Maya was my third girlfriend, right after I met D. This new development happened rather unexpectedly earlier this week, when I was "bored" and started googling random people I used to know, especially since I thought she moved to Hong Kong after we both left Chicago. It turned out that she started working at A Corp., a large, multinational conglomerate based in that little city of ours, and appeared to be quite high up. Her photo was so brightly adorned with all her shiny resume items collated in the "biographical" paragraph on their website, under "leadership and management", that my eyes didn't hesitate to moisten when I saw it.
I wrote her an E-mail immediately. I used her company E-mail, and said stoically, Dear Ms. Maya, This is so-and-so from this and that company. Please give me a call at such-and-such number.
She called that afternoon, on my cell phone. I saw her name flashing, and realized that her contact must have been carried over when I purged my old flip phone directory to the online synchronization repository. My heart tightened.
"Hey you." Her voice was deeply familiar.
"Hey. How have you been?"
The conversation was easy, like riding a bicycle. She's moved here not long ago. She had to run and asked if I would be interested in having dinner on Friday with her.
I said, "sure."
I told D I needed to stay late for a client dinner. We went to an artisanal pizza place. I had a pizza with artichoke heart and prawns. She had a pizza with lobster, lyme and Gouda. We bought a bottle of wine, though I only had half a glass. She seemed a bit reckless after downing at least 3 full glasses.
She definitely noticed my ring. I definitely noticed how she didn't have one.
She's still single, though I suppose in our age bracket these days it's not so rare anymore. She told me about her "disaster" romances after me, "one guy had a the world's tiniest penis." I feigned shock, but I knew she was flirting with me.
"So where is your wife?"
I knew it would come up, and I gravitated toward pretending to be a mature, comfortable, content, responsible yet deeply reserved adult--the image of Gregory Peck in "to Kill a Mocking Bird." I felt slightly wrong, slightly guilty, slightly devious, looking directly at her face while fantasizing about her round, perfectly dimpled breasts underneath her brightly red velvet dress. Was it velvet or silk, I couldn't tell. A simple, comfortable dinner dress so hopelessly inviting to my large, fleshy fingers with their brutally unkempt hairy knuckles. Does Atticus Finch have the same thoughts? Does he masturbate? He has no wife. I can feel my member slowly, campily engorging in my wool trousers, and sweat slowly oozing out of my forehead follicles. I nervously wiped my face with the napkin.
I drove home rather blankly. D was in bed, and I wanted to rape her. Suddenly I felt fat and unattractive, and a thought occurred to me that perhaps this was what half of the world felt like constantly. That night D obliged to fuck me, and in the instant of my ecstasy, Maya's pink, round, soft nipples flashed in front of my eyes as I sighed, emitting my desperation deeply into someone else. I stared emptily into the mirror in front of the foamy mattress that bore witness to my hundreds of pathetic orgasms, and D was sleeping next to me, purring quietly like a kitten.