The second Thursday of the month. Also known as October 9th, but in the Kou house, it's the night that is reserved for having sex.
Pathetic, right? Seiya and I actually have to pen in when we're going to get laid. It started years ago, when Elsie and Alex were little, and time was practically impossible to find. Couple that with toddler separation anxiety, Elsie crawling into our bed almost every night, and complete and total stress of, well, life, our sex life became nonexistent. Pathetic isn't strong enough; pitiful was more like it. We were maybe 26, 27 years old when this began.
At first, it was exciting having our "planned day." You had a whole day just to think about having sex later that night. Flirty texts, sexy underwear picked ou, random statements about how I was going to do this or that to him throughout the day, be it on the phone, or soft whisperings as we passed each other in the hallway. It was like extended foreplay. Couple that with the fact that birth control kept me pretty regular, the second Thursday of the month never seemed to interfere with my period.
Six years later, we've somehow managed to keep that one promise alive. Only difference is, it is no wear near as sexy and exciting as it used to be. Not by a long shot.
Currently, I am laying in my bed, peeking my head over Seiya's shoulder, as he continues to thrust inside me. Forensic Files is currently on, an episode I haven't seen before, and I'd much rather listen to the deep, stimulating tone of Peter Thomas' voice describing forensic science than I am listening to Seiya grunt. In fact, I didn't really want to tonight, but the last time I tried postponing our ritual, even by a day, Seiya was surprisingly pissed. He actually felt that this was important for our relationship, to stay connected, to be husband and wife. I never, ever, ever imagined him saying something so… romantic, I guess? So, I never postponed it again. However, there are times, like tonight, for instance, where sex is merely just a physical act rather than passionate. I didn't even bother to remove my shirt.
Then again, neither did he.
I feel his pace quicken, and I can tell he is about to finish. In an attempt to help, uh, push him along, I rake my fingers through his dampened hair and start massaging at his crown. He lets out a moan before he goes rigid, and I know that he is letting out his release. The head massage always, without fail, gets him.
He pulls out and gets off the bed, all while slipping the condom off and wrapping it in a wad of tissues. Every time I see the condom I feel my stomach lurch, but then I remind myself that it's far, far better to use double protection than go through the agony of a potential living third child again.
Maybe that's where our marriage died. Losing a child, let alone a baby girl named Hope at 22 weeks, can change anyone. We both agreed no more children after we lost our little one. The pain was unbearable. Elsie was six and Alex had just turned five, so thankfully they don't carry the heavy burden of losing their sibling. They know who Hope was, but that's all she was: a baby that only lived in Mommy's tummy.
I shudder, shaking my head to stop thinking of these thoughts.
"I'm going to go shower," I announce to Seiya, and he grunts in return. He has already managed to put on his shorts and begin to doze on the pillow when I go into our bathroom, eager to get under the warm stream of water, the one place that I can let myself be free.
Seiya thinks I need the shower to rinse off after we've had sex, but honestly, it's the only time in a month that I truly get to be alone. I make sure that I don't think about schedules, or work, or soccer games, or PTA shit when I'm in the shower at night. When I rinse off in the morning, it's literally just suds and go. This is my time to take a deep breath, use my favorite foaming body wash, and come down from my stressors.
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the ground and walk into the hot shower, immediately blasted by water that I know is too hot for my body, but man, it feels good. Knots release in my limbs that I have become accustomed to, the droplets of hot water piercing my skin. In this moment, I truly feel alive.
I open up my body wash, A Thousand Wishes by Bath and Body Works, and take in a greedy inhale. I've been using this body wash for the last five years, and each time I open it I can't help but take a whiff. It smells like champagne and peonies, it lathers like butter, and when I pair it with my accompanying body lotion, the scent sticks to me. In fact, I prefer it to harsh perfumes and sprays, always finding my body's chemistry does not mesh well with colognes.
To be perfectly honest, I actually feel less stressed out than I usually am. Ever since we hired our nanny and I didn't have to shuffle the kids to practices two, three times a week, I've actually found balance for the first time in five years. I'm home every night at 5:30. I can actually make a dinner that isn't poured out of a box. I've become more productive at work because I'm not dropping what I'm working on only to pick it up an hour later and hit my restart button.
To my surprise, Seiya put the wheels in motion and within a week, we had Kakyuu driving our kids to their sporting events right after school, or picking them up and bringing them back here. In fact, she has already in the short time she's worked for us surprised us with homemade treats, tidied up our kitchen area, helped Alex and Elsie with their homework, and truly befriended my children. I know it has only been two weeks, but this woman is a savior in my books. We pay her $40 cash for the day, and in return, she's a very happy college student only having to burn 3 hours out of her day for us.
