushed her scent to him, he all at once noticed her: her sunbathing bikini, her glistening skin, hair tied with studied messiness, the anonymity of her behind sunglasses. She could be anybody he wanted her to be. And she could be it now. He drifted over to his fence and stepped up onto the ledge so they were face to face. His eyes moistened. Janet cupped her breasts.

He said, “Oh.”

Dave arrived a few minutes later, his summery baseball cap in front of his waist, sheepish, irresistibly everyman. Janet already lay across the bed, propped on her elbows, flipping through a magazine. The bedspread clung to her skin, which was moist with tanning oil. She waved her feet in the air, rolled onto her side, and hiked her hip dramatically.

“You don’t mind?” he asked dumbly.

“Mind?”

She thought he’d never stop hovering in the doorway, watching her roll around on her bed. Boredom flashed through her veins. Stretching so her back arched and her breasts slid from their little bikini homes, she ordered, “Get over here.”

In the middle of their first time he whimpered gratefully in a way that made her sick. Sick to have a man on top of her who was not hollering and talking dirty, and also sick to think there was something Dave Santana could do that would ruin him for her. He seemed lost. She hated lost.

“Say your name.”

“Huh?” he grunted, slowing his pumping.

“Say your name.”

He lifted slightly so he could look at her. “Dave?”

“Say your whole name,” she cried, tugging on his hips to keep going.

“Dave Santana,” he said haltingly.

“No, Dave. Say it all. Say ‘I’m Meteorologist Dave Santana,’ ” she begged, sucking his lip.

In a confused daze, he said it quietly. Then he said it again. On the third time, his voice boomed, and he hoisted her hips up roughly and pumped deeper with each word he yelled. “I’m Meteorologist Dave Santana! I’m Meteorologist Dave Santana! I’m Meteorologist Dave Santana!” He came hard and tense, like a bus driver slamming the brakes. Janet seized with pleasure in the midst of all of the delicious commotion. In her head she repeated happily, You’re my match, you’re my equal.

After the sixth time Janet lay sore, wasted, and ecstatic. “Is it always like this?” she asked, reveling in so much shared wetness.

“Ha! No way. Never before,” he said, still panting. “This guy must really like you.” He wagged his exhausted penis with his thumb and middle finger.

Janet forced a giggle, even though she hated when men talked about their dicks like people.

“No, it’s usually different,” he continued, splayed on the bed and dreamy-voiced. “Because we’re in love.” He added quickly, “Me and the wife.”

“Naturally.” Janet felt uncharacteristically embarrassed. I know you don’t mean me, she thought resentfully.

He clasped her hand like they were kids about to run across a field together, gave it a squeeze. “You’re fun, Janet.” He half smiled; it seemed flirtatious and challenging in a way that quickened her breath.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she challenged back. She meant it. She wanted to hear a real thing, a thing only he could say. Even if it was lame, like how she tasted. Even if it was really about him, like how she felt to fuck.

His half smile faded, then became a frown, as he thought. She heard the muffled tick of Dave’s watch from under the tangled sheets.

Finally, he coughed meekly. “I should go.” Guilt tainted his voice. “Meredith will be home soon. Mommy class.”

Her name is Meredith, Janet thought. She faked a yawn to protect the small wound she felt opening in her. “Come back anytime,” she sang in a practiced tone, inviting, yet nonchalant.

“I think that should get me through. Like a dose of medicine, you know?”

“It was six doses,” she teased, but felt hollow.

He chuckled gamely, then was silent as he finished dressing.

The low sun poured orange through the window. The whole room filled to spilling with it.

Dave came to the bed. “Thanks,” he said, and extended a hand for her to shake. Janet eyed it until he withdrew the hand, wiped it on his pant leg.

“Janet.” He sounded disappointed, as though he thought she was ruining this. He was now unsure how to leave.

She posed on the bed seductively out of habit, but she didn’t know how to feel.

“Well, I’m always here,” she said.

“I know. You’re always here.” He sighed. “You’re hard to ignore.”

She should like this comment, but coming from him it sounded like an accusation, as if displaying her dogged desire was somehow unfair. She was always there. She had guessed this kind of attention would be hard for Dave to ignore no matter who he belonged to. And she’d been right. It’s not easy being pursued. That was the point. When all goes well, the wondering gives way to the wanting, then to the needing. These were the stages in the kind of seduction she was best at. He wasn’t supposed to know why he came to her, to be able to parse the logic, to weigh his options, to have an opinion even. He was just supposed to come. But she could see him deciding a mistake had been made. He was feeling duped. She felt like a bad magician who had messed up. The audience had seen the con, the manipulation, and could never unsee it.

She rolled onto her back and began pushing her breasts toward the center of her chest, then letting them slip back down toward her armpits. It was the least sexy thing she’d ever done in front of a man. Dave Santana averted his eyes.