Page 6 of Fling

‘Oh perfect. I’ll unload it before I go to work then.’

Tara winced. Because she knew he wouldn’t. But she didn’t want to fight. She didn’t have the energy.

‘Grand,’ Tara said, picking up her handbag to leave. ‘See you this evening then.’

‘See you then.’

Tara sat in the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic on her drive to work. It had been a cruel summer filled with inaccurate forecasts of sunshine followed by downpours of rain. But September was unusually warm this year, she noticed. As if summer’s heat had been delayed.

It was during her morning commute that Tara performed the daily ritual of thinking about her future. She had always been a daydreamer, and even though she hated her snail-paced drive to work in her blue Nissan Micra, she had mastered the art of forgetting her surroundings and getting lost in a daze of her own thoughts.

Her birthday had passed in June and she was officially thirty-seven years old, although she didn’t do anything to mark the occasion. As the big 4-0 got closer and closer, she felt as if birthdays were something to hide, not celebrate. But despite the fact that the IVF failing felt like a tragic ending to her lifelong ambition, Tara was determined to prove her life was just beginning.

The problem was, she still had no idea what she was meant to do with the rest of it. So many different roads stretched before her, yet here she was, trapped in the inertia of rush hour. If only she knew which lane would fast track her towards her fate. She had spent so many years waiting for another synchronicity, a sign from the universe that she was on the right path.

But no such sign came.

What she would have given to go back in time, to before her marriage began to tear at the seams. Tara didn’t mind that Colin hadn’t highlighted her thirty-seventh birthday. But it killed her that he seemed indifferent to their seventh wedding anniversary. Every year, he would get her a card, a bottle of wine, chocolates and a bouquet of flowers. This year, however, he had only produced a card. And not even a thoughtful, poignant card. A last-minute petrol station anniversary card with a short vacant message. It told her all she needed to know.

He just didn’t seem to care.

Tara’s mother had always told her that every relationship has a flower and a gardener. Colin had always tended to her, nourishing her needs without her even having to ask, but since her decision to give up IVF, the dynamics within their marriage had changed. Colin used to be sunshine in human form and she had always been drawn to his light. Now, it seemed as if life had dimmed his spark. She found herself wilting in the shadow of his love rather than basking in its glory. What should have been the summer of her life became a harsh winter of indifference. As he slowly accepted the reality that his flower would bear him no fruit, she felt his desire to garden fade over time.

Maybe she was unable to bear his fruit, but didn’t she still deserve to bloom?

As much as Tara hated to admit it, she did need a man to complete her. She wasn’t a desert wildflower that could survive in solitude. She was a delicate orchid that needed nourishment. She missed her husband, or at least the man he used to be. At times she wished he hated her. It was the indifference she couldn’t bear. Their old fiery repartee had been replaced with cold passive-aggression. Colin now just let her win every argument. ‘Fine, you’re right, I’m wrong,’ he would say submissively. But Tara didn’t want to be right, she didn’t want to win. She wanted him to grab her in his arms and shut her up with a kiss. She wanted him to take her like the wind, the way he had done that night on Nimmo’s Pier.

God, she missed that.

They had always been opposites – that was what once attracted them to one another. Now it seemed like some force had inverted the magnetism that once drew them close. They began pushing each other apart more and more, to the point where they forgot what it was that made them the perfect couple in the first place. It hadn’t happened over night of course, but in a way, that made it worse. It was like she was witnessing her marriage fall apart in slow motion. She feared what another six months would do to them.

Maybe Colin simply wasn’t attracted to her any more. She didn’t exactly exude sex appeal, that much she knew. She felt like her libido’s battery had been on 1 per cent for years but Colin seemed to have zero interest in recharging it. He never went to any effort to make her feel desired and so her desire for him began to fade.

Her sexual drought wasn’t just metaphorical either, it was quite physical as well. At times, she felt dryer than the Sahara down there. Nobody had even told her that could happen. She had searched her symptoms on WebMD and convinced herself she had some kind of terminal illness. Tara had always been a hypochondriac and could turn a headache into a haemorrhage in just a few clicks. Her doctor reassured her, however, that what she was experiencing was a natural part of aging, especially for women who are no longer sexually active. But Tara wanted to be sexually active. She was only thirty-seven, for God’s sake. She didn’t ask for this dry spell. Her clouds were heavy.

She still desired desire.

She longed to be swept off her feet. Sure, she mused, most women like the idea of monogamy, but no woman likes the idea of monotony. Variety was the spice of life. Nothing would turn Tara on more than Colin taking some initiative. He used to be so hungry for new experiences. Like when he surprised her with Interrail passes in college and they had travelled around Europe, making love in a different city every night. Or when he would hear good things about a new restaurant and book them a table without her even needing to ask.

But now, if Tara wanted to do something, she would have to drip the idea into his mind over several weeks. Where had his spontaneity gone? She wasn’t a high-maintenance woman. Even a short road trip would be enough to get her blood pumping. Sitting in the passenger seat, listening to ABBA as Colin had one hand on the wheel and the other gently resting on her inner thigh.

ABBA had always been her favourite band, although most of their music was technically before her time. She’d always had vintage taste. The past just seemed simpler. She didn’t care much for the grunge of the 90s when she was growing up. The rhythm of the 70s spoke to her soul.

But her current life wasn’t worthy of an ABBA Gold score. Her inner soundtrack was a sad cacophony of melancholic minor notes. She wanted music in her life again. The void in her chest was growing, a black hole developing its own gravitational pull. She needed an antidote for the death she was living.

She needed to feel alive.

Tara heard a loud BEEP from the car behind her that jolted her out of her daydream musings and back into reality. The light in front of her was green and she accelerated towards the next section of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

She realized she was running late and momentarily considered driving in the bus lane and zipping past the traffic. But she knew she wouldn’t. Tara often flirted with the idea of doing something bad but she lacked the follow-through. At the end of the day, she always stayed in her lane. She relaxed and reminded herself that she was late every morning, so in a way, she was still on schedule.

With another forty minutes left on her journey, Tara leaned over and turned on the radio to prevent her mind from wandering again. She flicked through the stations until she heard a distraught woman on The Line, a morning chat show where people phoned in to discuss topical issues. The woman was mid-sentence when Tara began listening.

‘. . . I’m honestly sick to my stomach, Joe,’ she whined.

Tara was intrigued. Whatever had happened to this woman, it must have been bad.

‘That’s awful, Mary,’ Joe, the radio show’s host said. ‘And for anyone just joining us on their commute, we’re discussing the new cheating app called Fling, where married people can find discreet, anonymous affairs online.’

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