Your Song Read online

  I pull out the blue leather barstool and take a seat next to her. She looks up at me and smiles. I smile back. The bartender places my glass down in front of me, resting it on a cocktail napkin. I take a sip glancing downwards, trying to sneak a peek at her left hand. Her left forearm rests in front of her along the bar ledge leaving her hand and fingers dangling. I quickly turn my eyes upward so she doesn’t catch me looking. I lock eyes with her for a brief second.

  The lyrics come effortlessly to me but as always, keep them inside my head. I must have heard this song a hundred times growing up. For some reason, it always left me feeling . . . lonely. And still does. I turn to my companion on the right.

  “Hi,” I say while lifting my glass to my mouth. Redhead isn’t bad looking at all. Clear skin, average makeup, and lips full enough.

  “Hi,” she replies. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Good start.

  “You here on business?” she asks.

  “Yes, I am. One night only. How about you?” I ask in return.

  “My husband is here on business. I joined him on this trip. Never been to Ottawa before,” she offers. So far, everything’s in place. Nice.

  “So, where are you from?” I ask. I don’t detect a particular accent of any kind, perhaps a Canadian or an American.

  “I’m originally from Ohio but we live in D.C. now,” she says, summoning the bartender for another martini. Her third.

  “So your husband is a politician. Is that why you’re here in Ottawa then?” I look her straight in the eye. She nods. The pianist is now playing the Phantom of the Opera theme. Fitting.

  “So how long have you been married?” I ask. Zeroing in.

  “Twelve years this September. What about you? Where are you from?” she asks.

  “I’m from Toronto,” I answer. I never lie about where I am from. I’m proud of being a Torontonian.

  “Married?” she asks with one brow cocked up high.

  “No, I’m not. What’s your name? ” I ask.

  “ Amber. And yours?”

  “Amber- like the color of your hair. How appropriate.” And the flirting begins.

  “My mother said that while I was being born the first thing the doctor spotted was this heap of red curly hair. It’s stayed with me since.” She fluffs her hair on both sides of her head with both hands.

  “I like it. It’s wild. It suits you,” and here comes the charm.

  “You really think so? It’s been the bane of my existence. And my daughter’s as well. She has hair exactly like mine,” she laughs.

  “Well, your daughter must be very beautiful then. How old is she?” I ask like a care, but really, I don’t. And this is when I spot the platinum Tiffany wedding band. Voila.

  “Poppy’s eight,” Amber says.

  “Amber and Poppy, both redheads, love the name choices. So, where is your husband tonight?” I ask hoping to cut to the chase.

  “At a dinner function that I just could not bear to attend. I go to at least three of these a week back home and every single one bores the hell out of me. This is my vacation.” Amber finishes off her third martini. She doesn’t appear to be drunk, yet.

  “Can I order you another martini, Amber?” I offer. She pauses. Looks me in the eye. I wink at her.

  “Sure. Why not?” she accepts. I flag down the bartender for another martini. The piano man is playing more contemporary tunes. Strange piano bar choice but AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long has caught my ear. If things continue to progress as they have been and I get my way tonight, I’m hoping that Amber will be knocking me out with her American thighs.

  For the next hour, Amber talks. I ask her questions about her life before she got married. I allow her to reminisce about her better times. Expertly, I pour as much attention into her ego as she needs. By this time, we have moved into one of those intimate tables for two and are now eye to eye, whispering. Amber’s legs are entangled in mine beneath the table. The more drunk she gets, the higher her hand moves up my thigh.

  As she vents about her life as a politician’s wife, I glance at my watch wondering how much longer this will take. I want to fuck her now. Hard and fast. I move my left hand onto her thigh, squeeze and hold it there. I hear her gasp. She’s getting closer. I then reach over and begin to nibble her ear. She looks up alarmed and glances around the bar. Anxious not to be seen by her husband or recognized by another politician in the bar, I’m guessing. Turn on! I pull back my hand from her thigh and then straighten up in my seat. She stares at me for what feels like the longest time. She wants it, I can tell.

