'What the Sock Man Saw'
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the narrator and the power of narration.
I never thought it would happen to me. No, that's a lie. I'm a writer. I'm supposed to be thinking up stuff like this all the time. I'm sure I must have thought about it. I mean, hasn't everybody? Somewhere along the line I have actually pictured a scenario exactly like this, only I can't remember when or where, so I've fooled myself into believing it never existed.
Nevertheless, it hasn't failed to amaze me thus far, that I am in a bed, next to a beautiful woman. A beautiful, married woman.
I'm not really sure when it all started, the actual moment where I thought it was okay to help someone commit adultery. But now that I'm here, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I wouldn't call it love – at least, I don't think it's love. Not yet anyway – but I'm content where I am, with what I've done, and I have no regrets.
Nicole. She's so incredibly perfect she could make any man do whatever she wanted. I just wondered where she went wrong with her husband, that she needed me. Not that I was, or am, ungrateful, I'm not. I simply wondered why a woman like her would need this, this bliss that I feel. Isn't that what marriage is, eternal bliss? Well, whoever he is, he definitely isn't making her happy.
We've been seeing each other – dating, I suppose you'd call it – for about a month, and in that time I've only seen her truly happy three times – after each time we'd made love. In the beginning, her eyes had seemed distant, sad, aloof. I suppose she must have been torn between her commitment to her husband and the feelings she had for me. But over time, I could see it slowly eroding away, and when she finally asked me over the first time, I knew that she'd managed in some respect, to come to terms with what she was doing.
The second time – the night I'd been so bold as to drive her home myself – she was more content with the situation, less fidgety and nervous. I was glad. She'd told me a little about her husband during the car ride, and I'd grown to dislike him immensely. From the way she talked about him, however, I could tell she had really loved him once. There was still a twinge of sadness there, but when she looked at me, her eyes told me I was hers.
As we passed the bookshelf by the stairs, I released her mouth from mine to remove my shoes and socks – I just have this thing about wearing shoes upstairs. She laughed as I caught my toe on an errant thread, and that was when I noticed the red stripe on my sock. I thought at the time that maybe I'd put it in with the colours that week, and continued my way up the stairs, my mind filled with other, more important things.
Later that night I heard the sound of a car door slam, and my heartbeat raced ahead, my mind already anticipating danger. I held my breath, and stole a glance at Nicole, who had heard nothing, and was sleeping soundly. There was a brief moment of silence before a faint rattling and grunting disturbed the peaceful night air. I carefully extracted myself from the strangled sheets that lay around me, and made my way to the coolness of the window that looked out onto the street. A man in a baseball cap and flannel was beating up my car. My nervousness and anticipation was replaced with anger, followed immediately by confusion – what was he doing? Who was he?
As the minutes passed and my car revealed no signs of giving in, I became slightly amused at the whole situation – obviously the guy had serious road- rage issues (either that, or he had an alcohol problem) and needed them sorted out, the sooner the better. Unfortunately for me, someone else had also heard the noise, and had called the cops, and my middle-of-the-night entertainment was removed from the scene.
Hours later, after we'd made love again (she'd been woken up by the sound of the cops leaving and I had been overcome by a deep sense of romanticism), I was lying on my back, listening to the rustling of the leaves outside and Nicole's soft breathing, when I heard a car pull up right outside the window. I got the strange sensation of déjà vu, as my heart rate predictably sped up, and my ears strained to hear the sounds that were bound to follow. But there was nothing. It was quiet for a moment, not even the sound of a door opening and closing – just air – and I thought for a minute that maybe I'd imagined it.
Then there it was. The signature sound of a car door opening and closing, only instead of one door, I distinctly heard two, followed by two voices – one male and one female. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was simply a couple returning from a night on the town.
That is until I heard the words 'stupid dent-resistant panels' and then a gruff voice angrily map out the movements that Nicole and I had made earlier that evening –
"...she sat there, they got out there, walked up there..."
And I knew. My midnight entertainer hadn't been there to entertain anyone, least of all me. He'd been there on a mission of discovery and revenge. His violent behaviour towards my car hadn't been so arbitrary after all.
The man in the flannel was Luke.
Afraid that we might actually be discovered, I hurried to get dressed, and went over to the chair under the window to retrieve my pants. I caught a glimpse of the couple below as I bent toward my clothes.
She was wearing a light, pink coat, and her long, brown hair fell in soft waves down the side of her face. He had taken to kicking the car again, and had yelled out names that he thought would fall on deaf ears. I watched as she calmed him down, and he touched her hand as if reassuring her that he was indeed 'fine'. I heard them talk for a while longer, and then watched as she gently reached out and rubbed his back and his hunched shoulders, and as she slowly worked her way down his flannel-clad arms until she reached his hand, and took it in her own.
I heard a muttered but sincere 'thanks' escape his lips, and I knew that he meant it, with all his heart.
"You see what I have to compete with?"
I had been so absorbed in their little scene I hadn't heard Nicole sneak up behind me.
"He's in love with her, you know," she continued, resolutely. "He never admits to it, but he is, and I know it... And he knows that I know it. So you see, you don't have to feel so bad about sleeping with me. He's cheating on me too."
