Passing Through Fire To The Other Side

It was hard to miss you.
A brunette Marissa Miller striding through an office of Free Donut Fatties.
You were married with a little girl.
We got lunch sometimes with peers, sometimes alone. I drove all conversations.

I dated a blonde sales coordinator.
You got larger implants for your 37th birthday. I joked I didn’t know you were that much older.
Friday lunch became just us.
You wore tight capsleeve tops in the dead of winter. Red. Double-D daring me.

I dumped the blonde for a happy hour barfly.
Every coworker had my cell phone number but only you sent me texts after work.
Half business, half being a mom to me.
The next May, you started sending pics of you + your girl at the pool. By August, just you.

I simply said, “Nice haircut, less Mom-ish.”
You sent me an email from your personal address, asked to avoid work emails.
Husband hadn’t noticed in years. It was over.
You were uber-depressed. You had lost fifteen pounds. You were on Zoloft. Therapy twice a week.

Each day was a new thread of emails.
I read a story of how awful your husband was, how depressed you were + torn on divorce.
I played supportive friend. Mentioned my parents’ divorce.
My work wife, a black 48 year old, said, “mm-hmm you the only man she touches when talking to.”

I shook it off. I was a dozen years younger.
You missed a week from work. You texted me to say you collapsed one day.
Over lunch you revealed divorce papers were filed.
I wished you well and encouraged you to finally relax. You wanted to focus on your daughter.

Emails were now lighter fare. Music, movies, church.
You mocked my inability to be in a stable relationship. What exactly did I like in a woman?
You claimed you had cousins to set up.
You encouraged me to stop rotating younger women and seek someone family oriented.

A year of texts went by. More poolside pics. Yoga too.
We flew to Atlanta to handle a client’s installation. You wore a black, high-waisted, and tight skirt.
I flirted with the eager wageskanks. Client loved us.
At the hotel bar, we drank to celebrate. Our local contact left at 11pm. You wanted one more drink.

Martini. You ordered one too. Always wanted to try.
After the bartender turned to others, you leaned in and asked me one simple question.
“Why don’t you flirt with me like the others?”
It wasn’t the booze that had me sluggish to respond. I didn’t have a good answer.

I sank my drink, said G’night and left for my room.
You texted before I hit the elevator. You were sorry. I said no worries. I needed to stop drinking.
I had my blazer off when you knocked on the door.
I let you in. In the entrance with the ray of light from the bathroom, you ran your hands up my chest.

Pressing your breasts into me, you kissed me. We made love until 3am.
I couldn’t sleep. You gave me a Lunesta. Told me how your parents divorce screwed your sister.
She slept with old men. You married for security.
When we woke up, more sex before we showered. I noticed your grey roots.

You talked me into delaying our flights. Stay in ATL.
There was nothing to do but sex all weekend in the hotel only broken by room service.
“What about her daughter” I thought.
You used your enhanced breasts as a weapon. I could still see age spots or freckles from overtanning.

Emails stopped, texts ramped up. Still our secret.
We’d leave work early Fridays you didn’t have your daughter for weekends of sex and old movies.
I tried to slow you down. You told me not to worry.
You’d cry after sex sometimes. You wanted a second opinion about the three pills you were taking.

I tried to distance myself. Visits were sporadic.
One group lunch I swore I heard you say in my direction that you would not be ignored.
I answered your texts with genuine concern.
You blamed your stomach issues on nerves. Didn’t stop the wine drinking.

When the ex started dating, you missed two days of work.
You asked me for a clean break. You weren’t mad but you needed to get your head on straight.
You skipped lunches. Your boss put you on warning.
In three months, the raven haired, busty MILF had waned into a mop with cantaloupes attached.

You asked me to take a walk one morning.
They were going to fire you. You spoke calmly to me, but as we approached the office, you got wild.
Arms waving for no reason. You then ran ahead inside.
They walked you out with a box of your stuff by noon. Someone said “addition by subtraction.”

No texts or calls. Two months later HR called a late day meeting.
You challenged the firing. I had harassed you at work causing poor performance. They needed facts.
I spent a month waiting as they investigated. Called a friend…a lawyer.
The next call to my boss’ office (lawyer in tow), an HR commissar sat beaming. HR was unprepared.

My lawyer gave them everything.
Every picture, every email, every text. My lawyer had documented our sex life. Everything of us.
Every sweet thing, every joke.
They adjourned. My boss patted me on the back and laughed at my display. “She conned you kid.”

He said I was just a lifeboat for your divorce. It happens.
The marriage was a con too. She missed Mr. Big in her 20s and hooked a nice guy at 31. Swell guy.
Husband was an accountant. A bicyclist. A church volunteer.
He said you had a breakdown at 27 when the VP of Audits wouldn’t leave his wife for you.

I met a petite school teacher at a friends’ art exhibition.
We commiserated about working with so many older women who had given up on life except eating.
I enjoyed nothing being secret. I enjoyed a woman not on pills.
Despite my lawyer’s assurances, I awaited the axe. A college pal citing HR handbook gaps isn’t inspiring.

Another month passed and another late day HR meeting.
They agreed with my lawyer. Recommended training. Nothing unwanted. Nothing evil.
You and me, nothing was real. Life boat.
Returning to the office the next day, I saw the email invitation, “Sensitivity Training: Male Allies.”

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