Stairway to heartbreak

I had always prided myself on my honesty. Regardless of how hard or trivial the truth was, I would face up to it. I would acknowledge it. I would tell it. All that went out of the window on a perfectly ordinary morning on a quiet staircase in a sleepy building. Should have, could have, would have. I ignored it all, right and wrong, gut, conscience.

Oh it all started innocently enough as these things often do. Snotty ignorance became a curt nod of acknowledgement as he walked by my chosen smoke spot on the stairs every morning, headed down to his car and work. The nod became hello and brief smile. And then that morning he stopped to talk. It wasn’t much – he had guessed that I was the new editor for the tiny indie publishing house that I worked for and wanted confirmation of the fact. The next day, he stopped to say ‘Hi!’ again. This time, he asked me if I knew any other editors who were looking to change jobs. He too headed a small publishing house and they were expanding their team. Another week of silence and then I broke it – to ask if he knew of any vacancies for copy editors for a close pal. He was in the business after all! He told me he would let me know if he heard of any. I wasn’t expecting him to actually remember but I reasoned that it hadn’t hurt to ask anyway.

Silence reigned for a couple more weeks before he stopped to chat again. This time, he wanted to know if I liked my work, what I was working on, and whether I was considering changing jobs. He was funny and interesting, confident and obviously proud of the company he was building. The ten minutes that we talked went by in a blur. At the end of that conversation, I knew I was in trouble. He had my interest like nothing had grabbed it in the past year.

I did some snooping. Of course I did! I still didn’t know his name so instead, I checked out his company – website, facebook, blog, twitter. I liked what I saw. I was impressed by the body of work that they had done. The passion and cockiness that I had come to associate with him came through in the words I was reading and the design and the manner in which the work was showcased. It looked fun, interesting and vibrant. I had chosen to move to a smaller – and what I had hoped would be a less stressful – organisation to work in, but now a part of me wondered if maybe I had chosen wrong. Maybe Writers Cranny was where I needed to be – even their website seemed alive with energy and dynamism that I was missing at my own work place. And - what’s the word I want here? Charisma?

A week after my stalkfest, he asked for my number. In case he wanted to freelance a project or two he said, because they were understaffed. I gave it without stopping to think. I didn’t expect him to actually send work my way but it was nice to be asked. That was all it was or so I assured myself. And it was the truth then. He gave me his – and oh so casually said, ‘I’m Brian by the way!’ I dutifully stored the number. I now had a name to go with the face. One small step for me, one giant leap for my quietly simmering fantasies.

Yes, I had noticed that he was tall and wiry. Clearly he was someone who took pride in his appearance and hit the gym. His clothes were the deceptively casual kind that came from brand labels with stores all over the globe. Ditto his shoes. His hair was short and styled to be casually cool. The sunnies he usually had on his face were a designer classic. He moved like panther – graceful and quick. Shoulders back, head held high, as he strode to wherever he was going with an attitude that screamed, “The world is MINE for the taking!” He was so very, very out of my league.

When he texted me for the first time, I was taken by surprise. Surprise at the text and at the rush of giddy pleasure that coursed through me when my phone’s display told me that the text was from him. We had crossed paths not five minutes earlier, exchanged pleasantries and been on our way. He said I looked nice. I had a hard time wiping the grin off my face and deleting the text. Of course I thanked him first! It was the polite thing to do and I was nothing if not polite. The table vibrated along with my phone signalling a reply. The colour of my shirt really played up my complexion. And so it began. It wasn’t long before we had cornered our own bit of cyberspace, the texts flying fast and furious between us. What was my full name? Where had I grown up? Was I seeing anyone? Why did I want to be an editor? Did I always know that this was what I wanted to do? Did I work out? What were my interests and hobbies? Innocent questions to begin with, progressing to ones that slowly got more personal.

Oh it was not all one-sided. I asked as many if not more questions than I answered. I asked about everything I could think of – career, family, interests, movies, books, music, views of the country’s politics, values he held dear. He answered them all, shared snippets of his life with me. He was, I found, funny. He got my weird and quirky references which was very, very cool. So many people in my life didn’t and it was nice not to have to explain every second sentence or expression. He seemed honest. Sometimes, he even hit on me a bit. I loved every minute of ‘satisfying my curiosity’ which is what I had convinced myself it was.

The first time he touched me, I didn’t see it coming! We had been texting for several days by then, sometimes about mutual interests and the world at large, sometimes innuendo laden messages that hinted at more than ordinary interest without actually saying anything or making any promises. I knew by now that he was married but that he was living apart from his wife. There was a story there, I was sure, but I wasn’t ready to find out about it so for the most part, I tried not to think about it. He tried to pulled at the neck of my T-shirt. I was surprised and a little taken aback and oh so very flattered. I told him to be good, play nice. He grinned wickedly at me and withdrew his hand. I was more relieved that he hadn’t taken offence than I cared to admit.

