JOANNA

It's my son's school play today. Backstage, teachers and parents rush fussily from here to there amid a flock of costumed kids. It’s not how I usually allow myself to get. But I'm the class's resident Journalist Mom and I’ve let them suck me into this fully. The play's star and guest of honor happens to be an alumnus who went on to become a moderately famous rock climber, and with him, he brings the attention of three local TV stations. The situation required media skills and my help was asked vehemently -- so I'm making a good TV image for Jack's school my top priority today. But I enjoy it and I make it known. Any chance I see for a laugh, I pounce on. With this crowd it's easy. I collide with first-grade teacher Sally in the aisle and accidentally let out a hearty, “Fuck, sorry!” I tell her we're the real show here. She cackles.

The reporter from News Team One is an old colleague. I make her interview peppy twenty-six-year-old Sam, not nervous fifty-year-old Lindy. I get the camera crews a full demonstration of the kids' musical number ahead of the show, while the best angles are still for the taking. And I speedily prepare a contingency plan. Our star's mother, originally scheduled to participate alongside her son, can’t come. But a grandmother in the audience, Sally tells me, is willing to serve as an understudy. Irma is her name, and she has a background in mountain guiding from her youth lived in Germany. Is there a way to spin this into an effective little ending for the play? Sally and I sit down to rewrite. This I do every day. Molding information into quick sentences, correcting on the spot, never stopping to hate the words. I laugh at how relieved Sally is. “I adore you, Joanna,” she swears to the heavens.

I share the story of our brave last-minute improvisation with the reporter; maybe she has use for it. Then I overhear it from Lindy: grandma Irma has no wardrobe that'll fit her portly frame. Once again, I make the problem my own.

“I have a large shawl in the car. We can wrap her in it.”

“It won't fit with the rock climber theme,” Lindy says stubbornly.

Sally arrives.

“Alan solved it, he'll give her his brown jacket. He went to his car to get it. Don't know if it'll fit, though.”

She means my son Jack's twenty-seven-year-old teacher, who's been working as a substitute for the last two months. I've met him once, at a parents-teachers meeting at the beginning of his tenure, and not again since. Sally and I go to Irma, who good-naturedly starts showing her nerves. But she's memorized her four lines perfectly. Alan arrives seven minutes into the play, a light brown sheep coat in hand.

“Rock climber-ish enough,” he whispers with a smile. He swiftly helps Irma into it, only to find out it fits too tightly. Sally leaves to prepare the next batch of little actors for the stage. I should be outside with the cameras, but instead, I'm here, helping Irma into Alan's coat.

“How about from the front?” he suggests, with one minute to go until Irma's entrance. “Have the opening in the back, so she'll be able to flex her arms?”

“It'll look a little weird,” I chuckle.

“We'll say it's a rock climber thing,” he says, again with a smile. True, it could look worse. It'll work if she doesn't turn her back to the audience. We send her off and watch from our dark backstage corner behind one of the curtains. Irma surprises me. She is quick, expressive in little ways and stage-ready all around. That kind of grandma. When her lines come I hold my breath, but they flow out of her in theatrical, confident tones. What a godsend.

“What a godsend,” Alan echoes to my side.

“Total actress, huh?” I whisper.

“Total star. You should take credit.”

“She was Sally’s discovery, actually.”

He stays silent, then adds, “I’ll just say it was mine.”

I laugh. It’s such a nice thing to say about someone. I remember my duties with the TV crowd and head back. I tell the cameraman to focus on one of the kids' crazy little breakdance that he’s insisted on repeating on every rehearsal. They’d do well to use it. The play ends and the barrages of applause come. I leave the auditorium, finally able to return missed phone calls.

………………………….

Half an hour is spent on the phone, giving instructions to the page designers back at the paper. My article wouldn’t fit with the extra content shoved into the page by my editor. It will now, with selected chunks cut out. I do it with zero temper lost, which I’m proud of. But before heading back to the office, I need one last dose of human interaction. First, I surprise Jack backstage and lift him off his feet with a hug. I tell him he was perfect in his role and promise him we’ll watch the video at home first thing tonight. He’s so proud of his line exchange with the rock climber man. I listen to his excited anecdotes until the end, then tell him to wait for me while I say goodbye to the teachers. There they are, huddled in the corner, thrilled at the success of the thing -- and still starstruck from the climber, who apparently just minutes ago gave the whole team a very appreciative cool-guy goodbye. One teacher mentions his callousy hands. Another says she thought he would be taller. Sally brings up his sexy voice. Then Alan goes.

