The elevator shuddered to a halt. The words died in her mouth mid-sentence. An elderly couple crept into the elevator. Tyra instantly envied their synchronicity and sense of togetherness. They looked like each other, walked like each other, and even spoke like each other.
Fortunately, they did not seemed to have noticed her little pep rally of one. The elevator resumed its downward motion with ruthless efficiency.
She stepped out, steadied herself, and marched forward.
Tyra could not believe she was doing this. She supposed that the first time was always the hardest. It probably got easier after that. Much easier. Pleasurable, even. Yes, she was sure of it! She would eventually get used to it, and even enjoy it. Fucking revel in it.
Gritting her teeth, Tyra squared her shoulders and powered through the lobby, flagged down the Uber she had booked from her apartment, and dumped herself into its ratty, vomit-scented seat. She felt rage and despair, both at herself and at Ronnie for not being able to make everything work as effortlessly as he had initially promised it would.
A tear slid out of her eye. She crushed it ruthlessly.
“He wanted a slut…” she whispered, “so he’ll fucking get one.”
Maybe this was why so many women cheated so often. Rage, not lust, was their true sin. And perhaps somewhere along the way, they started doing the deed for its own sake. Yes, hang on to the rage… the rage was good. The rage against…
Against what, really? A loving, supportive husband whose needs she could not meet?
Her ride skidded to a stop outside a posh restaurant. It looked like the sort that people two or three rungs above her in the social ladder frequented. She swallowed her saliva, bile, and inadequacy all at once before stepping in.
Her date was a tall, dark man chiseled out of obsidian and carved from mahogany darkwood. His cheekbones were sharp, and his cleft chin impossibly smooth and stubble-free. Though he looked fairly advanced in years, his movements were crisp, deliberate, and elegant. One got the impression that he said only exactly what he meant to and had to say, and did only exactly what he wanted to do. His face appeared cold and predatory at rest, but metamorphosed into kindliness itself when she introduced herself. His name was Darcy. Darcy Blum.
They made small talk at first: The weather, the horrible New York traffic, the dire state of affairs of this world, which would invariably end within a month or so. They were talking about the nature of love and starting to edge into the many ways lust was intertwined with it when Tyra suddenly stood up, excused herself, and walked over to the bathroom.
She closed the stall door behind her, knelt, and threw up.
“No,” she finally admitted. “No, I just can’t! I mustn’t!”
Saying the obvious felt surprisingly good. She exited the stall and went to touch up her makeup. More procrastination before ripping off the bandaid, she knew. She dabbed at her jawline, adding some foundation to accentuate the feature she was so proud of.
For a moment, she wondered why her reflection was in the wrong place; it was too far to the right, and it was wearing the wrong clothes: A brightly colored halter top that screamed single or not, I‘m ready to mingle! and a scarlet skirt that would not have looked out of place in an erotically-charged fantasy movie.
Then, the other woman turned back to applying her eyeliner, and the spell was broken. She had looked just like Tyra’s twin when she had turned to contour her jaw in the mirror. Her eyes met Tyra’s in the mirror, took in her ruined mascara, and she smiled gently.
“Boy troubles?”
“Husband.” Tyra said.
“Yeah, well. Hang in there… or don’t. Shit will just keep getting worse until you clean it up or get the fuck outta dodge.”
The other woman returned to applying her eyeliner, then checked her jaw in the mirror once more.
“You really look like me from this angle,” Tyra said.
“You mean you really look like me from this angle. No offense meant, of course.” The other woman added hastily.
“Huh?”
“You don’t know? Take a look at me. Isn’t it obvious what I do for a living?” She spun around to twerk and let out an affected little moan. Tyra blushed.
“You mean…”
“Sex work is work.” The woman met Tyra’s eyes challengingly.
Tyra took a deep breath that burned with the smell of mingled deodorant and atomized piss. The camera in her handbag suddenly felt very heavy.
“Uh… hey. So… I feel like our meeting here must have been fate.”
“I’m sorry, I might be a sex worker, but I don’t do gay stuff. No offense, if that’s what you’re into.”
“No, I’m not asking for that exactly. I just need to… well… how much for an hour of your time?”
“To do what? Again, no offense, but I’ve already told you I’m not interested in doing anything with you. I mean, well, if you want me to hold your hand on a dinner date I suppose I could do that. But making out is the most I’m willing to do with you.”
“Well… you see…”
The woman’s name was Mellie. She was definitely a professional in that she did not charge a single cent extra, even when seeing the desperation on Tyra’s face.
***
Tyra returned from her assignation with Darcy, dazed at having been so brazen and forward in the bedroom. The instructions she had given, the things that had been done at her behest… they seemed so surreal, so out of character, that she thought the evening had all been a dream.
Back at her apartment door, her sense of relief that it was all over (at least for now) was soured by the light creeping through from the crack beneath it. Ronnie wasn’t supposed to be back home this early!
“Surprise!” Ronnie said, bursting out with a huge, shit-eating grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in the other. Her guilt only grew worse when she saw that the apartment had been tidied-up and spruced up with tinsel. All the pictures that they had of each other (Ronnie had a surprising love of print photographs for a man who lived in the digital age) had been dusted off, and one or two had even been reframed.
“Hey!” Tyra said, “you’re home early!”
“Oh, I know,” Ronnie said, sweeping her up with one arm in a hug (he was strong) and pressing himself to her. She felt his hardness again, and once more felt a wave of guilt. He did not deserve this, did not deserve to be lied to when he had so much for her even before their marriage, and was continuing to do so much for her, to save her, even, every single day they lived together.
She opened her mouth to tell him the truth, to tell him what had really happened while he had awaited her at home, but her lips and tongue failed her when she saw the pure joy shining from his eyes, felt the excitement in his grasp, and saw him practically tap-dance across the floor in his excitement at seeing her return.
“I love you, babe,” was all she could say.
“Oh, I love you too,” he said.
The moment she had dreaded all along arrived: Ronnie’s eyes fell on her handbag. “Oooh. Do you have a surprise for me too?”
She smiled weakly. “Yes.”
Her husband practically leapt at her bag. She had to tear him off and tell him to behave himself, smiling coyly and pretending to be someone she was not… just like she had done an hour or so before.