Another Saturday Night (Short Fiction)
17th June 2012
In: Short Stories
Luisa followed her husband into their bedroom. She peeled the thin cotton dress from her moist skin, tugging it over her head, carefully untangling strands of hair hooked around buttons, aware that Ricardo was watching her, impatient. He was already undressed.
She lay back on the bed, naked now and ready. Because it was expected. Because it was Saturday night. The after-dinner ritual performed to background voices from a neighbour’s TV filtering through flimsy walls.
He worried at her body, trying to provoke some response, a tell-tale flush of excitement, a clue to tell him where her pleasure might lie hidden. But she lay serene, cool in the shadowed room, eyes closed, her arms loosely draped around his shoulders in a dutiful, wifely embrace.
Ricardo spent himself quickly with long, shuddering grunts. He kissed her face and then rolled away to grope for the bowl of water and towel on the floor beside the bed. Luisa listened to his panting ablutions, the creak of springs, his breath slowing to a regular rhythm. Then contented snores, his desire satisfied, his manhood asserted. Ricardo would sleep, she knew, for several hours. Enough time for her to leave the flat and go to the café to meet Charlie.
He was sitting at their usual table at the edge of the floodlit piazza, his fair curls contrasting with the Mediterranean colouring of the other patrons.
“Charlie!”
He looked round, pushing back his chair as she approached. He took her hand as one would, perhaps, lift a small animal, stroking it, soothing it, talking softly. “Hello, girl. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Oh, it was Ricardo — I had to wait for him to fall asleep.” She blushed a little.
Charlie nodded and lifted her fingers to his lips. “You used what I gave you?”
“Yes, but only half. I didn’t want him to notice the taste. I mixed it in his coffee.”
Charlie finished the last mouthful of wine from his glass and smiled at the thought of the drugged husband. “Shall we go?”
They walked to his car, a dark green MG with British registration, parked in a side street.He opened the door for her and she eased herself into the passenger seat, a low, leather bucket seat designed for a sporty, slim-line rear. Her own Italian-momma cheeks wedged themselves, uncomfortable and foreign. Charlie leaned towards her, slipping his hand inside her blouse, mumbling something into her neck. His hair smelt of cologne. She giggled. “Okay, Charlie, okay.”
It was a short drive to his flat. They lingered in the underground carpark, he pressed her against the low body of the car, sliding her skirt up, teasing her mouth with his tongue.
“Someone will see,” she whispered, anxious to get inside. He laughed at her concern as she smoothed her skirt before pressing the button to call the lift down.
Luisa regarded him critically as they waited. She tried to find fault with his appearance, the casual but undoubtedly expensive cut of his clothes, his unfailing, cocksure charm and energy for life. His effortless flattery making her feel desirable and arousing — dare she admit it — dormant passions.
“Come on, girl!” He slapped her bottom and chivvied her into the steel cage. It juddered slightly as the doors closed on them. She frowned, nervous in the confined space and wrinkling her nose at the stale smell, her mind jumping from possibility to possibility with the slow ascent.
Once inside the flat, Charlie wasted no time. Swiftly removing his clothes, but with a certain practised style, she thought, he draped them over a chair so that they wouldn’t crease. Then her undressed her. With care, an almost exaggerated tenderness, he unwrapped her like a pretty parcel, undoing the ribboned layers, savouring the moment, lingering over the pink tissued softness of her lace-edged underwear until he had revealed the flesh beneath. The gift she offered him. The mature fruit of her body. Its plump skin aching to be bruised.
His maleness bit into her, feasting on the largess she provided. She listened to his love-talk, his well-rehearsed lines that were the mainstay of his performance, this gigolo role he had fashioned for himself. She judged it for the intoxicating, romantic pretence she knew it to be. But it wasn’t for her benefit alone. There were others. How many others she did not know. Could not even guess. All married, she suspected. All foolish, middle-aged women bored with their husbands and besotted with this young stud. This blond seducer half her age. This young lion who gnawed on the bones of her catholic conscience.