“I was genuinely worried he'd hate me for some reason,” he admits. The circle cracks up in laughter, and I do as well. “And that I'd make him regret the whole thing. Can you imagine? You can't have the new guy screwing it up for everybody.” Alan is tall, hefty without being fat, and has thick arms that fill the sleeves of his casual summer shirt. A round, cheerful, handsome face is complemented by short curly brown hair and a beard.

“What’s this I’m hearing about a man crush?” I add as I join in to say goodbye. He has his answer ready.

“Unrequited man crush,” he shoots back. “Nothing could hurt more.”

They all thank me profusely, Sally a little extra. I love this gang, and I leave with a pang of jealousy for all who get to stay.

………………………….

Jack gets into the backseat with his six-year-old brother Bastian, still buzzing about it all, retelling details I care about because he does. I can tell he's proud of his mom, the lady everyone needed, fixer of things for all. I'm very glad I did it. And he mentions his cool teacher Alan, who made the class memorize their lines by making them listen to themselves in recorded chipmunk voice, a memory that still cracks him up. I ask Jack directly, how does he like Alan? He gives me a quick summary of Alan-related anecdotes since Louise, his original teacher, took off for sick leave in January. He adds that he's fun.

………………………….

I'm at the paper, having just dropped my kids off at home. I arrive at my workstation and plop on my chair. I open tabs for my Twitter, Facebook, Gmail, and company e-mail. And I write non-stop for close to two hours. When I return from the bathroom, I have a Facebook message waiting. It's Phillip, from Politics; the latest line in a conversation that dates back two weeks.

PHILLIP: Walk slower, speedy.

He's referring to a recent accident of mine and to my habit of rushing around. I trip every so often. A recent theme of our Facebook dialogue. I don't turn to look at his desk.

JOANNA: Wouldn't you love it if I tripped again, though.

PHILLIP: Nah, once was enough. And how embarrassing would that be with a skirt.

I hold off from replying while I finish a paragraph in my article.

PHILLIP: It looks good, don’t get me wrong.

JOANNA: Fashion pointers from Phil… let's hear em.

PHILLIP: Ok. Nice top. But it's no short-sleeved blouse from yesterday.

JOANNA: Yesterday was crew neck day. The blouse was Wednesday, I believe.

PHILLIP: You sure?

JOANNA: Not good with the memory, you fashionistas.

PHILLIP: I remember a scarf, tho.

JOANNA: Also a Wednesday thing.

PHILLIP: Shit. You know what would help, right?

I let him wait while I work some more. I can guess where he'll take the conversation. We've been escalating at a steady pace, and it's turned into out-and-out office flirting between a married woman and an office colleague. He makes me feel attractive and it's something that I've engaged in with zero guilt. It's tame today so far, but last week he got me to stand up and twirl on my spot so he could admire my featherweight v-neck from a distance.

At this moment, however, I feel less inclined to offer.

PHILLIP: Another twirl wouldn't hurt future memory.

I can see this going down a lane where he'll want something real, soon. Which I'm fine with, because I might, too.

JOANNA: LOL.

PHILLIP: This is for my memory's benefit.

JOANNA: I'll let you nurture that bad boy yourself. No extra help today.

PHILLIP: Wow. You're lame.

JOANNA: You can always write down the details.

PHILLIP: What a wasted twirling opportunity. And you’re a natural at it.

JOANNA: Life's tough.

The conversation soon loses steam. He's also busy, and in no mood to make an extra effort with no encouragement. I'll make it up to him, later. I finish revising my article at around six PM. I inform my editor and the designers and immediately allow myself a stretching and a neck crack. Then I check my Gmail and find, in capital letters, the heading of Sally's latest. “THANKS, GANG!” Her adorable gratitude makes me smile as I read it. I strongly look forward to the next time I’m asked for help.

My eyes wander and find Alan's email address buried in the distribution list. I'd be able to contact him easily, should I ever want to. I finally go down for a cup of coffee.

………………………….

