Sage. Wendy Anne

      X

      Tension and Froth

      I am expected to meet a few associates for small talk at a restaurant in North Boston. Giovanni’s is one of my favorite restaurants in the Boston area. They use only the best quality ingredients in their meals, with naturally raised beef, a wide variety of organic produce, and some of the best seafood I have come across. Most importantly, there is an excellent vegan menu. It is an appealing atmosphere, and even when table talk fails, it is still possible to enjoy the time spent there.

      In my bottom desk drawer is a rescue kit I use to throw myself together before I leave. Placing the small makeup mirror on my desk, I use the moist towels to wipe the sweat off my face, some gel to tame any loose locks of hair, a bit of eyeliner to bring out the green and distract from the fatigue, and a touch of loose powder to smooth my skin’s appearance. Ready to rock, I stride out the door pretending to be in a rush.

      Even though I managed to get to the restaurant a bit earlier than planned, Joyce and Billy De Angelo were there early as well. Joyce and Billy De Angelo are two clients of mine. Married for well over fifteen years, and standing the test of time. Joyce is slightly overweight but in a rather pleasantly plump way. She always dresses well, and in dark colors to hide her wide hip span and large waistline.

      Typically, as you see in many older women who try desperately to hide their age, she has long platinum blond hair to suggest youth and dark tan to hide any age spots, which also works to soften the appearance of wrinkles and other flaws. It is sad how many beautiful blondes will appear twenty years older than they truly are at first glance because so many older women do this. I can, however, relate to the benefits and completely understand why it’s done. Nevertheless, in my older years, I may try something a little defiant—perhaps a soft auburn.

      Billy is an overworked businessman. Although he’s stout and balding, he is rather attractive and carries a catchy and contagious positive attitude. He has a perfectly proportioned face, an outstanding smile that he uses often, and a neatly groomed goatee.

      “Looking lovely as usual,” Joyce mutters as if she was pinched under the table to say something polite.

      “Hello,” Billy follows with a flimsy handshake. These two are merely business associates I follow up with from time to time. More times than not, our interactions are full of pretentious table talk and phony smiles. I have been holding their business together for years, but they always seem to find it necessary to pretend as if they are doing better than they truly are. I know of their finances because we share the same advisors. I have brought their business above water, but they’re maintaining well below potential due to the location of their enterprise, which is out of my control because a mortgage binds them. They rely on a heavy amount of advertising ever since the overpass was built, which made their signage and building impossible to see from a distance.

      Regardless of their financial troubles, Joyce likes to cover her cleavage with flashy heavy gold chains and wave her 3.5-carat diamond around as she talks with her hands. Her tacky jewelry probably amounts to success in her eyes. I have often imagined these two surrounded by their cheek-pecking friends comparing their newly leased cars, children’s abilities, and golf trophies.

      Senseless rambling is easy to conduct, and before I know it, I am sitting at the table acting the part with ease. It is nauseating what a difference in character I manage to choke out during business hours. I never wear a watch; it makes time go by so much slower, it would be impossible not to glance at it out of fidgetiness, and it would exploit my obvious want to get things over with.

      “Are we ready for another wonderful half a year in doing business together, my dears?” I ask without trying to sound too cynical, addressing them as a unit, as if I had no idea that too was a show. They probably sleep separate beds and will leave in separate cars. I give them no time to question each other, distracting them with my supposed inability to catch on to the obvious distance between them as they sit so close.

      “All the papers are ready and signed,” Billy hands them to me proud to be prepared.

      “Ahead of me as always,” I joke, thanking God he had done so, so there was no further need for discussion. My mind was still reeling from that damn dream; my body still engulfed in chaotic desire.

      “Dessert, anyone?” the waitress asks. I always get dessert. It makes people feel obligated to either eat or leave. This time, I order the nondairy tiramisu.

      “Well,” Joyce says staring back and forth between me and my tiramisu with disapproval of my unhealthy eating habits, “we had better be off.”

      Another tasty lunch, another six-month contract completed; no need to involve Elliot since all the papers were in order as promised. My workday ends smoothly, and it’s not long before I find myself sitting on my leather sofa, sipping on a dry martini in the silent premises of home and wondering how the day went by so fast. I long for cranberry juice, some lime, and triple sec to convert this vodka into a nice chilled cosmo, but the wet bar is more like a dry bar at the moment.

      Bruce is off having a couple of drinks with his coworkers, and Cheyanne is spending the night at her friend’s house, so I slide my shoes off and flex my sore toes and rip off constricting garments while savoring the solitude of my empty home.

      My bare skin sticks to the leather sofa, and my chilled martini stings at my throat and relaxes my nerves.

      Just above me hangs a luscious copy of a Leon Kroll painting called Inland Pool. The woman in the painting is soft in all terms of the word. Her upper body is petite, her lower descending into curves that seem supple, probably pliable. Just below her long slender neck are perfect pink nipples painted on immaculately shaped ivory breasts. During the time she was painted, being voluptuous was a sign of being prosperous and well-fed, but she wasn’t too thick. I bought her during an antique auction for a decent price, because most of the avid buyers were cherry-picking from the Tiffany furniture collection and disinterested in paintings that particular day. I am only lucky that the auction house wasn’t taking online requests, or I would have paid a small fortune for her.

      I imagine she would have been amazingly hot in the flesh. I would have so much fun with a woman like her. I would be selfish, make her my slave; and while in control, I’d paint her lips scarlet red and add smoky charcoal around her striking eyes. I’d have her rub her red lips all over me and suck on my clit, while Bruce plunges her hard from behind.

      The thought of it all makes me damp. It is up to me to become wet. I want to be soaking, so I let my imagination take me there. She massages her thumbs into my thighs, burying her thin