The Interview

Her lips are the color of that last swig of Merlot left to sit in its glass overnight. Dark, rich and velvety, and an intriguing departure from the fresh face I’d grown to know. “Hey,” she says with a smile.

I step aside to let her in. “You look great,” I say.

“Thanks.” She’s dressed in dark flared jeans and a cream turtleneck, a motorcycle jacket over top. Vintage, I suspect. “Right, you’ve never seen me in real clothes,” she says, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt, pulling it past the arm of her jacket. “Beautiful place.” She takes a few more steps into the room. “I shot that artist! Isabel James, right?” She’s pointing at the painting above the fireplace, an abstract swirling sea of black, emerald and maroon. I’d bought it for three months’ rent after disappearing into it during a party for something or other at a gallery a few years prior.

I’d first seen her at the gym filling up her water bottle, her wild curls wrangled effectively, if not carelessly, and sitting high on top of her head. She’d tell me that she spends her days as a freelance photographer over an after-class smoothie one day. After months of eye contact that lasted just a beat too long and accidental touches that produced little sparks of electricity that started in my fingertips and settled my belly, I dared to jump.

Jonathan was incredulous when I’d broached the subject. “You … you like someone? A woman?” He’d asked, trying hard to steady his voice. “What does this mean?” We stayed up half that night talking, me choosing my words with the care of a surgeon, trying desperately to reassure my husband that I still loved and wanted him but that I was sure there was something with this person, something I needed to explore if he’d allow me, us. I also needed him to know that it wasn’t just a sex thing. Well, it wasn’t an anything. But I wanted him to be a part of whatever it could be.

Just as I open my mouth to confirm that, yes, the artist is Isabel James, he walks in tall and commanding. “Hi! I’m sorry. I was changing out of my scrubs.” He pauses a safe distance away from her. I can tell he finds her attractive. Of course he would. He finally approaches her with an outstretched hand. “Shawn, right? I’m Jonathan.”

She shakes it. “Yeah. Hey, Jonathan.” I watch the light dance in her eyes as they shift from him to me and back again. We stand in the silence for a few moments.

“Should I open a bottle of wine?” Jonathan asks, clearing his throat after the question. He’s nervous. “Red OK, Shawn?”

“That sounds great.”

“Cool.”

“Thanks, baby,” I say. I lean in for a kiss. He’s expecting a quick peck, probably, but I hold him there a second or two longer. When we separate, I look at her and she’s watching. I knew she would be. I see the corner of those Merlot lips curl up just a bit before she turns away and back toward the painting. “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing toward the living room as Jonathan disappears into the kitchen. She plops down onto one of the sofas and I take the other.

“You look nice, too, by the way,” she says, giving my body a quick scan. I’d changed three times before she rang our doorbell, settling on a pair of wide-legged navy slacks and my favorite sweater. “Thank you.” I bite my lip thinking it’ll help me to hold it in place, but there’s no use. I feel a grin light up my face. Embarrassed, I drop my head. When I look up she lets out a little laugh.

“Bree, should I grab this dip, too?” I hear Jonathan call from the kitchen.

“Yes!” I yell back. To Shawn I say, “You should know now, I don’t really cook, but I do make the best spinach artichoke dip you’ve ever tasted?”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

Jonathan returns a moment later carrying the dip, still warm from the oven, and pita chips on a tray we got as a wedding gift, and a bottle of our favorite Merlot. He’s clutching a few glasses against his ribcage with the bend of his arm. He sits everything on the coffee table and takes the seat next to me as I grab coasters from the side table and unstack them like checkers, setting one in front of each of us. He pours into her glass first. As he turns the bottle upright a drop falls from the mouth and onto the outside of her glass. I watch as it slowly slides down the stem and then the base and settles on the coaster.

“Thanks so much. Bree says you’re in your last year of residency.”

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous. I can’t wait to get back.” He says as he fills my glass and then his own.

“That’s what it’s all about,” she says.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yeah. Mostly fashion, interiors – things like that. I was telling Bree that I photographed that artist, the painting up there.” She extends her neck and nods toward the piece above the fireplace.

“Really?”

“A couple years back. We did a whole set up at her studio, a bunch of her pieces all around. It was for some startup magazine. I don’t know what ever came of it, but I got paid all the same.”

