Taint(4)

The deafening silence swells and becomes uncomfortably dense, painfully pressing into my temples and crushing my skull, serving as penance for my questionable conscience’s failure to intervene. Allison’s eyes mist with tears, transforming into an endless blue ocean of hurt. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.

“Well,” she croaks, her mouth dry and her wine glass empty. “Congratulations, asshole. You know how to navigate Wikipedia.” And as graceful as the elegant gazelle she was bred to be, she slides her chair back and stands, head held high, and glides out of the room.

I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only 10 more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.

“Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.

“Why should I?”

“Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”

More nods. Even a few co-signing murmurs.

I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every the principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.

Never get emotionally vested in a client.

Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.

And never, ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.

The door to her suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.

I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”

“Home. This was a mistake.”

“That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”

“Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, social security number…hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”

“Don’t be absurd,” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”

Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.

I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And, believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.

“With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

She barks out a forged laugh and looks away towards the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the color of diamonds and sorrow.

“You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet infectious enough to echo in my head.

“Excuse me?”

She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”

She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.

She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.

“I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”

Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”

“It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”

“Right,” she smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”