moments all day, every day. No matter what I’m doing, somebody is always interrupting me.
So why isn’t that happening now?
Why isn’t one of the kids bugging me to give them Gummi Worms or to wipe their poopy keister or to tell so-and-so to stop kicking/biting/looking-at-me so that I can forget about answering Happy Nappy?
I don’t have to answer him. I can delete him from my life with the press of a button.
Too bad it wasn’t that easy the first time around.
Back then, I didn’t know how to let go.
Maybe I still don’t.
My fingers are flying over the keys before I can stop them.
Dear Mike, Thanks for writing…
Good. Now what?
I was so surprised to hear from you!
Good. Now what?
I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately.
Not good.
I replace it with I’m sorry things ended the way they did, and I’ve always hoped for the chance to tell you how sorry I am that things didn’t work out for us.
Definitely not good.
I backspace over that and sit with my fingers poised on the keyboard, trying to think of something to say. Something that will lead us not into temptation. Something that isn’t trite yet won’t dredge up the painful past.
I mean, I broke the guy’s heart. I let him believe we could have a future together, even though I was in love with somebody else.
The somebody else I married.
The somebody else with whom I have three children, a mortgage and a retirement plan. I should probably point that out first and foremost.
I immediately type I’m still married to Mike.
Then I realize it sounds as though I thought we might not last.
I backspace quickly. Of course I’m still married to Mike. Why wouldn’t I be?
I try again.
Mike and I have three beautiful sons and a house in Westchester. He’s working at an ad agency in Manhattan and I…
I pause, frowning.
Hmm. How can I make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?
Perhaps the more pressing question is why do I feel the need to make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?
I delete the last line, all the way back to Westchester. That was probably TMI, anyway. He doesn’t need to know the intimate details of my life.
I just can’t help wishing there were some.
Time to wrap things up quickly.
I’d love to hear from you again when you have time. Take care! Beau
There. Short and sweet.
I hit Send before I can read it over and change my mind.
Time for a reality check.
I log off, march over to the phone and dial Mike’s extension.
His secretary answers.
“Hi, Jan, it’s Beau.”
“Beau! We were just talking about you.”
“You were?” I say, wondering who we is.
I hate when somebody says they were just talking about me. Not that it happens regularly, but still…
What could anybody possibly have to say about me? I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t see anyone.
“Yes, I was just telling Mike how lucky he is to have a wife who’s willing to stay home and be with the kids. If I had to be at home with my kids, I’d kill myself.”
“Oh. Well…” What does one say to that? “It’s not so bad.”
“Well, I told Mike he needs to bring you some flowers once in a while too, to let you know how much he appreciates you.”
Too?
“He’s such a sweetheart, Beau,” she goes on. “I can’t believe he always remembers that purple is my favorite color.”
“Oh…he’s got quite a memory.”
So do I. I remember when my husband used to stop at the florist in Grand Central on his way home every once in a while. He’d come in the door with a paper-wrapped bouquet of my favorite flowers, heavenly scented stargazer lilies.
He hasn’t done that in months.
I hadn’t even noticed until now.
“Hang on and I’ll go get him for you,” Jan says, and puts me on hold.
It’s not that I’m jealous. If Mike’s secretary were the least bit buxom or beautiful, I might be jealous. But Jan, a married mother of toddler twins, has crow’s-feet, prematurely gray hair, saddlebags and an upper lip that desperately needs electrolysis. She and I are about the same age, but she looks a good decade older. She’s so not a threat to my marriage.
In fact, until recently, I didn’t think anything could be a threat to my marriage.
“Hey, what’s up, Babs?” my husband’s voice asks.
I hate when he calls me Babs. But at least he sounds cheerful, so I say, just as cheerfully, “Hi! I just…I wanted to see how your day was going.”
“Crazy. How about yours?”
Upstairs, I hear the clattering of a million tiny plastic pieces against hardwood. Apparently, the Lego city has met its demise.
“Crazy,” I tell Mike.
Because if an out-of-the-blue e-mail from an old lover isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.
“Crazy how? Are the boys okay?”
“They’re fine. One is playing, one is watching Dora, one is sleeping. When are you coming home?”
“Late” is his prompt reply. “I have to take some people out for drinks. Don’t wait for me for dinner.”
“I won’t. Will you be home before I put the kids to bed?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll try. Kiss them for me if I’m not, okay?”
