Finishing Last

“Don’t ask me what I think of you; I might not give the answer that you want me to.”

—Peter Green

I.

December 2014. My affair started after Thanksgiving and we were done by Christmas.

The local bar association has its annual meeting the first Tuesday after Thanksgiving. My wife always skipped these pretentious non-events. Sheila, a paralegal for a rival law firm, never missed. We enjoyed each other’s company. She carried no baggage; a welcome distraction. Unencumbered.

It didn't take long, as Christmas approached, for Amber to become suspicious, bug every electronic device we owned and find out. Confronted and embarrassed with no way out, I confessed; ended the affair. Sheila gave me no drama and there were zero after-effects, only the occasional “hello” in the hallway behind the courtrooms while we were getting cases set or reset.

Somehow my marriage survived into the New Year.

II.

April 2015. Downstairs.

"How do you even know what they look like?"

She's banging some things around in the kitchen behind me, door to the garage around the kitchen counter at the ready, her car, her escape to work waiting patiently for the ride out. I don't answer. I'm reading the on-line edition of the Sendera Advocate, waiting for her to leave, sitting at the family computer, my back to her.

"You didn't even bother changing the password after I found out."

I'm 49 years old, red flushing my face. I am staring at the socks on my feet. I turn around in the chair to look at her, start to get up, to give a defense, an explanation from across the dining room table, across the kitchen counter, her by the stove. I want to give her a reason why. She holds up her hand, stopping me, and says, "Don't."

There's silence now. We're facing each other, looking at each other warily, as far away from each other as this part of the house allows, the front house window behind me, the back house window behind her, seasoned warriors, a standoff of sorts, and then I blink and I say, "I'm sorry, baby."

Now her face flushes red; she clinches her fists by her side. She walks around the kitchen counter, fast, heads toward the garage door, shooting me a wounded look, grabs the door knob and swings open the garage door to get to her car, her work, her other world, slamming the door, hard, on the way out. A dog barks somewhere. Not ours: Cook died a few months back, hit by a car, neither one of us paying attention anymore. This one though, this fucking mutt across the street, barks, startled by the noise in our quiet, sedate, oblivious neighborhood.

She soon discovered new friends at work and the joyous wonder of spending time away from me, away from our home. I discovered the craft beer movement and the depressive, addictive darkness of life without her. The stillness. The almost killing myself. The muzzle of my Smith and Wesson on my temple, warm and inviting.

III.

A.

Thursday, August 26, 2015. Home. She came in early, a little after six, as I sat in front of the Sony, playing Nascar on the boys’ old PlayStation, interrupting my six pack. I asked her if everything was okay, unusual for her to be home at this hour. Yea, she said, just a lot on my mind. I'm going to go upstairs and watch TV, she told me. I asked if she had eaten and she said no, not really. I suggested I get take out and she said ok. I saved my progress, clicked off the Sony and headed out, thinking I could have a few drinks and chat up Rachel while waiting on the order, maybe catch a smoke break with her.

That night, Amber and I ate our dinner in bed. After, we had sex. She had a very enthused orgasm. I did not. She fell asleep. (Good for you.) I crept downstairs to stare out the window and continue drinking, rounding out the six I had started earlier that she had interrupted. I may have cheated and had seven. I drank slowly, full of sleep and thought and regret. I kept looking out the window for conversation but the outside was reticent. The night was closed. I began to sway. Closed my eyes. I saw a man in a Texas A & M hoodie in the dark at the gazebo by my office saying, “I am Langford. I am dead.” Weird shit.

I went back up after a few hours. Amber and I slept peacefully that night. I held her in her sleep. She did not resist. Peace like a river, baby.

B.

Friday, August 27, 2015 (True Version.) Upstairs. She lingered under the covers with me, no sunshine, shades down, just darkness. She started fondling me with her right hand. I became erect, fully awake. Then her head was under the covers. I told her she didn't have to but she didn't answer me, just got more intense, more determined. Soon, it was over. She got up and walked away (nice ass and all) and started the water in the shower. She brought me back a moist hand towel.

“Here,” she said, tossing it at me.

"You're going to be late," I advised her.

"No worries," she said, and she want back to the running water in her shower.

