The Couple Next Door

She reached out a green hand and rested it lightly on top of my thigh, and then we heard the thump of several pairs of feet on the porch, followed by a chorus of "Trick or treat!"

We stayed pretty busy for an hour and a half, and gave away about three-quarters of the candy I'd bought. When it was getting dark, and there were only a few, older stragglers left roaming around, we moved the side table out onto the porch, and put the bowl with the rest of the candy on top of it, with a sign that said, "Help Yourself."

"Glass of wine?" I asked.

"Yes, please. And where's your bathroom?"

Pointing her to it, I went into the kitchen, uncorked the wine, and put some cheese and crackers on a tray. As I was setting things out on the living room coffee table, she came back in.

"This is a beautiful house," she said.

"Thanks," I replied. "It's the house I grew up in. My parents moved to Florida a few years ago, to live in this giant retirement community—the Villages—and we, uh, moved in." Shit, I did not want to mention or think about STB right now.

"It's okay," Lindsay said. "I know you were married, and you lived with your wife."

"I know," I said, "but it's just that I don't want her here, with us, right now. I want to be rid of her. Not as in, 'I hate her, and wish she were dead,' but just as in, out of my life, or at least, out on the fringes, where she doesn't get in the way."

"I don't think she's in the way," said Lindsay. "In fact, I'm sort of glad she's there. I like you so much, if there were nothing in between us, I'm afraid we'd be moving a lot faster, and maybe one of us—me, I'm thinking—might get badly hurt."

"I don't want to hurt you," I said. "I like you, too, a lot—"

"Let's change the subject," she said, suddenly. "Like, could you please get this cheese away from me?"

"Sure," I said, picking up the plate. "Don't you like cheese?"

"I love cheese," she said. "I could eat everything that's on that plate, and that's the problem."

"It's no problem. I can get more," I said.

"I have issues with food, with my weight," she said. "I'm working on them. I have a therapist." She looked at me, to see how I was taking it.

"That seems like a really smart, self-aware thing to be doing," I said.

"I need to be with someone who isn't a food-enabler, or a weight critic. Half the men I meet think that all I need is someone who will coach me through diet and weight loss, and that 'helping' me means reminding me that I really don't need that slice of cheesecake." She sighed. "That's not you, I think. The other half want me not to care. They're the ones who try to get me to eat the slice of cheesecake, because they think that eating it will make me happy. Instead, eating it makes me unhappy, and I wind up hating them for persuading me to do it."

"I'm just going to put this cheese away," I said. "If you decide you want some, ask me for it." I took the plate into the kitchen, covered it with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator.

When I came back in and sat next to her, she took a sip of wine, and said, "So, you see why I need to take things slow with you. I really want to tear your clothes off and fuck you until we're both exhausted, and I could do it, too. But we need to make sure that we can deal with each other's shit. I need you to think about what I said. If you decide, for any reason, that it's too much, I need you to tell me. I promise I will make it easy for you."

"I will," I said. "I mean, if that's what I decide. Right now my brain is stuck back at 'fuck me 'til we're both exhausted.'"

"Okay," she said, smiling. "I guess I'd better go and let you get on with the rest of your evening. I seem to recall you have a date with the internet."

"I think I'll wait for the real thing."

We stood up together. We looked at one another for a moment, and then, I don't know exactly how it happened, but we were locked in a passionate kiss, and my mind was filled with only the feel of our lips and tongues, together. It was the best kiss I'd ever experienced.

Suddenly it was over, and she pushed me away. "Holy shit," she said, and stepped back. "I'm going to go," she said, "while I can still walk away from you. She picked up her hat and her broom, and I opened the door for her. Still dazed, I walked her to her car.

I was dimly aware of loud voices somewhere, but mostly focused on my desire to stay as close to Lindsay as I could, for as long as I could.

She said, looking towards the Scumbag's house, "Is that coming from next door?"

Snapping out of it, I listened. I heard STB's voice, shouting, angry. "Motherfucker . . . think . . . never . . ." I was only getting about every third or fourth word, but she was pissed. I heard his voice, too, lower, too indistinct to make out any words, although his voice was clearly raised.

"Do you think she's okay?" asked Lindsay.

"She doesn't sound afraid, to me," I said. "I don't know the guy, and I certainly don't like him, but I don't have any reason to think he's violent. He had a chance to take a swing at me, and kept his cool."

"You're a man, and not a small one, either," she said.

"Do you think I ought to interfere?" I asked. "Me inserting myself into their argument might just make things worse."

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe we should just listen for a bit—" There was a loud noise, and we both looked over. STB was storming out; she'd apparently just slammed the front door behind her.

She saw the two of us staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" She stomped over towards us, stopping at the other side of Lindsay's car. "You act like you don't care, but I can feel you watching me, watching us, all the time," she said. 'You're sick." Switching her glare to Lindsay, she said, "What are you, the Wicked Witch of Weight Watchers? Don't waste your time with him, honey. Go home and eat a box of cookies." Digging furiously in her purse, she came up with a box of cigarettes and a lighter; with shaking hands, she removed one from the pack, and lit it, exhaling with a great sigh.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"No," said STB. Then, "Oh, were you talking to me, or to her?"