And I saw that she was right.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the narrator and the power of narration.
I never thought it would happen to me. No, that's a lie. I'm a writer. I'm supposed to be thinking up stuff like this all the time. I'm sure I must have thought about it. I mean, hasn't everybody? Somewhere along the line I have actually pictured a scenario exactly like this, only I can't remember when or where, so I've fooled myself into believing it never existed.
Nevertheless, it hasn't failed to amaze me thus far, that I am in a bed, next to a beautiful woman. A beautiful, married woman.
I'm not really sure when it all started, the actual moment where I thought it was okay to help someone commit adultery. But now that I'm here, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I wouldn't call it love – at least, I don't think it's love. Not yet anyway – but I'm content where I am, with what I've done, and I have no regrets.
Nicole. She's so incredibly perfect she could make any man do whatever she wanted. I just wondered where she went wrong with her husband, that she needed me. Not that I was, or am, ungrateful, I'm not. I simply wondered why a woman like her would need this, this bliss that I feel. Isn't that what marriage is, eternal bliss? Well, whoever he is, he definitely isn't making her happy.
We've been seeing each other – dating, I suppose you'd call it – for about a month, and in that time I've only seen her truly happy three times – after each time we'd made love. In the beginning, her eyes had seemed distant, sad, aloof. I suppose she must have been torn between her commitment to her husband and the feelings she had for me. But over time, I could see it slowly eroding away, and when she finally asked me over the first time, I knew that she'd managed in some respect, to come to terms with what she was doing.
The second time – the night I'd been so bold as to drive her home myself – she was more content with the situation, less fidgety and nervous. I was glad. She'd told me a little about her husband during the car ride, and I'd grown to dislike him immensely. From the way she talked about him, however, I could tell she had really loved him once. There was still a twinge of sadness there, but when she looked at me, her eyes told me I was hers.
As we passed the bookshelf by the stairs, I released her mouth from mine to remove my shoes and socks – I just have this thing about wearing shoes upstairs. She laughed as I caught my toe on an errant thread, and that was when I noticed the red stripe on my sock. I thought at the time that maybe I'd put it in with the colours that week, and continued my way up the stairs, my mind filled with other, more important things.
Later that night I heard the sound of a car door slam, and my heartbeat raced ahead, my mind already anticipating danger. I held my breath, and stole a glance at Nicole, who had heard nothing, and was sleeping soundly. There was a brief moment of silence before a faint rattling and grunting disturbed the peaceful night air. I carefully extracted myself from the strangled sheets that lay around me, and made my way to the coolness of the window that looked out onto the street. A man in a baseball cap and flannel was beating up my car. My nervousness and anticipation was replaced with anger, followed immediately by confusion – what was he doing? Who was he?
As the minutes passed and my car revealed no signs of giving in, I became slightly amused at the whole situation – obviously the guy had serious road- rage issues (either that, or he had an alcohol problem) and needed them sorted out, the sooner the better. Unfortunately for me, someone else had also heard the noise, and had called the cops, and my middle-of-the-night entertainment was removed from the scene.
Hours later, after we'd made love again (she'd been woken up by the sound of the cops leaving and I had been overcome by a deep sense of romanticism), I was lying on my back, listening to the rustling of the leaves outside and Nicole's soft breathing, when I heard a car pull up right outside the window. I got the strange sensation of déjà vu, as my heart rate predictably sped up, and my ears strained to hear the sounds that were bound to follow. But there was nothing. It was quiet for a moment, not even the sound of a door opening and closing – just air – and I thought for a minute that maybe I'd imagined it.
Then there it was. The signature sound of a car door opening and closing, only instead of one door, I distinctly heard two, followed by two voices – one male and one female. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was simply a couple returning from a night on the town.
That is until I heard the words 'stupid dent-resistant panels' and then a gruff voice angrily map out the movements that Nicole and I had made earlier that evening –
"...she sat there, they got out there, walked up there..."
And I knew. My midnight entertainer hadn't been there to entertain anyone, least of all me. He'd been there on a mission of discovery and revenge. His violent behaviour towards my car hadn't been so arbitrary after all.
The man in the flannel was Luke.
Afraid that we might actually be discovered, I hurried to get dressed, and went over to the chair under the window to retrieve my pants. I caught a glimpse of the couple below as I bent toward my clothes.
She was wearing a light, pink coat, and her long, brown hair fell in soft waves down the side of her face. He had taken to kicking the car again, and had yelled out names that he thought would fall on deaf ears. I watched as she calmed him down, and he touched her hand as if reassuring her that he was indeed 'fine'. I heard them talk for a while longer, and then watched as she gently reached out and rubbed his back and his hunched shoulders, and as she slowly worked her way down his flannel-clad arms until she reached his hand, and took it in her own.
I heard a muttered but sincere 'thanks' escape his lips, and I knew that he meant it, with all his heart.
"You see what I have to compete with?"
I had been so absorbed in their little scene I hadn't heard Nicole sneak up behind me.
"He's in love with her, you know," she continued, resolutely. "He never admits to it, but he is, and I know it... And he knows that I know it. So you see, you don't have to feel so bad about sleeping with me. He's cheating on me too."
And I saw that she was right.