I watched Sports Center for a bit, then got out of bed while some commercial droned on about IRS problems and I made my way to the bathroom, just as she was getting out. I told her to leave the water running sweetie and when she opened the curtain and got out, I stepped in. A little too hot. While I was showering, she made herself up, put on jeans and a bra. Before putting on her blouse, she opened the shower curtain and looked at me. I looked back at her, but, without my glasses and with the steam coming off the running water, all I could see was a blur.

"Steven," she spoke quietly, "you know I love you, right?"

"Of course. I--" She closed the curtain and walked off before I could say anything else. I got out, dried off, wrapped a towel around my waist. Since the Shiela deal, my wife wouldn't let me wear my wedding ring or call her "baby." That would always set her off, make her mad. I told her "I'm sorry," usually crying, so many times that she told me to stop. She worked "pathetic" into the invective a few times as well. Under the new regime, I couldn’t say “sorry” or “baby” or wear the ring, the symbol of our unity.

Although she didn't want me wearing it, I kept the wedding ring on a necklace chain that I wore every day under my shirt. I was getting ready to put it around my neck and clasp the chain behind my neck when I heard a voice from the bedroom say, "Steve," and it surprised me.

"I thought you were gone," I replied.

"I'm going to send you a text today and I want you to answer it," she advised me from the other room. I said okay and then she was gone, ghosting down the stairs. I figured I would get the text at work but I laid back down on the bed in my towel, jewelry on the chain resting on my chest, and then Mike and Mike turned into First Take and Stephen A was ranting about the college playoff system and I was in and out of sleep when the ding ding came. I sat up and found my cell. I brought the phone up to my face so I could read:

>im gonna send u an e-mail tell me when u read it

I sighed.

>It might be after work.

>that's fine text me when u read it

Well there’s nothing sweet about this.

I eventually coaxed myself out of our bed, finished getting dressed, went to my office, avoided phone calls and e-mails all day, tried not to look anyone in the eye and left the office around 5:30 after putting in what had become my usual 4 1/2 hour day.

After work, I went to the neighborhood dive for food and a few beers, a little chat with Rachel. She invited me to her car during her smoke break. After our smoke, a Ciroc and Red Bull back at her station and I’m feeling all right, driving home alone. I’m feeling all right. Not feeling too bad myself.

Our house sits on a pie shaped lot, small angular front yard, huge back yard, escalating width as you walk back toward the privacy fence, dog run on the right, chain length fence separating the back yard, square pool on the left, finished after, you know, that whole Sheila fiasco, a last ditch concession to Amber.

I walked through the house to the back sliding glass door, observing the dusk, but not for long.

I worked my way back to the family desk in the dining room, across from the kitchen, got in front of the computer monitor, my back to rest of the house, photos of our grown children cross fading on the screen saver. I leaned over the desk, slammed the mouse on the desk a few times to bring up the log in, sat down, my back toward the dining room table and, beyond that, the kitchen. User name, password, brought up the browser, www.aol.com, user name, password, you've got mail, inbox, looked for...found it.... three short paragraphs from [email protected] (no subject):

Steven,

I can't live in that house with you anymore. I know I said I would try to make it work but nothing has changed since I found those texts from Sheila, that bitch. You said you would change, that you would try. It's been almost a year and I still catch you on your porn and phone shit that you do. I mean fuck you you didn't even bother to change your password when I found out all the phone sex crap on the computer I bought you. I BOUGHT YOU THAT, ASSHOLE. I know that slut was in your car your office my bed. MY HOUSE! Screw it, keep it, I don't want that house your skank whore has been in. Maybe you can't change but I can. I've had enough. You cheat, you lie, you can't even cum with me anymore. You can have your porn girls. I’ll never look like them. You have your fun.

Just one thing. Don't call. Write back if you have to tell me something or tell me off or whatever the fuck it is you want to do but don't call me. I don't ever want to see you or hear your voice again. I hate you.

I used to love you, care about you. More than you'll ever know. I wanted to be a part of your family and your practice but you never let me in. It's all yours. Keep the money you've been hiding from me. I don't want anything from you. I have what I need. Just leave me alone.

Amber.