Afterward, I felt just a smidge guilty, but the guilt was short-lived. He hadn’t done anything. And I hadn’t let him. So he tried to look down my shirt. It wasn’t going to happen again. When he tried to cop a feel the second time, I had all but vanquished any guilt that I’d felt about our previous encounter. Hell, we’d been not so subtly talking a good game and I was curious to know if how far he’d take it in real life. He kissed me. On the cheek. Ran his hand along the curve of my torso, leaving a trail of goosebumps and warmth in its wake. Whispered my name with a world of longing and waited to see if I was willing to play. I was. But something made me hold back – conscience? Fear of being caught? Fear of consequences? I cannot say. I live my life under a banner of avoidance and do so very well. So I did what I do best in uncomfortable situations – distract, divert and digress. He called me a chicken as we parted ways that day. We never spoke of it again. We didn’t have to. My longing was written on my face, as clear as day, even if this time I had chosen not to act on it. I hoped that I would be strong enough to resist him the next time he wanted to test my strength.

I didn’t run into Brian for the remainder of the week, and the texts were few and far between. He was busy, he said, with work and guests and meetings. I wasn’t sure that I believed him completely. A part of me was convinced that he was avoiding me because he had not gotten what he wanted. His male ego was bruised! I don’t know if I was right. I also decided that he probably saw me as easy and was just testing the waters to see how far I would go. If I was willing, he would have his fun with me and then return to his wife or the next girl who took his fancy or both. By the middle of the following week, I was desperate to make things right even though I knew I had done nothing that needed to be set right! It appalled me how the few crumbs he threw my way were enough to make my day when I was also so very aware that I was probably barely a blip on his radar.

It was another long week before I actually saw him again. This time we ran into each other literally – he was running late and I was hurrying up the stairs hoping to see him because I knew he hadn’t departed for the day. Laughing apologies turned into a searing kiss. I have no memory of who started it, or for that matter, who ended it. All I remember was how intense it was and how sorry I was that it did end. Pressing another quick, feather-light kiss full of promise on my lips, he disappeared to his day, leaving me to process what had happened. What struck me this time was my keen disappointment that it had not continued, and how I did not feel guilty – not even a little bit, like I would have been. Like I should have been. If he had no regard for the sanctity of his marriage, there was no reason why I had to worry about it was there?! I was sure that it wouldn’t be the last time.

We went from stolen kisses on the staircase to stolen kisses behind closed doors in a week. To more than that in a month. To quiet, secret dates and overnight visits and weekend getaways in three. Each time, I was aware that I was giving another little chunk of myself up. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to end things. It would run its course. And then I would deal with the fallout. I hoped there would be a happy ending but I really couldn’t see one. Not when I had compromised everything I believed in for a guy with a great smile and a silver tongue.

That was months ago! And every night that we have spent together since then, I’m waiting for the axe to fall as I listen to his peaceful breathing and try to sleep. I’m waiting for him to tell me that it’s over. Now, I have another secret that I’m terrified to admit. I’m pregnant. I think have three choices: I can tell him and live with the consequences, which most likely will be us ending whatever it is we have; I can get rid of it – our baby – in secret and never speak of it to anyone; or I can call it quits with him and have our baby in secret. I’d like to think that I can tell him and everything will be OK but even I am not that deluded. If we can’t be seen together in public, what are the chances of him agreeing to us raising a child together, making us legal and permanent, or if nothing else, him acknowledging this child and being in his or her life?

I know I made my bed, so now I must lay in it. I tell myself, one more night and then I will do whatever I need to do. I can’t bring myself to destroy something that we created so instead I must find the strength to walk away and build a new life. Someday maybe, our son or daughter can meet his or her father. I press my lips against his shoulder and snuggle into his embrace when his arms tighten around me. Taking a deep breath, I try to imprint the memory of his scent on my brain – cigarettes, FCUK perfume and something else that is all him – and close my eyes. I brush a featherlight kiss on the bicep of the hand that has me wrapped close to him. One more night and then all I will have left are my memories.

***

I have led a charmed life. Anything that I’ve ever wanted has always fallen into my lap. Gadgets and all manner of material things, jobs, women. All I had to do was decide I wanted it and it would inevitably be mine. The woman sleeping in my arms was no exception. She isn’t my wife, the wife I have no intention of setting aside or replacing or any such thing. I saw her, wanted her, and I always get what I want. It’s always been that simple for me.

Yet, tonight, although we have satisfied our carnal urges, and she has drifted off to wherever her dreams take her in my arms, I cannot sleep. Something is off. Something is wrong, and so, hours later, sleep is still eluding me as my mind races in a million directions, as I try to put my finger on what is bothering me. She stirs, mumbles something, presses a kiss to my arm and drifts back into slumber. And I think I recognise what it is that I haven’t been able to articulate all night.

