Planning

"That was great, Carl," she said again. And when I didn't answer she said, "baby? Carl? Where are you?"

Fully dressed, I sat back down on the bed next to her. "Right here, little peach," I said in my own voice, and pulled the sleepmask off her face. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at me, a little dazedly, as they started to focus.

Then she cried, "ohh!"--a single short sound, instantly cut off. I gazed at her, and her face took on a terrified expression, her eyes wide and her mouth tightened into a frightened grimace.

I had all sorts of angry words ready--weeks of rage and misery I was ready to unload on her--but instead I said nothing, just watched her face as she processed what had taken place in that motel room over the previous two hours.

Lauren turned very pale. She licked her lips nervously, looking at my impassive face. "David, I--

"Oh my God. David. I can't think what you--

"Honey. It isn't, I mean it wasn't what--"

She couldn't finish a sentence. Perhaps not surprising under the circumstances. I silently watched her, and tears started to fall from the corners of her eyes. She lay there, naked except for the teddie bunched up around her chest, sweaty, cum dripping from her pussy, hands bound above her head, and began to cry, shaking her head, still looking at me but shaking her head, saying, "no, no, it isn't--you can't, it's not--"

I stood up and watched her, still saying nothing, as her sobbing grew louder. Then I pulled out a prepaid cellphone and hit a pre-set number. When the voice at the other end said, "EyeWitness News Tip Line," I said, "yeah, I'm at the Best Western Kenwood on Montgomery Road and there's some sort of domestic dispute or sex thing going on in the next room, Room 128.

"Yeah," I continued. "I can't tell if a lady is being raped or what, but there's a lot of screaming and yelling. I already called 911, but I figured I'd call you guys too."

Without waiting for a reply I hung up the phone. Lauren had stopped crying--she was twisting her head to look up at me, a horrified expression on her face.

"No baby, please, don't let them, don't let anybody see me, please, baby I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, please Dave ..."

Looking right into her eyes I dialed the phone again. "911, what is your emergency?" the voice asked.

"Yeah, I'm at the Best Western Kenwood and some guy is fucking, I mean excuse me, a man is having sex with a woman in Room 128 and the door is wide open, I mean you can see everything. I walked by with my kids and I mean, my God, he's got her tied down on the bed and everything!" I hung up the phone.

Lauren was crying out wildly now, twisting to try to free herself. "Please baby, please, please you're not going to leave me here, I'm begging you, please--"

I bent down and covered her mouth with my hand, holding her face tightly so she couldn't twist away from me. Her eyes held a panicked look as she stared back at me. I held her that way for a couple of minutes, just looking at her. Looking at the face of the woman I'd loved nearly my entire adult life.

And then I let her go and walked out of the room, ignoring her desperate cries and pleas from behind me. I used a cushion from the couch to prop the door wide open and I walked out into the parking lot, going over to sit on a bench near the street.

In about four minutes a big EyeWitness News van pulled into the lot. I waited until I saw two guys, one with a big camera, head towards the open door of Room 128, and then I crossed the street, got into my car, and drove away.

SCENE 5

There has to be one more scene, doesn't there? I mean, it would be nice to end it right there, Lauren tied to the bed, the news crew headed into the room, the police on the way? But there's always an aftermath, whether you like it or not. Unless someone's dead, I guess. Then there's no aftermath--for them at least.

It was a Saturday in mid-September and I was driving back to the house, the house that Lauren and Tina and I used to live in together. Only now I lived in an apartment downtown, Tina was in her dorm at USC, and the house was on the market--Lauren couldn't afford the mortgage on her own.

After my little marriage-ending adventure with Lauren I'd flown out to San Francisco for my vacation: saw my brother, drove through the Rockies, and had a great visit with my daughter. Then I'd come back home and started to build a new life: the life of a single guy.

I'd had my lawyer start the divorce, and I'd avoided all contact with Lauren except to leave a message saying that I'd give her until November 1st to buy my half of the house--after that I was going to sell it. She'd called and emailed me for weeks but I never responded--nothing I wanted to say to her, and nothing I wanted to hear, either.