ALAN

It's still a surprise whenever I ace something. My class and I are in charge of Mural Four, part of the collage that’s to be featured in the back cover of this year's yearbook. And now we're done. First class of the bunch and with a little under a month to spare until our deadline. Not bad for a team of ten-year-olds. My design, their painting: cartoony versions of Tom Sawyer, Lucy Pevensie and Harry Potter emerging from a closed book. Sally quickly confirms to me that it looks amazing, tremendous. I forget the many little imperfections that are visible from up close and accept the compliment.

“And with a month to spare,” I gloat, jokingly polishing my nails on my shoulder.

“You got the small one, asshole,” retorts Sally. She's days away from finishing hers.

My kids and I pose for the picture, which is also destined for the yearbook. More colleagues come by to admire the mural and the consensus keeps building. How amazing! And this was completed by fourth-graders? Would some form of media be interested in this as a feature, again?

“Oh, Joanna would trip,” Sally says, readying her phone camera. “I'm gonna send this to her.”

The idea doesn't get past the initial suggestion, but the thought of Joanna, Jack's mom, giving the mural her seal of approval is a fun thought. Such a cool lady. One mention of Joanna's name triggers more, all very complimentary of her. Lindy has nothing but praise for the job she did at the play.

………………………….

Parent-teacher conferences all Saturday. But I share my load with Louisa, the teacher I've been subbing for since January, who's now back and ready to take over again. I report to the parents about the kids' latest progress while Louisa fills in with the rest. And that's how it goes for the whole morning. By twelve-thirty I've already forgotten that there was something I was looking forward to… but then I hear her voice from the doorway.

“The traffic tried to keep me away… but nope, I'm here. Hey!”

Joanna shoves her cellphone into her bag so she can greet Louisa, whom she hasn't seen in months. I stand up as they greet and kiss. She then turns her big, friendly, honest smile to me and I instinctively return my own.

“Hey, producer,” I say.

“Hey, Mr. Producer, you,” she retorts. She addresses Louisa. “Alan and I have taken the theatre world by storm.”

“She's the Max Bialystock to my Leo Bloom,” I say.

“Shut up.” She looks pleasantly shocked. “That's the coolest reference.”

We laugh and Louisa does too, even if she doesn't get why we're funny. After so long since last meeting her, I can't help but study Joanna's style as we sit down. Classy sunglasses perched over her ochre brown hair. Blue denim jacket, Capri jeans. She's buxom but confident about it; round face, pink cheeks, her mane of long hair gracefully disarranged by the wind outside and her busy schedule. Small mousy ears that poke out slightly. I'd like to get a laugh out of her before the meeting's end. I dive into my routine, letting the teacher's demeanor gradually take over. Louisa and I share our concerns about the limited coherence of Jack's essays, which I temper by telling about the progress he's made in important fronts. I do get serious about his distracting chattiness, but I save the good stuff for the end – the fact that he remains among the top three in Math. Joanna takes it all in evenly, concerned and satisfied in appropriate amounts. She does ask to read writing samples, old and recent, and I walk her through Jack's work.

The meeting is over and Louisa tells me our lunch break's due. We lock the classroom and head to the cafeteria with Joanna in tow. Her conversation is all observations with effortless humor. A lot of it goes over Louisa’s fifty-year-old head, but not mine. It soon turns into a two-person conversation, even more when I get to my quick anecdotes about the play, the one shared experience that we have. I get my wish, because she laughs hard and often.

“What a theatre nazi you are, dude,” she says. “You've ruined them beyond repair.”

“I just succeeded. I succeeded too well.”

“They'll never recover.”

“Learning's all about repetition. I stand by my ways. Meisner technique all the way.”

“Oh, you STAND by your ways. Unapologetically.”

We stay on the subject of theater. There's a momentum, I have too much to share on that topic, and the second she passingly mentions Rent, I feel like I'll explode.

“The best musical of the twentieth century!” I say. “Next year's curriculum will have Rent in it. I vow it.”

“Or you'll resign in protest.”

“Now that was a show,” I say. “'To handcrafted beers, made in local breweries…'”

She follows me on the lyrics, and for a short moment her voice and mine echo in song in the hallway. The giggles break it up. Joanna holds onto Louise's shoulders from behind, as if apologizing for the ruckus. Louisa says her goodbyes at the cafeteria entrance and I stay outside with Joanna. I feel that I've unlocked something. She shoves me lightly.

“You're a real theatre geek!”

