The silky, shiny parts

When I am stressed, I take warm showers. Sometimes more than three times a day. I feel the water cleans the thoughts of anxiety, stress, and all the things I want to get rid of. This time, it doesn’t work. The guilt stays, her body’s scent is under my skin. Sleeping with the mother of my child’s best friend, my best friend’s wife, a happily married woman, what the hell is wrong with me?

It all started about three years ago, on a ski trip together in Vermont. We got out of the chalet after dinner — me and her — to walk her dog. It was a cold night and a full moon. We hid our faces inside the large hoods of our bulky parkas. The sharp contrast of shadows on the snow-covered horizon looked like a Cézanne painting — sharp and vivid.

We had been socializing as families for five years by that time. The family had supported me in everything related — or not related — to Sarah: from school drop-offs and pick-ups to the days I needed childcare because of a social commitment, and even when I was sick myself, keeping her in their house until I recovered. Sandra, the mom would make me delicious soups and Shawn will bring them home with Sarah. They are my New York family.

When we got to a narrow pathway, she walked in front of me, off-leashing her dog to run on the packed path shadowed by the knee-height snow edge. I followed her, taking my leather gloves off to look for the weed I put in my pocket. I couldn’t find it and had to stop to check my pockets. When I found the lighter and the weed, I lit it and took the first drag. By then she was already climbing the pathway as it rose up the hill in front of us.

It was a rough time for me. I was considering quitting my job, but I knew I couldn’t do it. I was behind in my financials and my depths. I needed the salary. Life felt like a prison. On the weekends and in any trips when I could, I wanted to get high, like in my twenties, to be able to let go, to forget, to leave the realities behind and loosen up, even for a short time, like the intermission in a play.

She stopped and looked back at me as I inhaled the second hit of the weed. The sharp cold was breaking through my fingers. I took another hit in a rush to put my gloves back on and walked toward her. She was looking at the horizon, not at me. I followed her gaze. The valley was shining in the silver color of the moon. Sparkles of stars and snow were mirroring each other, as if they were both part of a harmonized carpet — one with a dark blue base, the other on a silvery blue.

It reminded me of the carpet Dina, my Persian ex-girlfriend, brought from Iran. It had sparkly silver dots in it, shining at night when we turned off the lights, making love. When I asked her what they the sparkly parts, she said that in some fancy Persian carpets, they use silk.

I looked at the sparkles in the snow, in the sky and remembered her. The weed and the seeds of the silky memory got to me fast. I stopped to control the emotions rising, but it was too late. I was already at the edge of an emotional meltdown, and remembering the old version of me, once in love, pushed me off the cliff. The darker blue and the lighter blue melted as my tears filled my eyes. I kept my distance from her and turned back, not to face her.

I didn’t realize she was already walking toward me — originally to take an inhale from my weed. When she reached me and put her hand on my shoulder to tell me to pass it to her, she saw that I was crying.

“What happened?”

I took a deep breath. I didn’t have any answers. She knew my mess; there was nothing new. It was just the fatigue. I held on to that idea.

“Nothing. I’m just tired.” I gave her the weed. She took an inhale and gave it back to me, watching me as I continued smoking. We kept the silence, letting the cold and view take us in. She was smart. She knew there was nothing to say, nothing that could take the pain away. What I didn’t expect was what she did. She took the leftover weed from me, finished it, dropped the butt on the snow, brought her face in front of mine, held my head in both her hands, and kissed me on the lips.

From that night, from the moment we held each other’s gaze for a long time, digging into one another under the moonlight, our breath turning into clouds in the cold and filling the space between our faces, we were never the same friends again.

The image of the blue-silver landscape and the sparkles on the snow has stayed with me through the years, but we have been acting normal in every situation, even when we were alone without Shawn and kids around — cooking together or having a glass of wine. Until last night.

It was a full moon again. Shit, I am becoming superstitious. Maybe I am aging, or I just want to think things in life mean something. It was the first minus two-digit night in December, cold and crisp same as that night in Vermont. Sarah wanted to have a sleepover with Oliver, Sandra’s daughter. I was hesitant — she never sleeps, and the day after I have to handle her crappy pre-teen mood.