When this thing with Kimberly and I started, it was meant to be fun. And fun it has been. She works in an office in the building that I live in, two floors down from my apartment. I would pass her on the stairs as I made my way to work. Usually, she would be at the same spot, having a pre-work smoke. I noticed that she was quietly attractive – tiny with a neat hourglass figure, pert, almost generous breasts, a nice butt and shapely legs that were usually shoved into painful looking heels for a few extra inches of height. Dark brown hair that was usually shoved into some sort of a knot atop of her head and held in place often with a pencil. She was the polar opposite of Arya, my wife, my confident, loud, exotic beauty – tall with her short red hair and piercing green eyes.

I stopped to talk to Kimberly that morning simply because I was curious, bored and had an itch that needed scratching. It felt like Arya and I were living completely different lives – work, social undertakings and general monotony had taken over our marriage and we barely saw very much of each other. Working in different (if neighbouring cities) didn’t exactly help the not-seeing-so-much-of-each-other situation. But we were not unhappy, not at all. Our arrangement suited us both. And I didn’t see how a little fun that Arya didn’t know about would hurt her.

Getting invited into Kimberly’s bed took some work but the chase was part of the excitement. Along the way, I also got to know the woman who I had pegged as quiet and quirky a little bit. The day things changed from a virtual flirtation to a very real one, we ran headfirst into each other, or rather her head plowed into my middle at great velocity. In attempting to steady myself and prevent her from taking a tumble back down the stairs she had run up, we wound up a lot closer than either of us realised. That first kiss was something else – I was trying my luck seeing how we were pretty much in full body contact from chests to feet anyway. I was expecting to be gently rebuffed like she had been rebuffing all my advances up to then. Instead she surprised me. I had not expected her to reciprocate, and definitely not with the level of enthusiasm that she did.

I knew then that the chasing was as good as done and I wasn’t wrong. Kimberly and I became lovers over a weekend that I was supposed to be spending with Arya. Arya cancelled on me to go to a friend’s bachelorette weekend. I saw it as an opportunity to take my suit to the next level and invited Kimberly out to a drive to a resort town not too far away. I could tell that she had set aside whatever misgivings she had had about me being ‘another woman’s reserves’ as she put it. I couldn’t give you a blow by blow description of the drive, the sights we saw or what we did. What I do remember is that Kimberly was a generous lover. And what she lacked in experience, she made up for in her willingness to let me show her.

Things have pretty much moved at warp speed from there. The sneaking around outside the city has become nights and weekends over at each other’s houses, hers more than mine. Arya and I still have our weekend dates and occasional spontaneous weekly dinners and whatever. And when I am not seeing Arya, I usually find my way to Kimberly. It has become a sort of routine to drop by her place after work most days. Sometimes I pick up dinner. Sometimes she cooks. Occasionally, I demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen, which isn’t half bad if I do say so myself! Often we just hang out. Sometimes, one or the both of us brings work with us. In the beginning, I wouldn’t stay the night if I had an early start the next day. Now, I simply try and ensure that I don’t have a too early start to my day if I can help it!

I like Kimberly’s home. It is warm like mine is not, with her heavy, mismatched furniture, her collection of romance and young adult fiction filling her bookshelves, posters and record covers and photographs covering her walls and her crazy cat Katniss who leaves presents for me in my shoes. A stark contrast to my fancy apartment with its leather and chrome furniture arranged perfectly, the right art on the walls, and photographs chronicling Arya’s and my happy marriage artfully arranged here and there.

We have diametrically opposite tastes in movies but do like the same music, Kimberly and I. She likes to dance, can barely hold a tune and is a very poor drunk. With her, I am more relaxed and indulgent than I have been in awhile. I find that I like talking to Kimberly – discussing work, the world at large, pretty much anything. Except Arya. We both carefully steer clear of any conversations about Arya – she is the elephant in the room that we both manage to ignore with a great deal of success. I enjoy her company more than I expected to. I enjoy her body and the pleasure she gives me. I find that I have grown awfully fond of her – a development that I did not anticipate when this whole thing started. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing – cooking, hanging out, movies and popcorn on the couch, we always end up ending the night together, something that I now realise I have missed in my marriage. I like being in her world, I enjoy the quietness of it that I cannot seem to find anywhere else. And I want to show her new places, give her new experiences, and weirdly enough, protect her. But I’m not in love with her. The love of my life is still Arya.

I know the sneaking around is taking its toll even if Kimberly doesn’t say anything about it. What woman wants to be kept hidden away in her house when she could be out and about, meeting people, making friends, going to parties and stuff like that? If I’m being completely honest with myself, I also know that I am being pretty selfish – that this thing is hurting her even as she gives a little more of herself to me each day. And yet, while I do not envision a happily ever after, complete with picket fences, 2.5 children and a dog, with her, I rather like having her in my life.

Which brings me back to the sleeping woman in my arms and what has been keeping me up. There was a quiet desperation about her lovemaking tonight, for the past few days come to think of it. It feels like she is saying goodbye without saying the words. I tighten my arms around as if by holding her closer, maybe I can hold on to her for a while longer. I know I am being selfish but I cannot say goodbye yet.