Page 17

Katrina

Katrina drives away from Elijah feeling immediate pangs of regret and longing.

At the end of the street, she looks in her rearview mirror, and he is still standing there, at the place they said their goodbyes, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

She holds a breath in her chest. It occupies every nook and cranny of her lungs.

When she releases it, she doesn’t feel relief or peace; she feels empty, deflated.

She is not only driving back to her regular life today; she is leaving behind the possibility of a better one.

It’s after midnight when she finally gets home.

The house is quiet. Everyone is in bed. She makes herself a cup of chamomile, hoping it will relax her enough that she can sleep.

She is simultaneously exhausted and wired.

She goes to the living room, sits on the couch.

It’s nice—sitting alone, in the quiet. She can’t remember the last time she’s done this. When would she have time to just sit ?

She finds his number in her phone, under E. She smiles like a giddy schoolgirl just looking at it. She shakes her head in disbelief at herself.

When she was at his apartment, she saw mail on his kitchen counter, made a note of his last name: Baker.

It would be prudent to know his last name in case he did show serial killer tendencies, after all.

And as importantly, she foresaw her desire to google him, to comfort herself with whatever images of him were on the internet for all the world to see.

Google reveals more Elijah Bakers than she expected, the most prominent being an English actor.

When she scrolls through images, she sees several photos of the actor, along with an older musician and a Baptist preacher.

A few clicks in, she finds him, a headshot on LinkedIn.

His profile is sparse and doesn’t offer any information she doesn’t already know, but she appreciates the photo, saves it to her phone.

She opens the Instagram app, hoping for more.

Elijah doesn’t seem like the type to have much of a social media presence, but he is a millennial, and she assumes an Instagram profile, at the very least, is required of millennials.

When she types in his name, she is confronted with a plethora of Elijah Bakers.

Most are easy to dismiss just based on the little circular image alone—he’s not a white guy, he’s not a super-dark-skinned Black guy, he’s not a twelve-year-old, he’s not a bikini-clad woman (this one makes no sense).

There is one profile picture that is a lighthouse, and she wonders if that’s him.

When she taps it, the profile is private, though.

All she can see is that the account has only three posts, sixteen followers, and twenty-seven followees.

She takes the last sip of her tea, sets the mug on the coffee table, briefly wonders why it’s called a coffee table and not a tea table. She’s slightly delirious. It’s nearly one o’clock at this point, and she should go to bed.

She wants to text him. She could ask him for a photo, a keepsake of sorts.

She wishes she’d given him her number so he could be the one responsible for reaching out.

As it is, it’s up to her, and she’s told herself explicitly that she won’t.

What would be the point? It would only prolong that overwhelming melancholy she felt while driving away from him, wouldn’t it?

She closes her eyes, strokes her soft belly, pretending her hand is his.

She remembers doing this as a teenager, kissing the back of her own hand, imagining her skin to be the lips of her crush.

Her hand slides beneath the waistband of her pants.

She has to keep her eyes closed because if she sees herself doing this, she will feel too foolish to continue. And she wants to continue.

That word blares in her mind, like a neon sign— masturbate .

Such an ugly, blunt word for such a delicate thing.

It sounds more like a word for beating something into submission—eggs, dough.

What she is doing is not that. What she is doing is sweet and sensual, a little desperate maybe.

Her fingers are nothing like Elijah’s long, thin fingers, but the imagination is a powerful thing.

Within minutes, she makes herself orgasm, something she hasn’t done since she was a teenager alone in her twin-size bed, hormones instructing her to do things that her brain didn’t understand.

She opens her eyes, satisfied, pleasantly surprised.

Well, look at you, she thinks to herself with more than a little bit of pride.

She didn’t know she could still do that, hasn’t felt compelled to even try in years.

Then, with that surge of empowerment to blame, she picks up her phone and just does it:

Hi. It’s me. Katrina.

She doesn’t expect a response because it’s one in the morning. But just as she stands to take her mug to the kitchen, she sees three dots on the screen. She stops, heart hammering away in her chest.

Him: You have no idea how happy I am right now

She sits exactly where she is, right there on the wood floor, because her head is light and fizzy and she might faint. She doesn’t know what to say and is thankful when he writes more:

I was hoping you’d text. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I was staying up to see if you would

She sets her mug on the floor next to her, holds the phone in both hands, staring at it as if it is the Hope Diamond.

Oh god, I’m sorry to keep you up so late

Him: Do not apologize. Please. How was the drive?

Uneventful. Home safe and sound. Kind of wish I was still there

Just as she’s wincing, chastising herself for her cheesy admission, he puts her at ease with his own.

