Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(19)

CHAPTER 7





WHEN WE ENTER his house I head straight for the kitchen. Dave probably thinks this is submission but really I just want to get away from him. I’m not a spectacular cook but I’m not horrible. I pull out the ingredients necessary to make a quick-and-easy stir-fry and try to forget the day. The counter is covered with fresh vegetables and two small frozen lamb loin chops when Dave walks in. He stares at the meat, seeing an insult there. He doesn’t much like red meat but had bought the lamb in an attempt to please me. Months ago, a lifetime ago, he had tried to surprise me with a meal . . . which he mangled terribly. We had laughed about it and I had ended up making us pasta.

But he hadn’t thrown away the remaining uncooked loin chops and I do like red meat . . . and I’m the one cooking this time. I pull out a large chopping knife and lay it carefully on a cutting board.

“The dress is on my bed. Go ahead and change.”

“I’ll change after I make dinner,” I say as I reach for some extra-virgin olive oil and a microwave-safe plate for the defrosting.

“No, change now. It will make me happy.”

He’s a million miles from happy. If he was happy, I’d have the man I once cared for, even if I don’t love him.

I suck in a sharp breath. And like that I finally admit the evil truth. I never loved the man I agreed to marry.

I only wanted the life he provided, the orderliness, the structure, the predictability. That had all seemed so important. Funny how those “attributes” have lost so much of their appeal. Perhaps it wasn’t the betrayal that turned him inside out. Maybe it’s the lack of love that’s transformative. Maybe it’s the distance between what we want and what we have that sculpts our behavior.

A dress won’t fix anything, it certainly won’t make either of us happy but since I don’t know what will, I do as asked and go up to his room to change.

The dress makes me laugh. It’s ridiculously provocative and clearly something he picked up today. It’s black and off the shoulder. A strip of solid fabric covers my breasts but below is sheer black mesh, which will reveal my full midriff before meeting another band of solid fabric that forms the micro-mini skirt. I saw a photograph of a pop star wearing a similar dress to the VMAs or something like that, but I doubt Dave knows this is a knockoff of a piece just slightly less tacky. For Dave, this probably constitutes lingerie.

I squeeze into the dress. It’s skintight and oddly flattering but it’s also a little slutty. Much more so than the Herve Leger dress I wore in Vegas the night I met Robert Dade. One glance in the mirror tells me that I’m going to need to change out of the bikini panties I’m wearing and into a thong.

I fish through the few items of clothing I have stored here to see if I can find one.

“You won’t be able to wear underwear with that,” Dave says.

I whirl around to see him standing in the doorway.

I smile slightly. “Are you trying to humiliate me?” I ask.

He shrugs, giving away the answer in his silence.

I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not over a dress worn within a private residence. “Why would I be embarrassed? Only yesterday you saw me in less.”

I let my hand slide over my exposed stomach and then up my skirt. It takes effort to wriggle out of my panties without flashing him, but I manage it and then throw them at Dave, who catches them in one hand. He looks mildly embarrassed and slightly aroused.

I walk up to him, lean in, and say with a singsong whisper, “If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”

And then I walk past him to make dinner, leaving him with an erection he’s going to have to take care of all by himself.

It’s a struggle to prepare the lamb with my movements restricted by the unforgiving fabric. My guilt over what I’ve done is slowly dissipating with each one of Dave’s pathetic attempts to debase me. While Asha’s attacks are polished and executed with a vicious grace, Dave’s moves are clumsy, only hitting his mark by the occasional stroke of luck. The single advantage he has is that, unlike with Asha, I’m still not clear I fully understand what motivates him.

And what does he have to lose by calling my parents or his godfather right now? Is he stringing me along until he does? Am I playing for salvation or time?

The oil in the frying pan pops and sizzles as I sprinkle in bits of bloody red meat. I turn the knife on the vegetables, slicing through them with precise and violent movements.

I’ve been fighting like a civilian, wildly swinging at anything that resembles an enemy. I need to be the soldier. I need a battle plan.

As I wield the blade across the cutting board, I wonder if the violence will remain in the form of metaphor. How far can I be pushed before I snap?