Luisa dragged her nails across his shoulder blades as heat spread through her, momentarily blotting out her disillusionment. The final climax left her floating just the other side of reality, in a bubble divorced from rational thought. She couldn’t hate him but she loathed her dependence on his body, his pretty compliments, the intense physical excitement he generated in her no longer youthful limbs. The way he tried to please her, prove his artistry in love-making, his superiority over Ricardo. She found herself resenting his success and her inability to keep from wanting him all to herself. Her irrational possessiveness that schemed to deny his other devotees their share of this rejuvenating treatment — the once-a-week session — the sexual restorative that halted their decline into the passionless limbo of spreading waistlines and scheduled marital copulation.
She considered the case from Charlie’s point of view. No doubt he thought of himself as providing a service. Logically, if it were possible to view the situation logically, then he had a point. He treated it as a profession and always gave full measure of his talents, unstinting in his attention to subtly and the art of seduction. It was all a glorious game to him. But he played it like a gentleman, a kept gentleman patronized by discreet, mature ladies in need of fulfilment. Who, she wondered, had him on Fridays? Who on Sundays? Could he really spread himself around so evenly? Did he have favourites or was he equally attentive to each, always enthusiastic and gallant? Always up to it? She looked down the length of his tanned nakedness. Yes, he would be up to it. Relished it, probably.
Suddenly Luisa realized Charlie had been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard him. Perhaps something of her mood had betrayed itself.
“What’s the matter, girl?”
She shrugged off the question, looking away.
“Is it Ricardo — does he suspect?”
“No,” she said quickly, “No, it’s nothing.” She reached for her clothes. “I’ll make us some supper.”
In the kitchen she hunted for clean saucepans.
“What are you making?” he called.
“Wait and see.” She hoped he would sit and read the paper as he usually did and leave her to her cooking.
She divided the meat sauce evenly between two saucepans, keeping them both simmering and stirred, adding the powdered barbiturates to just one of them. Steam from the pasta condensed on the walls, dampened her face as she drained it, forking it onto plates, one patterned, one plain so she wouldn’t confuse the two.
Luisa watched him eat, her own appetite gone.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked between mouthfuls.
She shook her head, watching for the first signs of drowsiness. He emptied his plate then reached across for hers. “No sense in wasting it.” He grinned at her and she felt tears pricking the backs of her eyes. He was like a little boy, never knowing when he’d had enough. Greedy. But second helpings couldn’t make any difference this time.
Charlie yawned. Then yawned again, rubbing both hands over his face and shaking his head. “Whew! I feel bloody shattered! Think I’ll lie down for a while.” He lurched to his feet and out of the room. Luisa heard him groan as he fell. From the doorway she looked to where he lay on the floor, more tousled that she had ever seen him, young and vulnerable in his Superman boxer shorts.
She left using the fire escape down to street level. Keeping to the shadows, she walked for some way before hailing a cruising taxi. Alighting at the bus station half a mile from home, she tipped the driver moderately, hoping he wouldn’t remember her. She thought of Ricardo. Dear, boring, faithful, kind Ricardo. She would be a better wife.
Passing the fluorescent lure of an all-night delicatessen, she turned back, tempted inside to drift between islands piled high with exotic sweetmeats and chiller cabinets like icebergs looming out of a blue-tiled sea. She made a series of difficult choices, collecting her decisions in a wire basket, planning a menu to please her husband. At the cash desk she paid with the last of Charlie’s money.
As soon as she turned her key in the lock she sensed Ricardo was awake. Then she heard him call out “Luisa? Luisa, is that you?”
“Yes, yes it’s me, ” her voice light and offhand.
He came into the hallway as she hung up her coat. “Where have you been? I was worried — I woke up and you weren’t here. So late and no note to say where you’d gone.” Ricardo, his face lined and old under the harsh, unshaded
light bulb, waited for an explanation.
“I couldn’t sleep. Look — I’ve been shopping.” Luisa gestured towards the carrier bag at her feet. “You shouldn’t worry so. Nothing’s happened to me.”
Ricardo hovered, shivering by the open refrigerator as she put away the selection of cheeses, chicken portions, salami and fresh pasta. Then she turned towards him, smiling, linking her arm through his. “Come, Ricardo. Let’s go back to bed.” The warmth of her sudden kiss caught him by surprise.
