Beastie

“That was fun, getting pedis at hoe-ah. We should totally do it again next month. Dontcha think?” Maryanne sucked down the rest of her white wine and snapped fingers to get the server’s attention.

Sighing, I corrected her for the third time, “It’s pronounced wa, not hoe-ah. And yeah, it was fun.”

Maryanne dismissed the correction with a breezy, “Then why spell it H-O-A?” then she turned to the slightly sweaty server who answered her beck and call.

“Another Chardonnay for me, please. My little beastie’s falling behind!”

“Sure thing. Have you decided on an entree?” The server, Katie, reached for Maryanne’s empty glass, leaving mine alone, still half full. 

I handed Katie my menu, “I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto.”

Maryanne made a corkscrew face. “Ummmmm, hmmm. How about the glazed pork chops, but sub the mashed potatoes for whatever seasonal veggie, except for broccoli.”

The server shifted from one foot to the other, “I can do french cut green beans or sauteed zucchini.”

“Green beans!” Maryanne smiled, showing perfect white teeth, handing Katie the leather-bound menu. “And a bottle of Pinot Noir to go with the meal. That Ok with you, beastie?”

When we were seventeen, Maryanne accidentally spelled “bestie” with an A on my birthday card, and I’ve been her little beastie ever since.

As soon as Katie left, menus in hand, orders in her mind, Maryanne slumped onto the table in exaggerated exasperation, “Ugggh! I should have ordered sooner. I’m staaarrrving!” Her second glass of wine kicked in while I nursed my first, along with my pensive mood.

Maryanne and I met in high school during our sophomore year. My locker was next to her best friend, Tammy Traverse. Tammy was a popular cheerleader with a fan club following. Maryanne wasn’t on the cheer squad but could have easily been if she wanted to—her limber, athletic body opposite my short chubby frame. Even still, strangers would often mistake us for sisters or cousins, our coloring and facial features oddly familiar to each other. Sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes, a light smattering of freckles, small nose, and symmetrical reddish pink lips. 

Leaning against Tammy’s locker in 1989, Maryanne watched as I generously applied Revlon’s Silver City pink lipstick and then asked to borrow it. Hand midair, I caught a glimpse of my puckered and confused look in the tiny magnetic mirror. “Um, sure?” 

Maryanne copied my generous application and then handed it back with a smack of her sticky lips and juicy, “Thanks!” I told her to keep it. 

The next day Maryanne was back at my locker, without Tammy, and handed me a fresh, still packaged, Revlon lipstick. We were inseparable after that, Tammy, a third wheel who soon fell off. Maryanne and I graduated from tricycle to bike, reaching every major milestone simultaneously, tied together in a three-legged race to the finish line. 

By forty-two, our marriages sagged like the worn mattress I occasionally slept on in her guest room, the fights with my husband escalating faster each year. Maryanne’s marriage a quieter quit; by forty-five, she had two affairs, one with her personal trainer and the other with her daughter’s fifth-grade teacher. My trysts totaled three, each briefer than the one before it. My insatiable appetite for change met with a gnawing hunger for something other than what was before me. Neither Maryanne nor I discussed our affairs in detail, except for my first fling, which lasted six months. Her fascination with the sex details was also a first; Maryanne didn’t care to discuss anything involving bodily fluids. How she managed her disdain for human discharge with four children can only be credited to the heavy lifting done by her husband and their au pair, Aubrey. She knew her husband was lifting Aubrey’s skirt along with their shared childcare duties, but Maryanne didn’t care. Like me, she had checked out of her marriage after baby number two.

“So, have you seen Taylor around town lately?”

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. Taylor was my first affair, and I still hadn’t shed him completely, feeling his touch in my dreams. A police detective, he was determined to never get married. His “It’s not you; it’s me” would have sent any woman reeling, but not me. I knew it was true. He would never say it out loud, but his reason went beyond the two of us; he didn’t want to play baby daddy with my three children or deal with my husband’s inevitable tantrums. Not because my husband, who I half-jokingly called Jake the snake, didn’t want to part with me, but because he didn’t want to part with our joint assets. I couldn’t blame Taylor and still carried a glowing torch of what could have been. 

Squirming in my seat, I looked around for our server, Katie, ready for my second glass of wine. I preferred white over the light red Maryanne ordered to share.

“Um, yes. Our neighbor’s home was broken into the other night. He stopped by to ask routine questions. You know, check-in, ask if anyone saw or heard anything, routine.”

Maryanne’s brows shot up, and she took a big gulp of wine, half choking, “What?! Really? Oh my god! Why didn’t you tell me?! Was it awkward?!”

The caustic burn of alcohol on an empty stomach hit my throat; I shrugged, hiding my real answer behind an, “I dunno. I guess. Jake was home, and we were still in our pajamas, so yeah, a little.”

It was incredibly awkward, standing so close to Taylor, smelling his scent, cucumber clean, while my husband slurped coffee and farted, “Oh, whoops, ‘scuse me. Gotta hit the head. Didn’t see or hear anything last night except the kids.” before excusing himself. 

Clearing his throat, Taylor said, “Ok, thanks. Call if you think of anything.” then he looked me in the eye, handing me his card, “In case you need to reach me.” 

After he left, I smelled his card, inhaling deeply, slipping it into my bra, just over my left breast, against my heart. Now beating like crazy at the memory.

Katie sidled up to our table, slightly out of breath, “Hey. You need something?” 

“Oh, um, yes, another glass of chardonnay, please.”

“You got it. I’ll be right back.” Katie was gone as quickly as she appeared.

Maryanne leaned in, pressing for more details, “Oh my god, how you didn’t tell me! Did you talk at all, aside from police questions?!”

I shook my head no; the truth—the other half of the truth, restless inside me. I wanted to talk with Maryanne about it, the only person besides Taylor who knew about our affair, but my gut told me to keep quiet and change the subject, so I did.

“What about you? Your personal trainer, Bob, right?”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Maryanne waved off my mistake, “It’s Bill. I would not expect you to keep track of my lovers or their names. They’re all boring as fucking hell compared to your detective, your Taylor.”

My Taylor. Suddenly feeling queasy, I excused myself as Katie set down my fresh glass. 

“I’ll be right back. I need some air.”

Maryanne gave me a pitied look. “Of course, you do, boo. So sorry. By the time you return, all Taylor talk will be off the table, and we’ll go back to boring housewife stuff. Like the wallpaper decision for my powder room.”

Nodding, I smiled meekly. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Once outside, I breathed in the cool air; the recent rain left everything washed and ready to get dirty again. Sighing, I absentmindedly felt for a cigarette I didn’t have, instead feeling Taylor’s card. Pulling it from my pocket, I rubbed it between my fingers and thumb, wishing I could rub him. Choking back a tear, I tucked the card into my bra and was about to go back inside when something caught my eye.

Like Tinkerbell trapped in Captain Hook’s glass jar, my heart was wild against my chest, frantic to escape. It was Taylor, leaning against his car, parked across the street. He gave me a light wave, and I waved back. Without a thought or glance behind me, I went to him, leaving Maryanne wondering where the fuck her little beastie disappeared to.