Scorched, I looked at the screen, I looked at my phone, I looked at my hands, hoping something would change. A minute passed, maybe an hour. Don't call. I called her. Her phone rang, then went to voicemail. I ranted, "You left me in an e-mail, a fucking e-mail?" I waited for a response. Dumb ass, it's voice mail. Ten seconds passed. Then I waited another ten seconds for something, anything, some inspirational thing to say to her that would crush her soul or make her come running back. Another 10 seconds passed with my phone to my ear in silence. Nothing came to me. If you’re pleased with your message, hit “1” or just hang up. This bitch, though. I punched “end call.”

I called again. There was no ring. I went straight to voice mail. I called back again and again, listening to my sweet Amber's voice one last time. “Hello, it's Amber!” Like the first time we met. Finally, the fourth or fifth time I called and the call went to messaging, I waited and then I said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, baby." Then I hit “1.”

I took our wedding ring off the chain around my chest and I toyed with it on each of the fingers and thumbs of each hand, watching as I did so, back and forth, right to left, left to right, back and forth. I wasn’t feeling all right anymore.

I thought about what I had done. All of it, the affair, the almost-affairs, the porn, the phone girls: I left her before she left me. It got dark. Maybe another hour passed. Maybe I fell asleep at the desk. Maybe I dreamed about Langford, beckoning me to join him.

This was no bluff.

She wasn’t coming back. Why would she?

I felt like I was in a trance, re-living all I had done and said and felt—and all that I had not done or said, all that I could not feel—in the last few years, maybe even further back. Certainly it started before the affair. This dissonance. This malaise. Maybe it was always there.

We had fun. And sex. A lot of fun and sex.

I got thirsty, Rachel’s weed completely worn off.

There is a six pack cooling for me, right... over...I squint my eyes toward the kitchen and say out loud, “There.” I smile.

Time to get to the fridge, grab a cold one. Time to go sit on the patio and sky watch. Maybe catch a shooting star. Definitely time. I look at my hands, my silent phone, my blank computer screen. My eyes fall to my ring finger. Nothing has changed.

Beer from the fridge in hand, I shuffle off to the back sliding glass door, open it and step outside, close the door behind me and walk to the lounge chair, plop down in front of the swimming pool and put the beers, bound by plastic, beside me.

I never wanted a fucking swimming pool.

I drink one by one, tearing at the plastic. More time passes.

So .... I had an affair with Sheila Madrid. So what? Honestly, I never really wanted that either. Looking back now, my hands laced behind my head, staring at the stars, a little drunk, in this lounge chair, five empties beside me. True companions, all. (Whoosh!) There, right there, there's that dirty hot Gulf breeze I've been waiting for. It pushes my graying black hair back.

After the mistake, I had this ratchet pool installed that my wife Amber Sanchez had always wanted. I put it by the dog run. Not that he gave a damn one way or the other. Cook was a good dog. Loyal. Never went for a swim, though. I'd heave him into the pool if I could. But he was gone. She was gone. And this pool. Fuck this goddam pool.

After I cheated, Cook got hit by a car and died. I thought buying a pool would make a difference. One she always wanted. But it didn't. It didn't matter. She left one morning (BY E-MAIL!) and didn't come back. We didn't discuss it.

I was alone. It was a Friday in August. The pool I was sitting in front of had fallen into disrepair, like the glass of water you order but don't drink, the ice carelessly melting into the coolness of I don’t give a fuck anymore.

Sit beside me, Jimmy, I’ll tell you all about it.

C.

Friday, August 27, 2015 (Alternate Version.) Early evening. She had enough. The e-mail was clear.

Since December of the previous year, we had been a couple in limbo, seeking a resolution, an ending; living in the same house, sleeping with each other, passing each other on the stairs silently, resentment growing with each passing step, each fading moment.

I read the words in the e-mail slowly, carefully. Barracuda was playing from the kitchen speaker. "This ain't the end, I saw you again." Completely wrong.

It was in fact the end. Sorry, Nancy. The end. The e-mail was clear.

It was over.

I felt dead, trance-like, numb, just like the day before and the day before that and the months before that, ever since December.

Sheila changed everything and nothing changed after that.

The music changed to Paul Simon as I sat there, focusing on being as unfocused as my eyes were becoming. Consolidating my thoughts into diffusion. I sat, as Paul Simon would say, empty as a pocket (empty as a pocket), aware of my hands, my naked ring finger, the cold computer screen.

