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La Jalousie
The first three of these flash stories are linked together. "Jalousie" in French means jealousy, of course, the theme of these stories, but it also means a certain kind of shutter, designed for spying, that allows you to see out but does not allow anyone else to see in. (The first was posted in the duel.)
La Jalousie (Lisa)
(203 words)
Of course I've had lovers since I've been married. Three affairs, a Morse code: two shorts and a long-eighteen months and a messy breakup. Joseph never had a clue, poor stupid bastard, never suspected his perfect wife, never felt a pang of jealousy or suspicion.
Of course, I was the soul of discretion, never gave myself away. I met them out of town, used phone cards, took long showers. I was a great fuck, but I cleaned up afterwards. I had alibis, but I never asked anyone to lie for me. The lies of others trip you up.
I needn't have bothered. Joseph never checked on me. I'd come home, freshly fucked, and he'd say, "Have a nice day, honey?" It made me laugh, at first.
I have cyber lovers, too. I'll sit next to him on the couch, my laptop tilted slightly away, while men describe what they are doing to my lovely white virtual body. I cover my tracks beautifully: erase the history on my computer, hide my chat rooms. Wasted effort. I don't think Joseph would ever check.
Fool. The day he cares enough to open his eyes is the day he will appreciate me at my true worth.
La Jalousie (Joseph)
(280 words)
She's had seven affairs since we married, that I know of, and that excludes the men she fucks online. I suppose there might be more - God knows she's capable of it, or of running them concurrently - but I doubt she's clever enough to hide them from me.
She thinks she is, of course, and I let her think it. She comes in reeking of sex and that soap she uses afterward-Ivory, 99 44/100% pure-and looks at me, half-guilt, half-challenge. She could be sixteen, sneaking in, transparent as a dirty window. "Have a nice day, honey?" I chirp. I don't grind my teeth. Not even at night. My conscience is clear.
Of course I follow them. I've become an expert on finding the hotels she prefers, listening through windows and walls. You may say it's not a dignified thing for a grown man to do, that it's pathetic . But you'd do exactly the same thing if you were in my place.
In fact, you've probably been in my place. Between her thighs.
I used to love her so much, before she became a whore. She was so beautiful, so lively, so delicate. I would have done anything for her, anything at all. I still want to fuck her. I don't understand that, but it's true. I want to possess her, drive into her, make her come whether she wants to or not. I ache for it . Sometimes I give in.
Right now it hurts her most to believe I don't care enough to notice who she fucks. Soon that will change. Soon it will hurt her most to have me leave her without a word of explanation.
La Jalousie (Eddie)
(237 words)
This is routine for a tennis pro. Each summer two or three of them, the beautiful young mothers looking to whittle their waists and get a little appreciation at the same time . I like the tanned blondes best, toast and honey, and believe me it's all in the wrist. By the end of the summer everyone's ready to write their thank-you notes and start practicing for skiing instruction instead. Fine with me.
Lisa was different: pale, smart, high-voltage. She got under my skin and twice weekly at the clubhouse was never enough . I itched for more and never got scratched. I would pace when she was late, and snap at her when she finally arrived. Unbuttoning her short tennis dress, she would ignore me, too smart and too bored to fight, driving me insane.
"Hey, coach," she'd say, that damned edge in her voice. "Why not put a little more power behind the serve? No need to ease up on me just because I'm easy." It was the first time I ever slapped a woman.
She wasn't fucking me because she loved me. I knew that even then, even during the eighteen months we saw each other almost daily. She was fucking me because she loved her husband. What a pisser. Took me a year and a half to see it through the poison in her eyes.
She might have loved me.
She might still.
Letter Opener
(277 words)
When Carolyn opened the file labeled "Letters to J," she thought she knew what she was going to find. She had supplied herself with a large scotch and a mantra: knowing is better than not knowing. Instead, she found herself flipped into the wind like the ashes of a cigarette.
I want you so much. This is the truest thing that has ever happened to me. I only wish we didn't have to keep it a secret. I want to touch you everywhere, be in you everywhere at once. Your body is constantly in my mind, making me hard all the time. It would be embarrassing if I weren't so ridiculously proud to be in love with you.
As she read, she slowly began to understand. She examined the dates of the letters. Two years! She wanted to laugh but couldn't. She knew how she could have been so blind, but not how she could have done it so long.
I think about you all day long. Last night when you called, Carolyn was right in the next room, and I didn't even care. When I touch myself, I imagine it's you touching me, stroking me all over. God, I want you every minute.
She got up, blind and sick at heart, and fetched her own letter. It was short and no-nonsense, and she scarcely needed to read it again. "Dear Carolyn, I am leaving you. No doubt you will think this is for the best. My lawyer will be in touch. Bill." Well. Knowing is better than not knowing.
Dearest John, This is it, the final step. I know this is the right thing. Love, Bill.
In the Frame
(249 words)
"Eerie," said Jimmy. "The eyes seem to follow you as you move across the room."
"That could be because she's a girl at a bar, and not a portrait," I said.
"She's trouble," he said.
"Nonsense," I said, and went to talk to her. Mona, she said her name was. She had pre-Raphaelite hair, heavy gold earrings, and a smoky, scoop neck velvet dress that fell past her calves. She was beautiful and she was mysterious and we hit it off rather well. I ignored Jimmy's rolling eyes as Mona told me the sad story of her life: a husband who didn't understand her, creative impulses smothered, Needs. I nodded and bought drinks.
We went back to her place. She had fine things in that house: tapestries, portraits, antiques. None was richer or more beautiful than she. She was like a Vermeer in the light; like a Burne-Jones kneeling in front of me, half-dressed; like an Ingres when she lay on the bed naked, a sated smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I told her someone ought to paint her, put her in pictures.
When I woke in the morning, muzzy-headed, not only had she scarpered with my wallet, there was a dead man-her elderly husband-in the next room, all over blood. I said to the police, "The bitch set me up." I said, "She made me look guilty." I refused to say: she framed me.
The DA laughed his ass off. So did Jimmy.