  “I’ll be in room 206. Knock twice,” Amber whispers in my ear. Bingo! She stands up from the table, straightens her tight navy blue dress, grabs her clutch purse and is off. I watch her trying to balance herself in her high heels, completely and utterly under the influence of a lot of alcohol. I call the waitress over and settle the bill as quickly as I can.

  It’s 10:00 P.M., hubby shouldn’t be back for at least another hour or two. Considering how quickly things are moving tonight, I should be back in my own room by 11:00 P.M.

  I’ve done this many times before. As I make my way to the second floor I try to recall how many of these rooms I have been in over the past three years, but I lose count. The married women I have met are like putty in my hands; vulnerable, attention seeking, bored and for some, quite the risk-takers. And that’s exactly why, in my secret life, I love to chase and fuck married women I meet on my business travels. Wickedly, the fact that we have to hide from their husbands turns me on. The high I get knowing that I can get caught but haven’t yet is unlike any other. I purposefully go to bars, gyms, coffee shops where I know married women hang out without their husbands. I steer the conversation always in their direction and if I find they start to ask too many questions about me, I divert. Anonymity is key here. Distance from my personal life is even more critical. I’ve never told any of these women my real name.

  I knock twice. Amber opens the door. She is still dressed and is now standing in front of me in her heels. Awesome. I walk into her hotel room, glance around and then turn back to her. In one swift move, I push her up against the door. Holding her chin with one hand, I begin by kissing her mouth. Hard. First lips, then I open her mouth wider to let in my throbbing tongue and then finally, the nips and bites. She is panting and moaning beneath me. I grab hold of the hem of her dress and push it upwards revealing very sexy thigh high stockings. I move my hand towards her center. She is not wearing any panties. Completely bare. Oh my. Quickly, Amber takes control and begins to kiss me back savagely. She tugs at my linen shirt, opening the first few buttons. She kisses my neck hungrily and then moves back up to my face, her tongue, never relenting. Tugging my hair, she pulls my face downwards to meet her breasts. I feel the shock of her wedding band on my cheek.

  Wedding bands excite me. I love the sight of a woman’s wedding ring; sitting on her left ring finger, bob up and down while she’s giving me a hand job. The image drives me wild. I know, pretty fucked up. But for me, the illicitness of what we are doing shines even brighter with the sparkle of her wedding band. And that gets me off.

  With the husband’s imminent return at any time now, I decide to make this escapade a quick one. No time for oral sex or any other kinky stuff tonight. I need to get my ass out of here and fast.

  I pin her up hard against the wall with my legs. Amber is in heat. I squeeze her nipples as hard as I can through her dress and bra and she begins to convulse, eyes rolling to the back of her head. With my left hand, I unzip my jeans and pull out my cock. I tear open a condom as fast as I can, tucking the wrapper in my pocket. We don’t need any evidence left behind now, do we? Like a moth to the flame, I find my way to her vagina and I enter her hard and fast. She lets out a low moan. I see the sweat beading on her forehead. Her hair is a tangled nest beneath my fingers. I thrust hard and she yelps. I increase the speed and intensity of my thrusts. I know she can take it. I know she’s loving it. I grab her left hand and take her left f
inger to my mouth. There, I suck longingly on her wedding band.

  In my mind’s eye, I picture her husband exiting the elevator, fumbling for his room key card, walking towards room 206. He’s getting closer to the door when he hears the cries of his orgasmic wife. That image, of me fucking another man’s wife, gels in my mind. I’m on the edge now and so is Amber. I feel it happening. Once I hear her orgasm, I release and let go. We come together.

  Coming down from our high, I pull out of her as quickly as I can. Leaving the condom on, I tuck myself back inside my jeans. Amber is still reeling but she quickly pulls down her dress and runs to the bathroom to wash up. Leaving the bathroom door wide open, I watch her prop one leg onto the sink, exposing herself freely and contentedly. Faucet running, she reaches for a washcloth and some soap and begins to wipe herself clean. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 10:32 P.M. I’m outta here.