"You," I said.

Ignoring me, she said, to Lindsay, "I'm sorry. I'm just . . . embarrassed. My life is turning to shit, and I know it's my fault, but I can't help feeling that I don't deserve THIS. Something bad, but not this."

"Nobody deserves to be in pain," said Lindsay. "And I'm sorry we were watching. I was just leaving, and then we heard you, and we wanted to make sure—"

"Yeah, thanks. He wouldn't hit me—he's not the type. He's an asshole—no, what's your word for him?" she asked, looking at me. "Right, scumbag. Yeah, he's a scumbag. But he's not dangerous."

She took a drag on the cigarette so deep that I could hear her lips pop when she released the suction on it.

"I gotta go," said STB. She shouldered her purse, headed for her car, got in, started it, and drove away.

I looked at Lindsay. "I'm sorry you got sucked into the vortex of shit that is swirling around what's left of my marriage."

She laughed. "Are you kidding? Nothing this interesting has happened to me in ages. Plus, I got to meet her. I do feel sorry for her—my sense is that she's basically a good person, who made a bad decision, and suddenly had the rug pulled out from under her. I'm not saying you should have given her a pass, but throwing her out of the house was, well, pretty harsh." I must have made a face at that, because she hurriedly added, "I don't blame you for doing it. You were hurt, and angry, and you felt you needed to hurt her back. I might have done the same thing. But look at the results: you seem well on your way to putting your life back together, and she's one empty pack of cigarettes from a nervous breakdown."

I ran a hand through my hair in consternation. "So, what are you saying I should do? I can't take her back. I don't want her back."

"I don't want you to take her back," she said. "But I think that, if you can, you should tell her that you forgive her, and if there's anything you can do to help her get back on her feet, I would like to see you do it. But I don't think she'll accept any help from you, no matter how much she may need it, unless she thinks you really have forgiven her."

"So, what you're saying is, I have to be the bigger person, here?"

"Have to? No. Would I like to see you be? Yes. I'm not making that a condition of our continued . . . whatever it is that we've started. But you asked me what I think, and, as an observer with a somewhat different perspective, this what I think."

"Thank you," I said. "I will give it some serious consideration."

"You're welcome," she replied. "Now, I thank you for a fun and interesting evening, but I've got to get home. If I don't see you at work tomorrow, I'll give you a call after."

She got in her car and drove away; I went into the house, had another glass of wine, and ate the cheese and crackers for dinner, while I watched the end of a football game, and tried not to think for a while.

I was just about ready to get ready for bed when I heard someone pounding on the door. There is a doorbell, which most people use when they want to be polite, so I was wary as I approached. I took my phone and called Paul, who lives across the street from me.

When he answered, I asked him, "Can you take a look outside and see if you see anyone on my front porch?"

He took a minute, then told me, "Yeah, there's a guy standing there. I can only see the back of him. He doesn't seem to have a gun, or a weapon, but he looks agitated. He keeps shifting his weight back and forth, from one leg to the other."

"I'm coming out," I said. "Will you keep an eye on things?"

"You got it," he said. I ended the call.

When I opened the door, the Scumbag was standing there. I could see him through the storm door, under the porch light. Not wanting him to come inside, I pushed the storm door out, with my shoulder, while closing the front door behind me. He stepped back as the storm door swung towards him.

"Is she here?" he asked.

"No," I told him. "I saw her leave, oh, maybe an hour and a half ago."

"You're a lousy fucking liar. I know she's in there."

"Do you see her car anywhere?" I asked. He looked back at the street in front of his house, where it had been parked. "She left," I said. "I don't know where she went. I didn't ask. She was pretty upset."

"Fuck you, you sneaking little cunt. You probably told her to move it around the corner, so you could cook up this stupid lie. You're not man enough to keep her, or protect her, so you tell her to hide under the bed, and hope that I'll go away. Well, I won't. I'm coming in to find her."

I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he shouted at me. He was pretty clearly drunk. For a moment I considered letting him in to look, just to prove to him that she wasn't in the house, but realized that, in his state, if he couldn't find her, he wouldn't be convinced, he'd just get more agitated.

"I'm not letting you in the house. You're drunk, and you need to go home. If you don't leave, I'll call the police."

"You fucking wimp. 'I'll call the police.' You won't do shit. I'm going to go in there and find her, and then I'm going to fuck her on your bed, and then you'll finally understand that she's mine, and you'll go away and leave us the fuck alone."

"I'm warning you: go home."

In reply he reached to grab me, I guess to pull me away from the door. I knocked his hand away, and gave him a push, with both arms, so that he staggered back to the edge of the porch. He regained his balance, then charged me.

We were about the same size, and he was wiry, and strong. But he didn't have a fighter's moves, and he was angry, and drunk. I had done some wrestling in high school, before becoming bored with the monotony of maintaining the ideal weight, and I still remembered a few tricks. We grappled for a minute or so, and then I was able to get him on the ground. I rolled him under me, face down, and straddled him, holding his arms."