Win-win.
Also, the fact that she is a duel Information Technology and Early Education major? I think we hit the jackpot in nannies.
I stand in the stream of water and bask in the silence, deciding to cease my thinking for the remainder. The water feels cathartic, washing away the monotony of my days. I close my eyes and listen to the soft music on my iPod shuffling, soft, classical music filling the bathroom void. I'm a sucker for classical music; it really began when I played the violin in school, but only grew in appreciation the older I became. Funny enough, I use classical music to calm my nerves at work when I'm stressed or on deadline. I find that my brainpower becomes more sharp, more concentrated when I'm streaming Beethoven, or Chopin, and especially Bach. How that man conducts an orchestra, it gives me chills. I've always wanted to go to the Orchestra. We have a pretty good one here in Seattle, but it's probably at the bottom of Seiya's list of activities for us to do together. I've never pushed on it, mainly because our time alone together is so infrequent. His family is in the Midwest, my parents live an hour away, and with our schedules, the kids schedules, and everything in between, date nights are usually us watching a movie on the couch.
At least it's something.
I feel the water temperature changing drastically, signaling to me the end of the hot water. Reluctantly, I turn off the faucet and open the shower curtain, wrap myself with a clean laundered towel, and make my way to the mirror, which is surprisingly unfogged, thanks to the fan and the cracked window combo I've mastered over the years. Mechanically, I twist off the lid to my moisturizer and scoop some into my fingertips, rubbing away at my dull skin, hoping to prevent any more wrinkles I know are impending in my future for a brief moment of time.
My fingers stop as I stare at my reflection. I can't help but scrutinize my appearance, from the dark circles, to the faint laugh lines encompassing my mouth, the canvas of my skin sadly paints the image of a tired, aging woman. My heart drops; I'm only 34. Surely wrinkles aren't supposed to arrive just yet, are they? Shaking my head, I pick up my brush and blow dryer and begin drying my hair. Wet hair and bedtime leave a disaster for me, so I take the five minutes to par-dry my hair. As I pull the strands of blonde through my brush, I can't help but inspect for grays. Turning the dryer off, I briefly part my hair, holding my breath in case I find one, before exhaling when I don't see one.
I shouldn't be feeling this old just yet. I mean, I get that I'm a mom, a wife, and I work to make a living, but I shouldn't be standing here, fretting over gray hair, or wrinkles, or anything. With that final thought, my eye catches the scale in the corner, but in favor of saving myself more heartache, I retreat into my bedroom. Seiya's out cold, Peter Thomas' voice still crooning forensics into the dead air, before I turn the TV off. I slip on my pajamas – a t-shirt and pair of worn out yoga pants – before I climb into bed.
As I close my eyes, I let out a discontent sigh.
Second Thursday of the month routine complete.
#
Clicking keys of the keyboard. Ringing phone. Printer beeping. Shuffling footsteps.
It is the sound of the office environment, noises I have become quite accustomed with; so much, that when I'm working on, well, pretty much anything, my mind completely drowns it out.
One noise I have not become accustomed to? Darien Shields. On his phone. All. The. Freaking. Time.
I swear, the day that they are able to adhere a Bluetooth chip into your brain, he is going to be the first person in line to get it installed. He is ALWAYS on that thing. I'm pretty sure he takes a leak and a conference call at the same time. But that's not even the worst of it! He has me filter out the call, then he forwards the call to his cell phone so he can pace aimlessly around his office, the hallways, the lounge, wherever the man damn pleases to have a discussion!
Sometimes there will be a lull of 20, 30 minutes of the stale tune of office environment noises, but sure enough, when the phone rings, it's all disrupted. When it's a familiar colleague, a friend, a good client, he bellows out a "how the hell are you?!" His personality on the phone is so different from the one I've been accustomed to, which is so reserved and polished. Shit, maybe I should call him on the phone to have a discussion with him; maybe he'd be more open and friendly with me. It would be refreshing.
I shuffle together the papers that Darien has requested for his meeting with DiPonco Group, a big-time real estate development company in the area, that will be commencing after lunch. I hoist up all the bound books and collateral, determined to move all the paperwork into the meeting room in one attempt, and hobble my way down the hallway.
