ABYSS
They’re married, although not to each other. So they have no business being here, in this student-filled bar on an early Wednesday evening after work, exchanging life stories.
“Tell me everything,” Laura says, leaning in closer, drinking in the sight of him. Deep, expressive brown eyes; pale, lightly freckled skin covering a slender, almost frail physique. She wants to hold him, protect him from the evil world. She does not touch him.
Jonathan blushes a little and smiles. “Everything?”
“Everything.” She pushes her hair out of her eyes, a nervous gesture. Sips her Viognier. Doesn’t steal a glance at her watch, although she wants to.
“There isn’t much to tell.” But he tells her anyway, all that the emails couldn’t express.
Later he walks her to her car, before doubling back to the bus stop. She wants to take his hand but doesn’t. He’s so fragile, so skittish. A colt. It took him forever to decide to meet like this, but when he finally did, it couldn’t be soon enough. He’s a few years younger than she is, although that shouldn’t make a difference.
She feels even more tender towards him now that they’ve talked, told secrets. But she knows she cannot tell him this. He’s tentative enough already.
They walk in silence, though she’s still full of things to say. All too soon, there’s her little blue Camry. They have to get back. Back to their real lives.
“Write me,” Laura says, as they part. No touching. No kissing.
“I will.” He gives her that quick, bright smile, and then she watches him disappear down the street before she starts the car.
She checks her email later that evening, but he hasn’t written. She checks again right before bed, but still nothing. Was he regretting their meeting? Did he get home all right? Did his wife suspect he wasn’t going out for a beer with guys from work? Finally, the next morning, she gets a message, time-stamped shortly past midnight. All is well, he just didn’t get a chance to get to his computer before then. What a nice time it was, meeting with her for drinks. Too bad they couldn’t have taken longer.
It’s awful, how relieved she feels.
The emails are wonderful. They write each other four, five, six, seven times a day. Long emails, chatty, friendly, supportive. Perhaps the tiniest bit flirtatious, but not too much. Because they are both married. And not to each other. But they have a lot to say to one another, they have things in common their spouses don’t share. Books, music, movies. It’s so nice to find a friend. Nothing wrong with having a friend.
Sometimes, when the emails don’t come—Jonathan is in a meeting at work, for hours, then busy in the evening, perhaps doing something with his wife—Laura grows gloomy, depressed. She checks and checks and checks. She fears her colt has run off across the pasture, has bolted, fled.
But then she shakes her head and comes back to her senses. He’s not her colt. He doesn’t belong in her stable. She’s fine. She goes home and has a glass of wine with her very good and loving husband, and she’s fine. And then the next day a new email comes, as if nothing was wrong. Because nothing is wrong.
Read the rest in Literal Translations, Volume 8!