I needed a beer.

Fuck it, man, I needed a six pack.

I rose from our desk, using both arms to lift myself up and away from the scene, turned around and walked through the dining room, past the counter-high dining room table, into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and looked at the brightly colored cardboard package on the bottom shelf. So bright and optimistic, pithy slogans and all. Disappointed. I thought I had a six pack but I could see I was one short. I let out a heavy sigh. I bent over and felt around the package, a little high (thank you, Rachel), picked up each bottled beer and put it back down, like some tantric ritual that would make that sixth bottle re-appear. I have to drink in sixes. I just do.

Resigned to reality, I twisted the cap off the first one, carried it in my right hand, the package of the remaining four in my left, two on each side, blank space in the middle on each side for balance, and walked to the back of the house, opened the sliding plate glass door, closed it behind me and invaded the silence of the patio.

I slunk in the pool chair. Stared out. Even numbers. Ahhhh. Inhale deeply. Try to get over it. Five beers. Meh. I could go get another bottle from the corner store, even out the six. Even numbers.

Maybe.

This beer on this day on this patio will be so good. I can feel what's to come, that beverage, cold and inviting, the hops hitting my nose before my palate enjoys the bitterness. This will be good, even with one missing, like an errant child: peace like a river, baby, peace like a river.

I close my eyes. Paul Simon again. Losing love is like a window to your heart. Darkened clouds pass overhead. Everybody sees you're blown apart. I hope it rains. At least give me a breeze. The sun drifted down, away from us, me and my crafts. Darkness around me, shut tight, the sweet warm feeling of intoxication, of belonging, sets in.

I knew my wife had started seeing someone else months ago. Staunch the bleeding, salve the wound, all that jazz. Eyes closed, slow breathing, waiting for any kind of a slow South Texas breeze, the day's searing heat at long last surrendering. I can see them together. I open my eyes. Not a pleasant vision. Not that that was the point, or any point. I told anyone who would listen that I hadn't had sex with Amber in the months since, you know, the Sheila thing. But that wasn't true. The truth was that I couldn't reach orgasm with my wife anymore but we still had sex, almost nightly. She started going out, staying out later and later, drinking more, withdrawing, but I wasn't going to let her come home and sleep alone. I just couldn't come with her; it seemed unfair to her, like I was benefiting from hurting her. So I would help her orgasm any way I could but I would not orgasm; I just waited. I wanted her to stay another day, another week, just one more month. Whatever I could do to cool her turbulent river of anger.

The mornings after, my own time, I would linger in the bedroom. After she went off to work, the faint smell of shampoo, the slight scent of her perfume still in the air, I would call a girl for phone sex. Afterwards, I would shower, get dressed and head to my office, unless it was a court day.

If I had to be in court, I would skip the phone sex, exiting the bedroom before she did, leave her sleeping, always kissing her forehead before I crept downstairs, closing and locking the front door behind me. Loving her, sometimes holding her in the darkness, closing my eyes and feeling us, incapable of expression, except for the embrace from behind. Non-verbal had always been our language: my cheating; her silence.

Back on the patio, thoughts unraveling, methodically finishing my stash of drinks. I switched to jazz, Miles Davis and Coltrane. De-rail your own train.

As the five pack dwindled, the moon came out and I realized I was much too lazy to make a beer run. That damn missing sixth beer, fuck. I squinted at the moon, that blue mirror, too full and smiley for me. I squinted again and set the last empty down on the concrete patio beside my pool chair, thought about this girl I knew in high school, Rhonda, and an old friend of ours we used to hang out with. Wondered how they were doing. I certainly knew how I was doing. I looked at my incomplete set of empties, five to be exact and, further out, to our pool. Our dirty disgusting pool. I need to drain it. I need to do something with it. I'm an unwelcome guest. That pool eats smiles. Cook is drowning in it, his desperate, run-over eyes looking at me.

I’m exhausted, in the dark, looking at that black water, unchanging, unmoving, uncaring.

I felt my wedding on the arm of the chair, beside me, and put it back on my finger. It felt right. It felt right under this moon. I looked at the ring around my finger. It looked right. Then I looked up at the stars.

Amber, baby, I’m sorry.