  “Well, Amber. With your husband about to walk in any minute now, I think it’s time for me to go. Thank you for a . . . very pleasurable evening,” I say walking in to the bathroom to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “You never did tell me your name, you know?” She says with a smirk on her face as I bend in to peck her cheek.

  “It’s . . .” I make my way out of the bathroom, “Dan,” I say feeling like the low life fuck up that I am. And, with that, I walk out of room 206 and back into the world of self-hatred and loneliness waiting for me upstairs in room 311 of the Hotel Indigo Boutique.

  7 “My Eyes Adored Ya”

  From: Amy Sharma

  Subject: my thesis defense

  Date: Tuesday, June 5, 2012 3:34 PM

  To: Eric Martin

  hey eric,

  what up. I have something to ask you. hope you don’t mind. next monday is my thesis defense at the university and dr. durand just told me that I could invite guests to take part in my defense. would you like to be my guest? you wouldn’t have to prepare or do anything at the meeting . . . just be there for moral support. you’re the only person i’d really want there since my family has no clue about my studies or my real life for that matter. what do you say.

  A

  From: Eric Martin

  Subject: your thesis defense

  Date: Tuesday, June 5, 2012 11:27 PM

  To: Amy Sharma

  Hi Amy,

  I’m honored to be a guest at your upcoming thesis defense next Monday. I do have a few questions for you.

  Since your thesis is on French literature (as I recall), will you and your thesis panel be speaking in French? If the answer is yes, then I’m not sure how much support I can give? Apart from oui and non, I’m completely deaf to the French language.

  What time is this defense meeting? I’m leaving the next day for a three-day business trip to Vancouver and need to arrange my schedule ahead of time.

  What exactly is your defense topic so if I do attend, I won’t look like an idiot unable to follow the discussion taking place? I wouldn’t mind reading up on your topic ahead of time.

  Do you have a particular aversion to punctuation in your emails (i.e. capital letters, question marks)?

  Eric

  So that explains why Amy was anxious for me to read her email. Interesting request I must say and a first for me. I wonder why she didn’t ask one of her friends or her sister to attend her thesis defense. It not as though we’ve been very close. In fact, it’s been Amy who’s made every effort to keep in touch since we broke up. I haven’t been the one to call, that’s for sure. Nevertheless, I’ll wait to see how she responds to my questions and then decide whether I’ll attend or not. Then again, wouldn’t it be rude to turn down her invitation? I couldn’t do that to her, especially since I know how hard she worked this year on completing her Master degree. Ping.

  From: Amy Sharma

  Subject: Answers to your questions

  Date: Tuesday, June 5, 2012 11:46 PM

  To: Eric Martin

  Eric,

  I am so glad to read that you are considering the invitation to attend my thesis defense next Monday. To answer some of your questions:

  Dr. Durand gave me the option to defend my thesis in French or in English. Either is fine with me. I’ve decided to defend in both languages. At the stage when guests are invited in to participate in the defense, I’ve opted to switch to English, in accommodation of some of our ‘hearing impaired’ guests.

  The defense is scheduled for 3:00 PM that afternoon but guests will be requested to be there for 4:30 P.M. Would that fit your crowded schedule, Mr. Martin?

  My topic is . . . are you ready? . . . Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and pop culture’s notion’s of romantic love. I will gladly send you a few links to some websites on these ideas so you can read up ahead of time, if you wish.

  No aversion at all to punctuation in my emails, sir. As you can see, I am fully capable of using them . . . properly.

  Now I have two questions for you:

  Will you please attend my thesis defense next Monday?

  Would you like to join me for ‘DESSERT’ afterwards?

  A

  I guess I’ll be going to Amy’s defense then. I immediately open my calendar on my iPad and type it in. Before calling it a night, I reply to Amy’s last email.

  From: Eric Martin

  Subject: response

  Date: Wednesday, June 6, 2012 00:02 AM

  To: Amy Sharma

  yes iwill attend

  I’m on board, seated in my first class seat on route back to Toronto. I pull out my iPad and connect to one of the articles that I had downloaded on Amy’s thesis topic. Romantic love. As opposed to the carnal lust I engaged in last night with red-haired Amber?