“Am not,” I respond.

“I'm strongly getting the vibe. Yes, you are. You acted in college. I remember seeing you.”

“Get out, you didn't. When?”

“Haha, I didn't. But now I know you absolutely did act. Actor.”

“Haha. Damn.”

I tell her about my amateur days from not too long ago. She listens raptly. She learns about my troupe and about our rudimentary recordings of tunes from Westside Story and Grease. Which I still happen to keep as MP3 files. I'm sharing too much too quickly. But there's no need to stop, she's a great audience. I feel I should let her go, as she was in a rush just moments ago.

“Hey, I'd kill to hear those songs,” she says.

“Maybe they'd kill you instead,” I say. “Like, your ears. They'd kill your ears.”

“I'll be the judge. I'll take a death by song. There are worse ways to go.”

I write down her email. Even though I had it already; it was in Sally's distribution list.

………………………….

Home. I draw from my bundle of old USB pen drives tied with a rubber band and check them one by one. Some have viruses several years old. I find the right one and listen to the songs ahead of sending them. There's not enough here to feel embarrassed about. We did sound good for what we were. I send her one before I can regret it.

Less than an hour later I get a reply.

JOANNA: Listening…

I get busy while I wait for the verdict.

JOANNA: I'm certainly not dead yet.

ALAN: You mean… we didn’t 'kill'. Great, thanks.

JOANNA: You're not good in the receiving end of compliments. Sucks for you, because I got some.

ALAN: What are they?

JOANNA: You ready?

ALAN: Gah! Not yet.

I wait a bit for the joke to sink in.

ALAN: Ok, now.

JOANNA: This goes for the whole troupe, so don't let your head get big.

ALAN: Nevermind those guys. I'll take all of it.

JOANNA: Honestly, pretty damn great. Excellent tempo. Retroactive applause for everyone involved. Or, sorry, just you.

ALAN: I bow down arrogantly, knowing I deserve it.

JOANNA: Did you get nostalgic dusting those off?

The short emails come in quick succession. She's devoting all her attention to this, as am I.

ALAN: I actually did, yeah. Good times.

JOANNA: You could always perpetuate the dream through your legion of 10-year-olds.

ALAN. Hehe, not anymore. The class is Louisa's now.

JOANNA: Oh derp, I forgot. How do you feel about that, it didn't occur to me to ask you.

ALAN: Oh, I'll miss it. There's a certain quota of crazy shenanigans that always gets met when you work with fourth-graders. Here's an anecdote: an oral presentation on Harriet Tubman with accompanying Missy Elliot rap. Guess who that was.

I can imagine her cackling hard. She will know I mean her son.

JOANNA: You, sir, just made me choke. Way to single out my kid's weird crap.

ALAN: Then I met the mom and the pieces fit in. It all made sense.

JOANNA: Biased jerk. But I proudly admit, he does take after his momma.

I delay my reply to appear busy.

ALAN: I’ll gladly take notice of that in my class report, currently in the making.

She's postponing work for this talk, I’m sure. I'll quit while I'm ahead instead of being asked to.

JOANNA: Lol, you do that. I'll let you finish. Thank you for the talk. Have a good night!

I return a goodbye. In the silence of my room, I take the time to contemplate the last few minutes.

………………………….

September. I've been given a full-time job at the school teaching second grade, as my work as a sub left a good impression. I was happy to learn that Joanna's seven-year-old Bastian is in my class. I've wondered for days whether she knows already. I haven't contacted her in weeks. I carry that thrill into my first day of work, which lasts until the moment I see that Bastian has been shuffled to a different class. The lists are still in flow. It's a bummer, but the busy day quickly shoves the thought away.

After the first break, as my group pours into the classroom like a swarm of hyperactive bees, it occurs to me to take a picture. I attach it to an email, and before I can regret it, I send it to Joanna.

ALAN: I present my new 'Rent' hopefuls.

A short line, but the inside joke is there. Within less than an hour, I have her reply.

JOANNA: I heard about your permanent position! Congratulations about that!

I leave the fooling around for another time. But her follow-up comes immediately.

JOANNA: I expect a full cast by the end of the school day. Att: Your Producer.