I'd had a friend keep track of the press coverage of my little escapade. It got a couple of articles in the local paper--no pictures, alas!--and three days worth of nudge-nudge, wink-wink stories on the local Eyewitness News channel at 11:00. They'd shot a little footage they could use: the camera approaching the open door of the motel, then a partial shot of a bound woman on a bed. Unfortunately, no shots of Lauren's face, and the news station never mentioned any names, undoubtedly to avoid a lawsuit. Ah, well.

But Mrs. Montefiore was in the process of taking her husband to the cleaners, as they say, and she'd made enough of a fuss at the company to get Lauren fired. The word had gotten around among our friends who the anonymous lady in that crazy motel room story was--that was good enough for me.

Lauren had had to take an administrative job 20 miles away, at a lower salary. I knew she'd never be able to keep the house. And from what Tina told me, she'd been miserable and apologetic the whole week that Tina was back, before leaving again for college. Tina was still so angry she was barely talking to her mother.

I pulled into the driveway, parked, and walked into the house. Lauren had agreed to sign the divorce papers and the power of attorney on the house if I'd come talk to her.

She was sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee, watching me as I walked in.

"Hello David," she said quietly.

"Lauren." She looked older, a little smaller. She hadn't been sleeping well, and maybe not eating too well either. I didn't find my heart overflowing with much sympathy.

"You want coffee?"

"No thanks." I got myself a glass of water and sat down.

She gestured toward the counter and said, "the papers are all there. I signed them. How long do I have before I'll need to find a place?"

"Probably at least 2-3 months. Even if it sells instantly, people usually need a couple of months before closing. I'll let you know."

There was a silence.

"I know we're done," she said suddenly. "I have spent a long time thinking about this, as you can probably imagine. I thought--in addition to asking myself why I was such a fool, I mean--I thought about how I would feel if the situation was reversed, if you'd been having an affair behind my back.

"And I couldn't even begin to imagine taking you back, under any circumstances. The feeling of betrayal, the shock and humiliation, the anger at being cheated on and lied to and treated with such, such contempt ..."

She looked at me, unhappy but dry-eyed. "I'm just trying to say that 'I get it,' David. Or at least I sort of get it. I won't claim I can really know what it felt like for you.

"If there were any chance, any way at all you could ... I don't know, find a way to give me another chance .... I would do anything, give you every ounce of devotion and love within me, to make up for what I've done.

"But I don't expect there's any possibility of that." Her eyes flicked up to glance at my face, but all she could have seen there was a blank stare.

"So what I really wanted to say is, I'm sorry. Sorry I cheated on you, sorry I acted like a whore, sorry I disrespected all the love and loyalty and support you've given me since the day we met.

"I'm sure my apology doesn't mean much of anything to you--but you still deserve it, and I still wanted to give it to you."

She gazed at me, no doubt hoping I'd say something even a little bit comforting, but I didn't. I just looked back at her--no nod, no "uh-huh." Just looked.

"Did Tina tell you how we found out?"

She nodded, her face tight with pain. "I asked her several times and she finally did. I feel so terrible about that.

"For what it's worth, David, it was never about humiliating you or hurting you. I know I was an idiot to think I could keep it secret, but that's what I was trying to do. We were ... at least we thought we were being very careful."

She started to tell me about how it had started, and I put up my hand.

"I don't want to hear it. I don't care how it started, I don't care why you did it, or how long it went on, or any of that.

"You wanted to tell me you're sorry--okay, you told me. Anything else?"

I knew I was being a cold-hearted bastard, and it was a bit surprising that I found it so easy to do. She was suffering, and I found I wasn't the least bit interested in being consoling or even decent to her. You do the crime, you do the time. And it was my marriage she'd destroyed, my happy life she'd blown into a million pieces.

As I waited a tear slid down her cheek. "No, David, I guess there isn't anything else."

Without another word I picked up the signed papers, turned and walked out of the house.