  Truthfully, the twisted, perverse secret that I‘ve been carrying with me for three years has been weighing on me a lot lately. My business travels have allowed me the opportunity to play out my sick fantasies: screwing with attached, commitment-laden, married women in faraway places. No chance of getting caught or being seen by anyone I know. No chance of these women coming after me asking for more. ‘More’ is something I decided I couldn’t do following Danny’s death. ‘More’ led Lara to a breakdown and left her to pick up the pieces of a shattered future. I’m repelled by the concept of ‘more.’ Well, I was repelled by it until I met Caroline.

  There was never any chance of ‘more’ with Amy which is why I delved into a fun relationship with a younger woman who herself was craving freedom and no commitment. Throughout the time I spent with Amy, I still secretly engaged in my conquests with married women in far-off cities. I was never fully committed to Amy and I doubt that she was to me. From the second I laid eyes on Caroline, though, I knew and understood that I wanted ‘more.’ Without even knowing her, somehow, some way, Caroline has helped begin to heal my broken psyche and to give me hope that I might be okay. Let’s just call Amber a momentary relapse.

  So, the idea of romantic love in literature emerged in the 19th century, this website article explains. A time when writers in their works explored feeling and imagination as opposed to reason and logic. Victor Hugo was one such writer. According to the websites I’ve been reading, in his masterpiece, “Les Miserables,” Hugo captured the romantic vision of love through the story of Marius and Cosette. As the story goes, Marius falls in love with Cosette from afar (I’m intrigued already). Through furtive glimpses in a garden, Marius watches Cosette on a daily basis (lucky guy). Eventually, he sends her a handwritten note (an 1800s email) spilling all of the contents of his overfilled heart towards her. And then, late one night, under disguise, Marius sneaks into Cosette’s garden and woos her with an intimate speech conveying all his love for her. Cosette, Hugo portrays, is already in love with Marius, even before he speaks to her that night in the garden. For it was in that first glance of him from afar when Cosette fell in love with Marius. So the two meet up in the garden and “within a quarter of an hour, it was the young man who had the young girl’s soul, and the young girl who had the young man’s sou
l” (Hugo, Les Miserables).

  The website I’m reading this from, called The Romantic Portrayal of Courtship in Les Miserables explains the idea of the two falling in love by way of a breath or a glance from a distance, without words, brings to light the notion of romanticism. According to this article, Hugo tries to tell us that when in love, sometimes words cannot convey the depth of feeling and emotion felt by lovers. Love, therefore, is not a thing of the mind but one belonging to the heart that only the lovers themselves can feel, I read. I’m instantly reminded of that old Franki Valli hit “My Eyes Adored Ya” that my dad used to sing to my mom when Claudia and I were kids. Rather clumsily he used to waltz her around the living room, much to Claudia’s and my embarrassment.

  So, I’m in awe. I read and reread these passages with such ardor that I practically know them by memory. Over two hundred years ago, Victor Hugo understood and wrote about what I experienced that morning at O’Hare airport. Or is that the other way around? From the moment I saw Caroline smile, I understood on some level that my heart belonged to her. No words between us. With a simple look, I knew. I was in love.

  It’s nearing the end of my short flight to Toronto and I can’t wait until I get home when I can read up some more on this love story. I’m actually feeling excited about attending Amy’s defense next week. Perhaps I should email Amy asking her for more readings on the topic. I could even show up with a few questions of my own on the topic of romantic love for Mademoiselle Sharma and her panel of scholarly experts. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  Reluctantly, I pack up my iPad and get ready for our landing. I glance at my iPhone and see another missed call from Lara. Why is she so anxious to get a hold of me? That reminds me of the call I have to return to Dr. Leung’s office. Wonder what’s up with that, too. I make my way through the gangway and instantly recall the last time I was walking through one of these; Caroline was waiting for me at the exit. I indulgently allow my mind to wander and ask myself whether it could have been for Caroline like it was for Cosette with Marius, in love with me from first glance? I know, a guy can dream.