the idea of being caught in the act.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed heavily into my ear one time, “the kids aren’t at home.”
“What if Lucy comes in?” I said.
“Lucy is a golden retriever.”
“I am aware of that but she does barge in here all the time.”
“But she’s a dog.”
“I cannot have sex with the dog watching,” I said, sitting up, “it’s inappropriate.”
Since then he’s never balked when I demand the door be locked. Pamela laughed hysterically when I explained all this, by the way, and suggested the sexiest photo of all might just be me, nude, beside an unlocked door.
But so much for the bedroom. I next considered the kitchen, which is where we spend most of our time as a family, usually me cooking or puttering around and the kids eating or doing their homework at the table or curled up watching television on the sofa in the family room, which adjoins it. Scott has repeatedly told me he never finds me sexier than when I am cooking, but frankly I think that is just an effort to get me into the right frame of mind for a quickie after dinner. It often works, by the way—I’m not complaining—but I’m still not sure it’s the right room for the photos.
Neither, then, is Scott’s office. Aside from the desk and chair, the only things in there are a computer, a fax machine, a copier, a printer, two telephones, a small television monitor, and a Bose radio. There is nothing in the room that is not connected to a power cord.
The kids’ rooms are obviously out of the question, as are the bathrooms, even the master with the whirlpool tub, because if even a hint of a toilet is in the picture it ruins the effect completely. And I’m definitely not prepared to do this outside by the pool, because if my social-climbing, nosy, never-keeps-her-mouth-shut neighbor should get so much as a glimpse of my naked ass, it would be pretty much the equivalent of showing it on the evening news.
So, I am left with a really strange problem. It’s like being all dressed up and having no place to go, except it’s the opposite. I want to be completely undressed. But, even in my own home, I feel as though I’ve got no place to go.
SAMANTHA
WHEN I OPENED MY eyes, the waiter with the pleasant smile was still standing before me, waiting for me—I guess—to laugh, or maybe to cry. But I wasn’t going to do either. Suddenly I felt very serious, and very certain of what I needed.
“Can you please ask the hotel manager to come see me?” I asked.
“Of course, miss,” he said. “But may I ask again, will your meal be charged to your room?”
“No, I’m not a guest in this hotel,” I said, “but I’m going to be one very soon.”
“Very well,” he said amiably, “will you be paying with cash or a card?”
“Actually, I haven’t got any money,” I said, “but I know where to get some.”
His pleasant smile was wavering. I think he thought I was crazy, and considering the conversation we were having I couldn’t blame him.
“I will have no trouble paying for my lunch, don’t worry,” I said. “I just need three things, please. I need the hotel manager, I need a telephone, and I need a glass of champagne.”
He brought me the drink first and it was fabulous, so different from the glass I’d had last night when I was drinking a toast to the rest of my life. Now, in the light of day, especially in the brilliant sunshine, it was clear how silly that had been. Not just because I had typed “FuckLarryBird” into a computer and found out my husband wasn’t the man I thought he was, but for a million other reasons as well. In the sunshine, it was clear that the only plans worth making are ones for later in the day. There’s no way to know what the next week or month or year are going to bring, much less the whole rest of your life. The only permanent thing is impermanence. This was what I came to understand right then, right there, with the sun on my cheeks and the champagne on my lips. The notion that you could actually know what you want for the rest of your life is illogical and unreasonable. The best you can do is figure out what you want for lunch.
“Hello, miss.”
The voice came from behind me, a different voice