What I did not account for, however, was Darien, texting away on his phone, to walk clear into me, sending me tripping and down onto the ground. Thankfully I brace myself, but I hand in a heap of whitepaper that is officially ripped and needs to be reprinted and rebound. I wince in embarrassment and frustration as Darien hovers above me, concern etched on his face.
"Oh my God, are you okay Serena?" he asks, and for the first time, I can hear sincerity in his voice as I lift myself up off the ground.
"Mmhmm," I respond, my face completely flushed. Way to have a klutz-attack, meatball brains! I look down to the heap of papers and start spouting a string of apologies. "I'll have them reprinted for you immediately, Sir," I bellow out.
"You're bleeding," he points out, and for the first time, I notice the sleeve on my arm tore and I have a scrape the entire length of my forearm.
"Shoot," I mutter softly as I inspect the torn fabric, more concerned over the destroyed top than I am my actual skin. "I think I have a jacket out in my car. I can wear that to the meeting, Sir," I announce, as I am supposed to take meeting minutes with the client.
He frowns as he surveys me, and I can feel tears burning at my eyes as I feel completely shamed under his watchful eye. I'm waiting for some kind of criticism, critique my running in to him, when he says something that knocks me off balance. "Our meeting is in two hours. If you can get those items reprinted and ready to go for our meeting, I'll call over to my personal shopper at Saks to get an outfit ready for you to pick up in an hour," he offers, and my eyes widen. Saks? As in, Saks Fifth Avenue?! Who does he think I am, Beyonce or something?! I can't afford Saks, let alone Banana Republic!
"Thank you for the offer, Sir, but I can't afford that," I reply meekly, wanting nothing more than to run in my tattered clothing to the ladies room. "I can mend the shirt at my desk," I reassure, recalling that I keep a small sewing kit in my desk for the inevitable button pop-off.
"It's on me," he reassures, and for a second, I feel my heart beat at his compassion. Me? In a Saks outfit? That I didn't have to pay for? Only in my wildest dreams! I'm about to open my mouth to thank him, when he adds "This account is too important for you to show up in torn clothing. Please, call Tammy in my contacts, tell her your size, and pass her over to me for the approval," he finishes transactionally. Part of me wants to frown that his generosity is more for appearances sake than he is caring about my ruined shirt, but still, I am beyond gracious, despite his motives.
"Thank you, Sir." I state as I pick up the papers on the floor. I dump the papers into the nearest shred bin, irritated that I wasted all my efforts and killed at least two trees, but most of me is in a rush of excitement.
I hardly ever get new clothes. Most of my clothing budget is spent on the kids, considering they grow out of their clothes at least two times a year. Kids fashion nowadays as well is also comparable to what adults wear: Nike. Justice. Abercrombie. Hollister. The amount that my daughter spends on a sweater costs me twice as much as my simplistic Payless-brand heels. It's highway robbery! But, for the sake of the kids, and my recalling how important Aeropostale and American Eagle apparel was during my teens, I let it slide. So, they get quality clothes, Seiya and I usually wear JC Penney, or Walmart, or whatever I can scoop up on the clearance rack at the Gap.
Once all the papers are removed from the ground, I scoot back over to my desk and immediately pull up Tammy at Sak's contact information. I feel excitement in my fingertips as I dial her number, only to have my heart quicken when we actually connect.
"Good morning," I reply to her formal greeting, "my name is Serena Kou. My boss, Darien Shields, requested I call you so that I can pick up an outfit within the next hour?"
"No problem," she responds. "May I get your size, please?"
"I'm a size 4."
"Shoe size?"
"Um, not really necessary, but size 7."
"Bra size?"
I redden. "34 C," I respond quietly, my eyes darting around to make sure no one has heard me.
"Height?
"Five-one."
"What is your hair color?"
"Uh, blonde?" I respond, thrown off by the question.
"Ok. Do you have any preferences? Patterns or colors you prefer not to wear?"
"Not particularly."
"Not a problem. Can you please pass me along to Darien so I can finalize the transaction? I will be ready with your apparel at 12:00," she advises, and my heart leaps again in excitement.
"Thank you! I will pass you to him now." I transfer the call over to Darien's cell, and he, once again, replies with a very kind and exuberating "how are you?!" Damn, even his stylist gets more of a greeting than I do. I shake my head, letting the fleeting thought go. I'm getting new clothes. Me! New clothes! I want to spin in my chair and kick my legs in excitement. But, in an attempt to get the next hour moving so I can go slip in to something a hell of a lot nicer than I've ever owned, I channel my energy into reprinting all of the documents and devise a plan to get two hours of work condensed into the next forty-five minutes.
