Page 12 of Woman on the Verge

On that same podcast, the psychologist said that men and women have affairs in equal numbers. It’s just that women are more secretive about it. After all, it’s more shameful for a woman to stray. There are scarlet letterAs for women. For men, cheating scandals are very ho hum. A good percentage of the world’s leaders are adulterers, and most people can’t be bothered to care. Those poor men can’t be blamed for their biology—they are made to spread their seed, they are governed by their base instincts. Poor men and their ambitious penises.

When Katrina was in high school, it was well known that the history teacher, Mr. Adams, cheated on his wife with the English teacher, Ms. Pressley. Some of the kids started calling her “Ms. Press Me,” which didn’t make a ton of sense, but the gist was that Ms. Pressley was a slutty home-wrecker. She ended up leaving the school—by force or of her own accord, it was never clear. Mr. Adams stayed. He seemed disheveled anddidn’t wear his wedding ring for a few weeks, but then it was back. The students were left to assume that he had been properly reproached by his wife and would now be better behaved.

What if Katrina did go back to Elijah’s apartment? Maybe they would just make out like teenagers. She deserved a little fun, didn’t she? Even if they had sex, was that so awful? She might return to her husband a better wife if she had some excitement for once.

She scours her mental Rolodex of friends and acquaintances, wondering which ones would be most likely to have a one-night stand like the one she is considering having. It reminds her of when they learned in high school that one in five people has herpes and she and her four friends all looked at each other, trying to decipher which one of them it would be. The consensus was that it would be Kristen. They arrived at this consensus behind Kristen’s back, of course.

Truthfully, she can’t imagine any of the women she knows having one-night stands. It’s not that they seem blissful in their marriages; it’s just that they are sobusy. When would they have time to sneak off to a bar and meet their own Elijah? They are all mothers. They have bedtime routines to manage. They spend most waking hours in faded black leggings. A few weeks ago, she never would have been able to imagine herself in this scenario either. It’s a unique circumstance, a circumstance not accessible to most women she knows. For better or worse.

“Where would you want to go ... to keep talking?” she asks him.

There is a twinkle in her own eye now, she can feel it. His smile conveys mischief. They are in on this together.

“You’re welcome to come to my place. It’s a short walk.”

“Just a few blocks,” she says. “You mentioned that.”

“Just a few blocks.”

“It would be nice to get out of this noisy bar.”

“It is very noisy.”

“Okay then, let’s go,” Katrina says.

She takes out her wallet, and he places his hand on her hand, which sends a jolt through her system. She didn’t think she was capable of feeling such jolts anymore. It’s as if his hands are those paddles paramedics use to revive the nearly dead.

“Let me,” he says, taking out his wallet. He leaves cash on the bar top.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“My mother would have my head if I didn’t.”

Before she can think up a quip about him being a mama’s boy, he says, “Come on,” then takes her hand and leads her out of the bar.

The night air is cold, but his hand is warm. She tries to picture what her husband would think if he were walking down the street and saw her with this gorgeous man, leaning into his side, holding his hand. He wouldn’t believe it. He would blink his eyes in disbelief. Because it is, truly, unbelievable. When she wakes up tomorrow, she will doubt her memory. She will question what really happened. This night, the magic of it, will seem like a fever dream.

“It’s right here,” he says, pointing to a high-rise, the reflection of the Hilton logo from the hotel next door shining in his eyes.

This is her chance to sayYou know what, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, but I think this is where I’ll say goodbye.

She considers it. She doesn’t owe him anything. She knows that. But does she owe herself something? She tries to think of the last time she did somethingfor her, the last time she embarked on any action that was not in service to another human being. There was that massage last month. She’d had to ask the woman to ease up on the pressure. She was sore for days after.

He must sense her hesitation because he says, “I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

She laughs.

“That sounds like something a serial killer would say.”

He laughs.

“If you don’t want to come up, it’s totally fi—”

She puts a finger to his lips, a bold move that surprises him, judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. It surprises her too. She likes this version of herself, this confident, knows-what-she-wants version. The psychologist on that podcast said women have affairs not because they fall in love with someone else, but because they fall in love with who they are when they are with someone else.

Not that this is an affair.

“I want to come up,” she says.

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