The day continues flowing well. Very well. I'm confident and energized. Plus, it's wonderfully sunny. It's a school day and my feet are sore and my voice is hoarse, but it's still summer and it feels like it. Lessons end at half-past one. I'm confident that the kids' first day was as good as mine. I relax in my car for a moment, feeling a cool breeze wafting in through my rolled-down window. Then I wonder if I can bother her again or if I'm pushing my luck. I write my text and decide to send it.

ALAN: Done for the day. My feet are dead.

Less than ten minutes later, her reply arrives.

JOANNA: How was it??? Tell me everything.

As I write my long-winded reply, my phone starts to ring. It's her. I pick up immediately.

”So? I want to know it all.”

“You couldn't wait a minute to let me finish my damn text?”

“Aww. Were you getting poetic?”

“I was gonna get all poetic on your ass.”

“Leave it for next time. So, do your kids hate you already?”

“How busy are you, one to ten? I don't wanna disturb during office hours.”

“Eleven. But whatever. I wanna talk to someone.”

……………………………….

JOANNA

Katie comes up behind me and pats me on the shoulder. Do I want to go out for a smoke? I quit over a year ago, but I do need some coffee. I get up from my seat, crack my back with a nasty noise that makes her laugh and we head down to the café across the street. Katie's only been on the paper for a couple of months, but she's already a friend. She's a total goofball but can just as easily be a good confidante. I've told her a lot. She knows about my husband's affair from late last year. She knows about the texts I found on his phone, and the debacle that was making him own up to it. She knows that we came within an inch of separation. Today we somehow end up on the subject again. I tell her that “Sorry” is all I keep hearing from him, day in and day out. He was terrified that I'd leave and is extremely eager to make amends. I've told him that I wouldn't, but something has definitely broken. I'm not as invested in mending things as I should be. I suppose I'm hoping time will do my work for me. Katie agrees with me. Her advice is to let things breathe.

………………………………

October. A full day comes to an end. My husband's home already, the two boys are downstairs having dinner. I lock the bathroom door behind me, my phone still glued to my ear. Not even here can I escape the threat of looming deadlines. I write down notes on my pad, and when I finally hang up my purse is still hanging from my arm. I shed all my extra cargo – purse, along with my jacket and boots, and let the shower run while I answer a text from a city hall contact. My jeans come off too. While I wait for the reply, I absentmindedly run my palm through my leg, flexed over the rim of the tub. Smooth thighs, prickly shins. The mood might strike for a skirt day soon, so time to shave again. I observe my reflection in the mirror. I look nice in nothing but my cream turtleneck and socks. I've always been proud of my legs. They're full and shapely, even if a bit pale. I let my hand run slowly up my knee and across my thigh, as if it were somebody else's. There's certainly flesh to squeeze. Would they like what they feel? The mirror-staring session stretches itself out. In between texts from this important conversation that I can't postpone I observe my body from one, two, three more angles. I remove my socks and dishevel my hair, pushing my chest outwards to let my breasts complement my silhouette. I smile at myself. Yeah, I'm attractive. I've been made to doubt it recently – that, along with an assortment of things – and it angers me still. I have maybe five more pounds than I'd like, my cheeks are round and my ears poke out just a smidge too far; but I like what I see. I like what I am.

…………………………..

It's the night of Halloween and I'm home alone. I'm thrilled by the prospect. My in-laws have taken the kids trick-or-treating and will be keeping them for the night. My husband is still at the office and won't be home until past midnight. It's a very rare moment of dominance over my own home.

I've been communicating with Alan for months now. We've met only a handful of times, three or four for coffee and only once for lunch. The rest of the time, our friendship has stemmed from phone conversations over Skype and daily texting. I hinted that I'd be available tonight. I'm hoping, if he can talk today, that we start early. I want to make the best of the evening.

JOANNA: Hey, dude.

ALAN: Hey! So how's it looking tonight?

JOANNA: I'm the sole mistress of this house, so how do you think it's looking?

ALAN: Sounds spooky. Who knows, maybe you're not alone.

JOANNA: Maybe. It's Halloween after all.

ALAN: Can you talk for a bit before you get murdered?

JOANNA: I can.

“Hey there,” he says once I answer his Skype call. It's his go-to greeting. Hey there, hey there. I like hearing it.

“Now you actually have me worried about some knife wielder in my kitchen, asshole.”

“You did tell me you have a gun in your house.”

“It's my husband's. And I'm not going near that shit, it's scarier than the knife killer.”