"Now," I said, "our neighbor, they guy across the street, has been watching us, and I'm betting he's called the police already. But it's Halloween night, and they're probably pretty busy, so it may take a while for them to get here. I can let you up, and let you go home, and you can wait there for her to call you, or not, and I can go tell Paul to call back and tell them not to bother coming. What do you say?"

"Let me up!"

"If I do, you'll get off my porch, and go back to your house?"

"Yes, you fucking dick! Get off of me!"

With my knees still on his back and my hands on his shoulders, I got my feet positioned, then stood up and stepped back from him. He got onto his hands and knees, shook his head, then slowly got to his feet.

He turned to face me. "This isn't over," he said.

"Why not?" I asked. "What do you want from me? You have her—"

"I know I do, but you keep messing with her head, refusing to leave her alone."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "How have I not left her alone?"

"She's always telling me about how she's seen you, and the two of you have been talking. I know you wanted to come to our party, but I guess you chickened out. Smart thing, too, because a couple of my friends would have loved to have had a word with you."

"She invited me to you little party, and I declined," I told him. "I don't expect you to believe me, but you are vastly mistaken if you think I've had any role in interfering with your relationship with her. I won't say I'm sorry if it's gone to shit, but I had nothing to do with it."

"You're such a fucking weasel. But it won't work. She's mine, at least for as long as I want her. Wait a while, and maybe I'll let you have her back."

"Go home and sleep it off," I said. "When I see you back inside your house, I'll call Paul to tell him to call off the cops."

He got off the porch with as much dignity as he could muster, and, when I saw him go back inside, I called Paul.

"Hi," I said. "Did you see that?"

"See it? I have it on video."

"Well, don't go putting it on YouTube, okay?"

"Not much chance of that. I called the cops," he said.

"Yeah, about that. I told him that if he'd go home, I'd ask you to call them and tell them not to bother coming."

"You sure?" he asked. "He might come back."

"I don't think so," I said. "He's drunk. He'll either have a few more, and pass out, or fall asleep feeling sorry for himself."

"Okay," he said. "Call me if you need me."

"Thanks," I told him. "It's good to have friends for neighbors. Good night."

I ended the call and sat, for a while, thinking.

My marriage, which I had expected to last for a lifetime, hadn't survived for more than a few years, before suddenly and violently disintegrating. What had seemed a complementary joining of personalities: hers, with an outgoing, fun-loving, less intellectual, whimsically rebellious approach to life, had seemed to balance mine, more introspective, thoughtful, and essentially law-abiding. Moreover, what I had always before believed to be a strength, an ability to focus my concentration on whatever seemed most important, had come into conflict with her free-spiritedness, which always before had been so charming to me. I had made the fatal mistake of making my work the focus of concentration for a time, understanding that, for me, it was not permanent, and that it didn't mean that the marriage, or my wife, mattered less to me. She had, for reasons I could now understand, become frustrated and unhappy, and had begun to see my shift in focus, from her to work, as a unilaterally determined shift in the balance of our marriage, from fun-loving young couple to the kind of tired, middle-aged people who always seem to save the best of their energies and enthusiasms for someone else, be it children, or work, or aging parents, etc. In retrospect, I can't be entirely sure that she was wrong about that. But finally, we had failed, as all the relationship books tell you you must never do, to communicate effectively about what it seemed to each of us was happening.

I had discovered that the sexual betrayal was too much for me to accept, especially when it was, as it was, coupled with emotional infidelity. Another man could have taken her back, and might even have reveled in his power to win her again; but that wasn't me. Something inside me, something connected with my desire for her, and my affection for her, was permanently damaged by knowing what she had done. You can call me a lesser man for that, if you like, but it wouldn't change who I am.

Lindsay was right, though, that I needed to tell her that she was forgiven, and that I didn't hate her for what she had done. At the same time, I needed to be free of her, which meant that she had to let me go. As long as she had been living next door, we were too close together to get the separation we had needed for clarity. One of us was going to have to move out. For her sake, I hoped it would be her; it seemed that she was finally coming around to the conclusion that whatever this guy was to her, he was not the companion of a lifetime. But that decision was in her hands, not mine, and I couldn't wait much longer for her before taking my own action.

Before tonight, I would have regarded selling my house and moving away an admission of defeat. With nothing to move towards, it could only have meant running away. But Lindsay changed that, for me. She gave me something to move towards. Although I was strongly attracted to her, I was glad that she was forcing us to take things slow. We both, as she had pointed out, had "issues" to deal with, both for ourselves, and in one another. It was going to take some time, but I intended to use some of the lessons I had learned not to make the same mistakes again.

I decided that I would call the lawyer I had talked to about the divorce, to ask him to file the paperwork to start the divorce. When that was done, I would talk to my wife, for the last time, I hoped, to accept her apology, if she still wanted to offer it, and to give her mine, in return, and wish her well.

...

That's all folks. Will our protagonist make a go of it with Lindsay? I don't know right now; if he decides to try, I think that would belong in another category. Thanks for reading.