Hey, where there's a will, there's a way, right?
#
Lita has insisted to accompany me to Saks', which, happily, is only two blocks away from our office. It's certainly one of the perks of working in downtown Seattle; you're in close proximity to nearly everything.
I've walked past this location many times when going to Starbucks or Five Guys for lunch, but I've never stepped foot. When I clasp on the brass door handle, I feel my nerves flutter. This is the kind of store for people with money or seriously bad shopping habits, not me, not my conservative, cheap self. My disheveled look is inferior, which is prevalent when I see the store clerk eye my appearance from head to toe. Ignoring it, I go right to the surveyor and ask to for Tammy Whitler.
"She is on the second floor, Women's Department," the clerk replies, as if they think I've gone nuts asking for her directly. Lita immediately links my arm and steers me away from the judgmental clerk, and I feel the rush of excitement come up again as we ascend the escalator.
"I cannot WAIT to see what you're gonna be wearing, girl!" Lita chimes as we coast up the hill.
"I know!" I reply with equal vigor. "This is probably the first time I'm getting new work clothes since 2013," I muse truthfully. I let out a laugh when I see Lita's horrified face.
"Holy fuck, Serena, seriously? Do you ever do anything for yourself?" she exclaims, and I can't help put feel the sting of the words.
"No, not really," I sigh as I step off the escalator and into the world of Saks women's designer clothing. In this moment, I am awed by the high ceilings, gleaming white pillars, and rows upon rows of clothing far too magnificent for my wallet. I take in a deep breath, imaginging for a moment that I am that woman who can peruse the racks, having a shopper take items to the register and hold them for me while I go and seek out the perfect accompanying purse.
My daydream is cut short when a tall, voloumptuous blonde steps in front of me. "Are you Serena?" she asks, and I immediately click that this must be Tammy. No wonder why she's a personal shopper; she can probably sell anyone anything with her curvatious figure and flawless ciomplexion. I mentally sigh in envy, but don't allow it to reach my features. I respond with a smile.
"I am," I reply with my hand extended, shaking Tammy's soft one once she places her hand in mind.
"Come this way," she instructs, and Lita and I follow her over to a dressing area filled with mirrors and pedestals.
Lita takes a seat as I stand awkwardly by her side, and I can only imagine how expensive the chairs must be from the golden thread embroidery upon the rich, ivory fabric. Tammy suddenly links my arm, steering me in the direction of one of the rooms.
"I know you're short on time; Mr. Shields explained to me that you have a one o'clock meeting you cannot miss, so I'm going to have you step into this room and try on the pieces I've left on the hooks for you." As soon as she finishes speaking, she directs me into the mirrored room, and I immediately see three items hanging: a tan colored pencil skirt, an off-white, short-sleeved blouse with a ribbon tie attached, and a matching colored camisole. I finger the material, relishing in the soft qualities of the fabric, when my finger grazes a price tag. My eyes nearly bulge; $575 for a skirt?! I shuffle the item off of the hanger and look at the tag; who or what the hell is a Max Mara, and how is a piece of fabric this expensive?
A knock at the door takes me out of my disbelief. "How is everything fitting so far?" Tammy inquires.
"Uh," I stammer, "are these pieces… okay to try on?" I ask hesitantly. No way Darien was thinking this much for an outfit. I'm sure he meant something along the lines of a total of $80 or $100, not a freaking five hundred dollar skirt!
"Of course, ma'am. I spoke with Mr. Shields and he has given permission for all the items selected," she coos, and I shake my head with further shock.
"Okay," I respond slowly. I shuffle out of my Old Navy trousers and remove my tattered blouse, honestly pleased that I don't have to look at either of them again. I've had those items since my college internship years; I'm shocked they've lasted this long.
First, I slip on the camisole, the silky fabric clinging to my body like a second skin. The neckline scoops delicately with the faintest hint of lace, coupled with extremely thin straps. Next, I put on the tie neck blouse, lace accents and ruffled sleeves of silk making this shirt truly exquisite. Taking the loose, silk strands, I tie them into a fluffy bow, allowing it to fall on my chest. Lastly, I slide on the pencil skirt, tucking in the top and camisole into it, before turning around and zippering it up. The skirt is camel colored, chic and sophisticated, and when I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. I look refined; polished, and suddenly desperate to put on some concealer and mascara to truly complement the clothing. Taking in a deep, excited breath, I pull down on the handle and walk out to Lita and Tammy, my cheeks blushing when Lita openly gawks at the choice.