“Oh, Luisa,” he mumbled into her hair, “I woke with such a headache and besides, it’s already Sunday.”
She lay back on the bed, naked now and ready. Because it was expected. Because it was Saturday night. The after-dinner ritual performed to background voices from a neighbour’s TV filtering through flimsy walls.
He worried at her body, trying to provoke some response, a tell-tale flush of excitement, a clue to tell him where her pleasure might lie hidden. But she lay serene, cool in the shadowed room, eyes closed, her arms loosely draped around his shoulders in a dutiful, wifely embrace.
Ricardo spent himself quickly with long, shuddering grunts. He kissed her face and then rolled away to grope for the bowl of water and towel on the floor beside the bed. Luisa listened to his panting ablutions, the creak of springs, his breath slowing to a regular rhythm. Then contented snores, his desire satisfied, his manhood asserted. Ricardo would sleep, she knew, for several hours. Enough time for her to leave the flat and go to the café to meet Charlie.
He was sitting at their usual table at the edge of the floodlit piazza, his fair curls contrasting with the Mediterranean colouring of the other patrons.
“Charlie!”
He looked round, pushing back his chair as she approached. He took her hand as one would, perhaps, lift a small animal, stroking it, soothing it, talking softly. “Hello, girl. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Oh, it was Ricardo — I had to wait for him to fall asleep.” She blushed a little.
Charlie nodded and lifted her fingers to his lips. “You used what I gave you?”
“Yes, but only half. I didn’t want him to notice the taste. I mixed it in his coffee.”
Charlie finished the last mouthful of wine from his glass and smiled at the thought of the drugged husband. “Shall we go?”
They walked to his car, a dark green MG with British registration, parked in a side street.He opened the door for her and she eased herself into the passenger seat, a low, leather bucket seat designed for a sporty, slim-line rear. Her own Italian-momma cheeks wedged themselves, uncomfortable and foreign. Charlie leaned towards her, slipping his hand inside her blouse, mumbling something into her neck. His hair smelt of cologne. She giggled. “Okay, Charlie, okay.”
It was a short drive to his flat. They lingered in the underground carpark, he pressed her against the low body of the car, sliding her skirt up, teasing her mouth with his tongue.
“Someone will see,” she whispered, anxious to get inside. He laughed at her concern as she smoothed her skirt before pressing the button to call the lift down.
Luisa regarded him critically as they waited. She tried to find fault with his appearance, the casual but undoubtedly expensive cut of his clothes, his unfailing, cocksure charm and energy for life. His effortless flattery making her feel desirable and arousing — dare she admit it — dormant passions.
“Come on, girl!” He slapped her bottom and chivvied her into the steel cage. It juddered slightly as the doors closed on them. She frowned, nervous in the confined space and wrinkling her nose at the stale smell, her mind jumping from possibility to possibility with the slow ascent.
Once inside the flat, Charlie wasted no time. Swiftly removing his clothes, but with a certain practised style, she thought, he draped them over a chair so that they wouldn’t crease. Then her undressed her. With care, an almost exaggerated tenderness, he unwrapped her like a pretty parcel, undoing the ribboned layers, savouring the moment, lingering over the pink tissued softness of her lace-edged underwear until he had revealed the flesh beneath. The gift she offered him. The mature fruit of her body. Its plump skin aching to be bruised.
His maleness bit into her, feasting on the largess she provided. She listened to his love-talk, his well-rehearsed lines that were the mainstay of his performance, this gigolo role he had fashioned for himself. She judged it for the intoxicating, romantic pretence she knew it to be. But it wasn’t for her benefit alone. There were others. How many others she did not know. Could not even guess. All married, she suspected. All foolish, middle-aged women bored with their husbands and besotted with this young stud. This blond seducer half her age. This young lion who gnawed on the bones of her catholic conscience.
