(as read at Out Loud! The Shanghai Writers Literary Salon on April 26th, 2009)
I knew this day would come. It was clear from the start, but I disregarded the neon warning signs and charged ahead. Straight into the arms of someone else’s man. Am I a total fool? Perhaps. A self-indulgent masochist? Definitely. Damned to the cheap lace hell of adulterers? I certainly hope so, sir. Pleading guilty to all charges. Ready to go down in a flash of someone else's fireworks.
She will love him, surely. Most likely, she always has. He will play the good husband, married to the perfect lady. A couple inspiring future generations of perfect couples. They will have well-behaved, perfectly-mannered children a la Emily Post. They will attend charity galas in the spring and host fabulous dinner parties in the fall. Their earnest, acne-free children will go to Harvard and Stanford and blossom into bankers and lawyers in the footsteps of their proud, proud parents.
I, however, am single at 41. Not the best odds for chocolate Labradors and white picket fences, returning home to a full house, and retiring early in a four-bedroom Dutch Colonial located in a stellar New York school district. Whoopee. Instead, chocolate martinis and white pleather barstools, turning the lock to a silent home, and retiring early to the latest New York Times bestseller on my bedside table. At least I’ll be well-read in my old age.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Didn't make a bed, don't have one to sleep in, I get that. Father Merrin will be so pleased come confession after Christmas mass. Time to consider a few charitable donations to even out the scales beforehand. Then again, I’m not sure God is really paying attention.
I never meant to feel anything. Ah, who am I kidding? But, I never meant to fall in love. I'm no Diane Lane or Monica Belluci looking 35 at 45. I'm just me, having an affair with my 34 year old VP. Just about as classy as the 500 dollar Bloomingdales gift certificate my assistant picked up for Mr. and Mrs. Wayne Greer.
They'd planned a spring wedding because Julia wanted tulips and April was the month for tulips. So Wayne and I had given ourselves a deadline. Deadlines for affairs of the company; deadlines for affairs of the heart. It had seemed so efficient then.
And now it was spring. Neither of us said a word, but the snow had receded weeks ago and Manhattan was blooming. Wayne skipped a few meetings to attend fittings. Then another last week for rehearsal. On Monday he applied for vacation. And now, here we are, on the front steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. He's not even Catholic. Or Irish.
Walking up the steps, I rearrange my expression to one of polite joy that is expected of a boss. Wayne breaks into a smile when he sees me. He gives my arm a meaningful squeeze, except I can't be sure of the meaning. We'd never discussed the end. This could be goodbye, for all I know. I squeeze back.
"Thanks for coming, M," he says, all smiles.
I break eye contact and continue past him to make way for others, heart clenching. I didn't think it would hurt this much. Did he hurt, too? God, I’m pathetic. The lady at the reception table asks for my name.
"Matilda. Matilda Gallagher."
"Gallagher, Gallagher...ah, yes, here you are," she says, crossing my name off a list. “On the groom’s side.” I redden. "Plus one, or?"
Should really be Minus One, given the circumstances. I wonder if she detects the heavy dose of guilt mixed with the heady pulp of a mangled heart.
"Nope. Just me," I respond with a smile. Leaving the spring sunshine behind, I enter the chilly cathedral and pray for grace.