It was a Friday night, and we had our holiday office party. I don’t like these parties, but I needed to show up and pretend I was having fun, talking to all the people I don’t want to see for one minute more than I have to during the day. By the time I arrived home, it was nine p.m., and Sarah was already in a bad mood. She had been expecting to get there two hours earlier. We had a heated conversation. I reminded her that I am a single parent and there is only so much I can shuffle.

Their place is ten-minute walk from us in the East Village. We walk in silence beside each other as I carry her backpack and she carries her pillow. Sandra opens the door, in grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt, matching with our daughters. I give Sarah’s backpack to her and get ready to head home.

“Do you want to come in? Shawn is not home. I was having a glass of wine.”

“Nah… tired. Had some at the office party. Better to hit the bed earlier.”

“You want to go to bed at 9:30 on a Friday night?” She laughed at me and made a pp-ff sound. I got offended. Actually, I felt stupid. Me, the party animal, the fun guy — she had a point.

“Ok, one more doesn’t hurt.”

She went in, me following her to the living room where she had already opened the bottle, the gas fireplace on with the artificial fire. I’m not a big fan of gas fireplaces. Fire is fire — no mimicking serious stuff, that’s my rule. She poured me a glass, and I settled into her sofa. The music was playing, her dog wagging his tail around me. It was the soundtrack of The Deer Huntermovie, one of my favorites. We talked about De Niro’s brilliant performance in that movie, at least that part I remember. The rest of the conversation after she opened the second bottle is a blur. I was already drunk when I came to her place, and by the fourth glass of wine, I sank into the sofa, staring at the fake fire.

The morning I woke up feeling a wet touch on my hand. It was her dog, I was in her bedroom, only in my underwear, under a fluffy white blanket. I freaked out. What the hell happened last night. I got dressed fast, put on back my watch which was on the night stand beside the bed and opened the door of the bedroom slightly to see if any of our girls are around. The kitchen was empty. I came out and saw her sitting on the same spot she was sitting last night, a large cup of coffee in her hands, steaming. She glanced at me. I stole my gaze and walked to the entrance to get my winter jacket. I didn’t want to make any impression that me sleeping in her bed was Ok, whatever happened needed to be washed out from our memories.

She didn’t stand up, we didn’t say a word.

At 2:30 p.m. it started snowing. Our street is getting whiter every minute. I want to text her to see when Sarah will be home, but I hesitate. Instead, I shower again. It’s the third time. What the hell should I do? I feel ashamed, mostly for the friendship I have with Shawn. He is my best friend in town. This can’t be happening. Sleeping with his wife while he is traveling — this is an asshole job.

Then I remember Issa and the mess with him and my father, both in love with my mother. The problem is that I am not in love with Sandra — not at all. I am just vulnerable when it comes to emotional stuff. It’s been a while, and I don’t have the muscle memory anymore. She is the only one who has emotionally connected with me. The rest of my relationships is just sex.

But what happened last night? I don’t remember anything. Not even a scene.

I look at my phone again, it’s 2:45. I check my last text messages. One is from her. It reads: Don’t forget the fucking pillow! I click on the text and try to type something, but I don’t know what to say. Should I say thank you? Should I apologize? No. That’s the worst thing I can do. I can’t even make a joke. My sense of humour is dried up. There is nothing to joke about. I feel I need to vanish, to melt like the snow and go underground. I try to make it easier — maybe I should just ask if I should pick Sarah up? But no, I prefer not to see her again today. Should I just stay quiet? That feels stupid too.

I put my phone on the kitchen counter and start cleaning, keeping busy so I don’t think about last night. I put the scattered dishes and glasses in the dishwasher, then go to Sarah’s bedroom and find four plates — one on her bed, two under the bed, and one on the nightstand with leftover food. I take them to the kitchen sink, turn on the water, and start to rinse them.

My phone screen turns on, there is a new message showing on my screen. It’s from her. I wipe my hands with the kitchen towel and touch the screen the way I would touch something soft, like the silky, shiny parts of that Persian carpet, rubbing my finger to reveal it. The text reads:

“Guido, I put you in bed. Nothing happened.”
It’s 3:03 p.m. I sigh with relief.