Luisa dragged her nails across his shoulder blades as heat spread through her, momentarily blotting out her disillusionment. The final climax left her floating just the other side of reality, in a bubble divorced from rational thought. She couldn’t hate him but she loathed her dependence on his body, his pretty compliments, the intense physical excitement he generated in her no longer youthful limbs. The way he tried to please her, prove his artistry in love-making, his superiority over Ricardo. She found herself resenting his success and her inability to keep from wanting him all to herself. Her irrational possessiveness that schemed to deny his other devotees their share of this rejuvenating treatment — the once-a-week session — the sexual restorative that halted their decline into the passionless limbo of spreading waistlines and scheduled marital copulation.
She considered the case from Charlie’s point of view. No doubt he thought of himself as providing a service. Logically, if it were possible to view the situation logically, then he had a point. He treated it as a profession and always gave full measure of his talents, unstinting in his attention to subtly and the art of seduction. It was all a glorious game to him. But he played it like a gentleman, a kept gentleman patronized by discreet, mature ladies in need of fulfilment. Who, she wondered, had him on Fridays? Who on Sundays? Could he really spread himself around so evenly? Did he have favourites or was he equally attentive to each, always enthusiastic and gallant? Always up to it? She looked down the length of his tanned nakedness. Yes, he would be up to it. Relished it, probably.
Suddenly Luisa realized Charlie had been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard him. Perhaps something of her mood had betrayed itself.
“What’s the matter, girl?”
She shrugged off the question, looking away.
“Is it Ricardo — does he suspect?”
“No,” she said quickly, “No, it’s nothing.” She reached for her clothes. “I’ll make us some supper.”
In the kitchen she hunted for clean saucepans.
“What are you making?” he called.
“Wait and see.” She hoped he would sit and read the paper as he usually did and leave her to her cooking.
She divided the meat sauce evenly between two saucepans, keeping them both simmering and stirred, adding the powdered barbiturates to just one of them. Steam from the pasta condensed on the walls, dampened her face as she drained it, forking it onto plates, one patterned, one plain so she wouldn’t confuse the two.
Luisa watched him eat, her own appetite gone.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked between mouthfuls.
She shook her head, watching for the first signs of drowsiness. He emptied his plate then reached across for hers. “No sense in wasting it.” He grinned at her and she felt tears pricking the backs of her eyes. He was like a little boy, never knowing when he’d had enough. Greedy. But second helpings couldn’t make any difference this time.
Charlie yawned. Then yawned again, rubbing both hands over his face and shaking his head. “Whew! I feel bloody shattered! Think I’ll lie down for a while.” He lurched to his feet and out of the room. Luisa heard him groan as he fell. From the doorway she looked to where he lay on the floor, more tousled that she had ever seen him, young and vulnerable in his Superman boxer shorts.
She left using the fire escape down to street level. Keeping to the shadows, she walked for some way before hailing a cruising taxi. Alighting at the bus station half a mile from home, she tipped the driver moderately, hoping he wouldn’t remember her. She thought of Ricardo. Dear, boring, faithful, kind Ricardo. She would be a better wife.
Passing the fluorescent lure of an all-night delicatessen, she turned back, tempted inside to drift between islands piled high with exotic sweetmeats and chiller cabinets like icebergs looming out of a blue-tiled sea. She made a series of difficult choices, collecting her decisions in a wire basket, planning a menu to please her husband. At the cash desk she paid with the last of Charlie’s money.
As soon as she turned her key in the lock she sensed Ricardo was awake. Then she heard him call out “Luisa? Luisa, is that you?”
“Yes, yes it’s me, ” her voice light and offhand.
He came into the hallway as she hung up her coat. “Where have you been? I was worried — I woke up and you weren’t here. So late and no note to say where you’d gone.” Ricardo, his face lined and old under the harsh, unshaded
light bulb, waited for an explanation.
“I couldn’t sleep. Look — I’ve been shopping.” Luisa gestured towards the carrier bag at her feet. “You shouldn’t worry so. Nothing’s happened to me.”
Ricardo hovered, shivering by the open refrigerator as she put away the selection of cheeses, chicken portions, salami and fresh pasta. Then she turned towards him, smiling, linking her arm through his. “Come, Ricardo. Let’s go back to bed.” The warmth of her sudden kiss caught him by surprise.
“Oh, Luisa,” he mumbled into her hair, “I woke with such a headache and besides, it’s already Sunday.”