“You can also judo the killer to death.” He's referring to my red belt attained in my teeny bopper years. One of many biographical details that I've shared.

“See, I don't mind guns,” he continues. “I shot one once at a shooting range. It was pretty fun.”

“Yeah? Is it all it's cracked up to be?”

“Absolutely. Let's go tomorrow.”

“How about you go and I wait in the parking lot.”

“Sweet. It's a date.”

“No, the date is tonight,” I say. “I really need this. You had mentioned something about a movie…”

He laughs.

“I was kind of joking about that one. Did you actually want to?”

“Of course, it sounded fun!”

“Ok. I'll watch a movie with you.”

We settle on a horror film, appropriate for this of all days. One of the Paranormal Activity movies, which we both access on Netflix and start playing at the same time. He eventually suggests a drinking game. He also means this as a joke, but I turn it real. Soon I have my bottle of tequila on the couch next to me. He has a six-pack of Zima, which I make fun of. There are occasional interruptions to deal with on my end, kids at the door trick-or-treating. We turn every new ring into another reason to take a shot of our respective brand of booze, which adds to my being more and more drunk every new time I open my door. But the kids in costumes seem fine with the extra happy lady giving them candy. Watching the film with Alan easily turns it into a comedy. I laugh so much my face starts to hurt. This evening is everything I needed. I put myself on video.

“Hey.”

“Hm? Oh, there you are,” he says.

I give him the finger. My turn to make him laugh.

“Hey, I see someone behind you,” he says.

“Fuck you. No you don't.”

I set the phone up against a cushion on the couch. I can still hear him from there and he can see me lying on my leather beanbag.

“Wanna change the movie?” he asks. “Not that this is bad or anything. But I don't even know what's happening anymore.”

“That's because you're yammering over the film,” I say. As if I would've had it any other way. “I chose us a perfectly good Halloween movie. You'll finish it and like it.”

“All I can think is, that house is nice. I want to live there. I wouldn't mind the demon.”

“Aww, but you'd miss your roomies. Dude, I am cooking here.” I'm still wearing my clothes from the day, a black woolen sweater with jeans. I started my call with Alan before I could even change.

“You know what I've wanted to watch for a while now? The Lion King.” It's the kind of dorky thing he'll say on occasion that makes me wonder whether he's serious or not. Tonight it's funnier than usual, tipsy the way I am. I laugh as I fan myself with the cover of a coffee table book about extreme sports in South America.

“I. AM. HOT. Did I mention that I'm gonna melt? I want to take off my sweater, but the leather of the beanbag will stick to my skin and it'll feel all gross.”

“Just take off the sweater.”

“I don't want to feel like a human pineapple.”

“I like pineapples,” he says.

I've undone my button fly and am now lifting my butt from the beanbag so I can slide my jeans down my hips. I'm vaguely aware of his silence as I do it. I peel them off my legs and feel delighted by the cool air on my skin. The decision makes perfect sense to me, I simply don't question it. Any guilt is buried deep within, safely out of sight. It's the biggest rush I could have right now, moving around on my beanbag knowing I'm giving Alan something to look at. My sweater goes way past my waist and covers enough, but my bare legs are in full view. I flex them, raise them, stretch them. Alan doesn't let the gesture intimidate him. The conversation continues, as does the laughing. The drinking does stop, however. I don't need any more.

“This movie fucking sucks,” he declares finally.

“We're not watching The Lion King. Get over it.”

“Ooh, have you seen videos of the Broadway show? It's looking so awesome.”

“What Broadway show?”

“The Lion King!”

“Tell you what, I'll take you to that show if you shut your mouth and watch this movie till the end with me.”

“Deal. But you'll have to wear pants.”

……………………………………………………………………

By mid-November I'm way past my brief shame-and-regret stage. Alan hasn't required me to apologize or to even address our drunken little evening. And we keep communicating, exchanging texts every other day. No matter where the conversation goes, we find a million things to say. We laugh constantly, at and with each other. I've had lunch with him once again since. I honked his nose and squeezed his cheeks. He briefly touched my ear. He's reserved on that aspect, but I'm a toucher with all my friends. I know there'll be more flirting, in some instances more overtly than others. That's just where things naturally go with him. He plays the game well and I'm unable to deprive myself of that fun.