“That’s what it’s all about. Speaking of money, she went all in on that thing,” Jonathan says. He turns to look at me. “What did you tell me, babe? ‘It was love at first sight?’”

I catch his gaze. “That’s right. I just sort of … fell into it.” Some amount of small talk later and the pan of dip is down to the last chipful, and Jonathan pours the last sip of Merlot into his own glass.

“So, Shawn, you’re single then?” He asks.

She finishes off what’s in her glass and leans back into the cushion with an exhale. “Yeah. There was someone, but that’s over now. It stopped being fun and started to feel like work, ya know? A tale as old as time, I guess. How long have you two been together?”

I answer. “Together for six years, married for three.” There’s that thick silence again.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She asks.

“Of course. It’s down the hall on the left, past the office," I say.

“Thanks.” She stands and tugs the legs of her jeans downward.

I watch her walk away. It feels like he wants to also but he stops himself. When I hear the bathroom light click on and the door shut, I ask him, “What do you think?”

“Well. She’s really cute, and I don’t know … free. I see why you like her,” he says. I sense a tinge of jealously. Of course.

I scoot closer to him on the sofa and look into his eyes. “And I love you.” He kisses me.

“I know you do. And I love you. Why else would I be entertaining this?” He grabs a chip and scoops up the last of the spinach dip. “I guess it could be worse,” he says.

“How?”

“You could’ve brought some jacked dude home.” I laugh and slap his arm. The chip falls from his hand and lands in a creamy splat on his chest.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry.” I hand him a napkin as he uses the chip to scoop up what he can, laughing. “Let me grab you another shirt.” I walk to the bedroom, past the bathroom. I can see the light spilling from underneath the door and into the dark hall. I can hear the water running and it sounds like maybe she’s humming something. I pull one of Jonathan’s T-shirts from its hanger and head back out.

When I reach the doorway, she’s come out of the bathroom. I pause and watch her standing in the dark, squinting at a photo hanging on the wall. I click on the hall light. She startles, whips her head toward me. Those curls sail through the air and fall back into place.

“Oh. Hi! You look gorgeous here,” she says.

I stand beside her. “Thanks. That’s from our rehearsal dinner. I liked those photos better than the actual wedding pictures.”

“You should’ve had me take ‘em.”

“I didn’t know you yet.” Thicker still.

“Bree, why am I here? Is this some kind of spice-up-my-marriage thing or what? Because I’ve done the third in a threesome thing once or twice, and that was fun. But, with you … I’m not going to be OK with just slinking off at dawn.”

“Shawn, I told you. That is not what this is about at all. I like you … a scary amount. And the only thing I can think to do is to be honest with everyone, to put it out in the open and see if we can’t figure out how to make this work,” I say. "Because I can't lose either of you. I know that's selfish, but it's how I feel."

She stares at me, hands in her back pockets, not speaking.

“What do you think of Jon?” I whisper.

She thinks. “He seems kind.”

We walk back and Jonathan is standing at the dining table in his undershirt, scrubbing the stain with a napkin. I can see the scar on his toned arm, the one he earned as a child when he tried to punch his brother but connected with the window instead. Fourteen stiches so the story goes.

“Oh, no. What happened?” Shawn asks.

“It’s my fault,” I say and toss him the new shirt.

“Thanks.” He gives up on the stain and pulls the T-shirt over his head. We sit back down.

“Good as new,” she says. “So. Have you ever done this before, brought someone in, in this way?”

“No. Never.” Jonathan shakes his head.

“This is gonna be weird to say. Or maybe it’s not. I mean, that’s why we’re all here eating the best spinach dip I’ve ever tasted, right?” She throws me a wink. “But I’ve really grown to care about your wife.”

Jonathan clears his throat again and rubs his temples. “This is crazy. You’re beautiful, obviously. I just … I don’t even know how we do this.”

She reaches over me to lay a hand on his knee. “I think we just start by getting to know each other better.” As she pulls her hand back, she grazes my palm just barely.

“What do you think?” I ask him.

“I think I can do that,” he says, grabbing the same hand that she just touched and giving it a small squeeze.

“Do you have anywhere else to be tonight?” I ask her.

“Nope. I can hang for a while.” She leans forward and starts to take off her jacket, revealing a smooth collarbone. “Do you have more wine?”

---End---