"Wow," Lita exclaims as she rushes to my side, as if she's in more disbelief than myself. "You look hot!" I giggle behind my hand as I continue to stare into the mirror, coming to terms that not only is this outfit more expensive than my entire wardrobe, but that I absolutely love it. From the ruffles, to the silk, to the concealed zipper of the skirt, the whole thing screams indulgence.
"Lovely. The shoes I've picked out match perfectly with this outfit," Tammy adds, and my jaw drops further.
"Shoes?" I inquire as I look over to my DSW bargain black heels. I look down and realize that in no way will those match this outfit, and can't help but let on an awe when she pulls out suede, strappy, praline colored heels.
"I thought these would go perfectly," she insists as she beckons me to the chair. I sit down, ready to slip them on, but she is in front of me in an instant, slipping them on my feet as if I were Cinderella. And in this moment, I truly feel like my fairy godmother has come to me, cloaking me in the façade of luxury to allow myself a night of self-indulgence. When she removes herself from my foot, I exhale in wonder.
"They're gorgeous," I exclaim as I twist my foot around, drinking in the beauty of the shoes. Tammy smiles widely, clearly pleased with her selection and my response to it all.
"You look perfect. Come, see how the shoes match your outfit," she insists as she leads me back to the mirrors, and she is absolutely correct. I can't help but continue to stare at myself. My mindset shifts from awe to distress. I don't deserve this. Who am I to be wearing something like this? I really should take it all off, put it all back, and return to work and mend my shirt. It will be fine; I am a really good seamstress. I've repaired my clothes for years, after all. It's much cheaper than going out and buying new ones. I gulp hard, and although I tried to will them away, see tears pricking my eyes.
"Serena?" Lita asks suddenly, by my side in an instant when she sees my redding eyes. "Are you okay?"
I wipe feverishly. "Yes, yes, sorry, I'm being stupid," I dismiss her.
She shakes her head knowingly. "No, you're not. You deserve this, Serena," she replies, and I can't help but laugh.
"Not really, but I'm not in the position to argue with the boss," I laugh as I shake off the foolish feeling of feeling sorry for myself.
"If everything fits, which it appears it does, I will go ahead and put the sale on Mr. Shields' account," Tammy softly interjects, concluding our time here. "I will give you a bag for your clothing in the dressing room," she adds. Part of me wants to leave it here and never see it again, but alas, while the shirt is probably a lost cause, my pants and shoes likely will continue to be in my rotation of terrible, aging work clothes.
"Thank you," I state, and I watch as she removes my prior workwear and place it into one of their shopping bags. She passes the bag off to me with a smile.
"You look wonderful. I am sure Mr. Shields will be pleased. Come again and visit me any time you would like a new outfit, I am more than happy to help," she concludes as she hands me her business card as well. I am about to object and state how I'll never, ever be able to come back to this store, but I simply nod my head and smile.
As Lita and I leave, I feel myself standing taller, walking with confidence, and Lita is fawning over me as we make the quick stroll back to the office.
"My God, can Mr. Shields run into me and destroy my outfit, too? I am so jealous!" she squeaks as we hustle back to the office. It is almost 1:00 and the whole point of this endeavor was for me to be back and ready to take meeting minutes. However, I cannot help but laugh.
"I'll definitely take this outfit over my other one any day of the week. Do you think this has to be dry cleaned?" I wonder out loud, and Lita nods her head in response.
"Oh, absolutely. You never, ever launder your own shit from Saks. Ever," she states knowingly.
We turn into the lobby of our building. "Where do you usually shop?" I ask her, suddenly realizing I don't really know where she gets her clothing, despite how much I love her look.
"Express, White House Black Market, sometimes I'll score a deal at Neiman Marcus or Nordstom. I'll have to take you shopping one day," she adds. We reach the elevator and ascend it in silence, and I can't help but ponder the open invitation.
I want to accept. Open my mouth and say yes a hundred times over. But, I find my lips frozen, unwilling to move.
Instead, I stretch a tight smile, knowing I will never commit to shopping for myself that isn't outside a clearance rack. I've committed my clothing budget to my family; I can't go back on that. I can't allow myself to take away from their needs.
The elevator doors separate, beckoning us back to reality.
"Knock him dead," Lita winks as we start to separate.
"Don't you mean them?" I ask with an eyebrow raise.
She says nothing, only continues to smile and walk away.