Today I'm having my hair straightened. I always have second thoughts about it. My round face is to blame. But today my confidence is on a high and I love the final result. At home, my husband compliments me. Away from the kids, he makes a big deal about it, touches it, touches me. He's making the effort to bring things back to normal, which I appreciate and nurture within the realms of possibility. At times he tries hard; at others, he's quietly resentful of the small ways in which I've changed and the private space I've created for myself, which wasn't there before.

Alan's text arrives in the evening. I sent him a self-deprecating picture right after leaving the hair salon.

ALAN: Do I know you?

I smile at the dumb joke. In its own way, it's the perfect thing to say.

………………………………………….

ALAN

It's just hanging in the air; a reminder of what we allowed ourselves to do, once, when the elements aligned perfectly in a way they probably won't again. Booze or no booze. I didn't take it as a promise of anything, as I'm sure that she wouldn't want me to. The fact that the mutual attraction is there, close enough to the surface, is all the thrill I could ask for. I don't expect more. My colleagues would judge me if they knew that's where my eye is, and that's a bunch of people where I want to continue fitting in. I should be able to be as professional as they are. I'm now a full-time school teacher; a rent-paying adult, sensible, reliable with boundaries.

Nonetheless, the memory of a smiling Joanna on my phone screen – her curvy legs bare, her arms behind her head – has been a recurring visit. Every morning and every evening, I take the fantasy as far as I can in my mind. There I can do whatever I want.

……………………………………….

Sergio and I go out for drinks with his new girlfriend's posse. Sergio is one of my two roommates and a fellow teacher at my school. Hiranur, a Turkish IT engineer and our third rent-payer, politely declines to come along. I initially had a mind to do the same, seeing as how I would be the only new guy in the group. But Sergio gets pushy about me going, and his cool girlfriend Dana does too.

I have a blast, though. There's a girl here, Helen, Dana's friend. We end up gravitating towards each other. Long black hair and a nose piercing. There's a name that keeps getting mentioned – a recent ex-boyfriend, I gather – that's the butt of inside jokes between Helen and Dana. He'd hate to see her having fun tonight, apparently, and the evening is designed partly as an affront to the guy. I don't mind it. Vanessa and I dance and do shots. She touches me often. She seemed ditzy at first but there's cleverness in her sense of humor. I end up liking her more than I meant to. There are two or three moments where I could take the plunge and risk a kiss, but I don't. My reasoning is that if I do, I'd be obligated to stay longer, and I want to leave early. It's the kind of innocuous decision that I can passively judge myself for, but also allow.

When the most sober guy in the group offers a ride to the people leaving early, I join in. I leave the club before anyone can attempt to get me to stay. Sergio will be spending the night at Dana's, so he wouldn't be able to drive me back anyway. I'm pretty tipsy at first, but I feel more and more sober the closer we get to my apartment. At some point, I even end up regretting leaving. But I'm hoping to hear from Joanna.

We haven't written to each other in three days. She's been busy, and whenever her communication grows thin I contemplate the possibility that she's ready to gain distance. Then she'll usually break her silence with a sudden explosion of texts that update me on everything that's been going on, the difficult people, the crazy anecdotes. And she'll squeeze me for every detail on how I'm doing, and I'll entertain her with one of my zillion classroom stories. Everything works on her, everything makes her laugh. I can tell she likes it when I drop her a line right in the middle of her stressful silent period, but this time I chose to wait until she sends a sign first. I'm insecure about overstaying my welcome.

Hiranur is working quietly in his room. I let him know I'm home. My speech, which was close to slurred when I left the club, is now fully back to normal. I close my bedroom door and crash on the bed. I draw my phone from my pocket and, for the first time in the evening, check to see if Joanna has written. I see the number one inside the little green circle next to the profile picture of her goofing off with her sons, which always makes me smile, tonight harder than usual.

JOANNA: Hey. Just wondering if you're alive. If so, I hope you're having the best Friday night. I've finally finished a project that's been sucking every ounce of blood out of me, but now it's finally time to get reacquainted with this thing called human contact. I'm a dreadful and sucky friend, I know. Sorry.

She wrote five hours ago. I think of leaving my reply for tomorrow, as I'm sure she's asleep. But my fingers act on their own accord.

ALAN: I am. So glad you are too. Alive, I mean.