I wish you were still here too. I keep thinking about you.

Me too

Him: I know this week is busy for you ... Can you come next weekend? Or I’ll come there

She tries to picture Elijah in her house. It’s as ludicrous as imagining a circus elephant sitting in a chair at the kitchen table.

I don’t know . . .

She does know. Or she’s supposed to know. She’s supposed to say No, absolutely not. But she does not say that. She lets Elijah know, with a single ellipsis, that she is considering it, or at least considering considering it.

Him: I’ll take that as a maybe

She has the stupidest smile on her face, the kind of smile that will make her cheeks hurt if held too long.

I should really go to bed ...

Him: Ok . I hope you have sweet dreams, Kit Kat.

The stupid smile remains.

You too

He adds a heart emoji, and she sends one back.

It is shamefully teenage, and the person she was two days ago would feign barfing at this type of thing.

Something has happened to her, and while her rational brain tells her it’s quite catastrophic, her reckless heart, still hammering away, has a different opinion.

The next day, in the midst of her regular-life duties, the stupid smile remains on her face, and her husband says, “You’re in a good mood” with a tone of relief and hope. She has not been in a “good mood” in a while.

“I am, actually,” she tells him.

When she got into bed the night before, he was sound asleep, definitely not kept up with worry about her getting home safe and sound.

“I thought you’d be tired.”

She shrugs, as if she’s a person who has a very take-it-or-leave-it approach to sleep (she has never, ever been this person).

“I am tired, but it’s okay.”

He looks suspicious, as he should. Suspicious of the mood, skeptical of its duration.

He wouldn’t suspect her of having a lover.

Is that the correct term for Elijah? A lover ?

She likes it. It feels very French. In any case, her husband has never had a good imagination, and picturing her with a lover would require a good deal of imagination.

Practically speaking, it would seem outrageous to him. When would she have the time?

She texts Elijah throughout the day, which makes the grind of her life much more tolerable, less soul crushing.

Maybe this has been the answer to the drudgery—a lover.

She likes going through the motions with this secret in her head.

It’s similar to how she felt when she was newly pregnant, when she was walking around with a private dream growing inside her.

At the grocery store, instead of dragging her feet up and down the aisles, she nearly skips.

While emptying the dishwasher, she starts humming to herself.

Humming! She is more patient and forgiving toward the world, the type of woman who lets out a genuine laugh when someone steps on the heel of her shoe: Oh, whoops, no worries!

By the end of the day, she has decided that she deserves this kind of joy. She has earned this kind of joy.

I was thinking ... maybe I will come see you next weekend

She could swing it. It would be fun to see Elijah one more time. This time she would be less dazed and confused, more assured. This time she would not be a woman tiptoeing into infidelity; she would be a woman launching herself into it, arms open, eyes wild.

He responds to her text with a GIF of Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air doing his happy dance, which prompts her to reply:

You’re too young to know that show

Him: Nah. Everyone knows that show. It’s a mac-and-cheese show

A mac-and-cheese show?

Him: A comfort food type show

Ha

Him: I like how you say “ha” when something is funny

Ha

This banter has made the day go by quickly. It has made her children seem more delightful than they usually are. It has made errands less burdensome. It is a salve, this banter. She is already addicted to it, the rush of seeing his name appear, the anticipation, the giddiness.

Returning to the topic of her visiting him again, he says:

I can’t wait

Me neither

Him: How is it only Monday?

I don’t know, but at least it’s the end of Monday. You’ve made it much better than Mondays usually are

She wants to hear his voice, to see him, to confirm the reality of him. But it’s not feasible to have a phone call, let alone FaceTime. There is always another human being near her. Texting, for now, will have to do.

I can’t wait to hold you

I can’t wait to kiss you

Their sappy messages go on like this until she tells him she has to go to sleep.

She is in bed texting, daring her husband to say something.

He just stares at his own phone, looking at sports scores like the stereotypical husband he is, until he falls asleep, the phone on his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

If he ever finds out about Elijah, she hopes he blames his own obliviousness. He won’t, of course, but he should.

“Good night,” she whispers to him, though she doubts he can hear her. He is the type of person who enters a deep sleep approximately four seconds after closing his eyes.

He doesn’t respond, as expected. He’s on his back, meaning he’ll be snoring soon.

She gently pushes him, and he rolls onto his side with a grunt.

Perhaps if he gave her the courtesy of a good night , if their communication involved something more substantial than grunts, she would feel more guilt about Elijah.

As it is, she feels no guilt. She feels only exhilaration.