Mere seconds later, I get the “Seen” notice. She's still up. I hope I didn't wake her.

JOANNA: I was starting to become worried. I can't even tell you how nice it is to hear from you.

ALAN: It's so nice to hear from you too.

JOANNA: Were you going to bed?

ALAN: I just arrived from being out drinking with Sergio and some friends.

JOANNA: Ugh, how fun. I would give a toe to go drinking with buddies. Did you get shitfaced?

ALAN: I did. I even fought with some dudes. Messed their faces up real bad.

JOANNA: You're such a man. Did you quote lines from The Lion King as you beat them up?

ALAN: I am not to be messed with.

JOANNA: Who else was there?

ALAN: Some of Dana's friends.

JOANNA: I love hearing about this kind of stuff. I need someone to live vicariously through. And I like imagining you there. Doing your best attempts at dancing.

ALAN: Hey.

JOANNA: Hehe.

ALAN: There was relatively little staring and pointing. I did a good job. Didn't step on a single toe.

JOANNA: I'd like to be drunk too. We need to do another drinking game soon.

ALAN: I'm for it. I've got my Zimas waiting. Otherwise known by you as “what pussies drink”, if I recall correctly.

A short period of silence follows, which she ends with:

JOANNA: I've really missed you.

ALAN: I did too. I'm sorry if I woke you. I was gonna wait until tomorrow to get back to you.

JOANNA: I'm glad you didn't.

ALAN: Do you wanna talk for a little bit?

JOANNA: Yes. Hold on.

A few minutes later, her call comes through.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How are you still awake?” I ask.

“Bastian needed some cuddling after a little night terror episode. Then I just couldn't sleep after that. As exhausted as I am, if you can believe it. Netflix has been my loyal bro since.”

We talk for fifteen minutes; thirty; close to an hour. It's 1 AM already but we've turned this into one of our regular phone sessions. She sounds different. Maybe it's because she has to talk low. Then…

“I see you…”

I look at my phone and see that she's put herself on camera. I feel a rush of happiness at the sight of her face.

“Creeper,” I say. “How long have you been spying?”

“Uh, you can see me, I can't see you.”

“Hehe. Right.”

Her ochre-colored hair has developed volume again and falls in wavy locks over one side of her face. She's in bed, lying on her side, wearing a blue t-shirt with Donald Duck on it.

“I want to see how drunk you look,” she says.

When my face shows up on a side of my screen, a wide smile spreads on her face.

“Man, I need to trim that beard.”

“Nah. It looks good.”

“You look good,” I retort. The subdued alcohol in my bloodstream picks this moment to kick in.

She smiles at me silently. I can feel it coming before it hits.

“What else do you want to see?” she asks in what's almost a whisper.

Sheer excitement pumps through my veins. The movie-watching session from weeks ago, almost mythologized in my mind, comes rushing back into the present and into reality again. The feelings of it; the certainty that she's open to me, willing to let me be something that she wouldn't allow anyone else.

The question's an easy one to answer.

“Your legs again.”

She says nothing and for a split second, I worry that I misread it all. The image on my screen shifts and shakes around for a moment and I hear rustling. When it finally settles, it's the same angle as before, but she's sporting a new type of smile. Her camera pans downwards and I see that she's bared her legs. Her left one folded over the right one below. I can see blue panties this time, and a bit of her belly, as the Donald Duck t-shirt is raised a few inches above her waist. This is moving at top speed and beyond my control, but I'm fine with that.

“I'm gonna do literally nothing else until you say something,” she says.

“I like your t-shirt,” I say. She chuckles.

“What are you doing?”

“Just watching.”

She lets her hand wander over her round hips and down her thighs, caressing her own skin. I run my fingers over my erection, tight and warm underneath my jeans.

“Maybe that should stop,” she whispers.

“What should?”

“The 'just watching' part.”

I work on my fly one-handedly.

“I can hear your buttons,” she says in a happy murmur.

I spread open the folds of my fly. My arousal has left a wet spot on my grey boxers. I decide to let her see that. I invert the camera and let the visual fill the frame.

“Do you see what you're doing to me?”

Her reply is a low, discreet gasp. I see her hand sliding down towards the triangle of her panties. My heart is thumping powerfully. I stroke my cock softly through the fabric of my boxers while I see her running her hand up and down over her covered mound, an emphasis placed on her middle finger.

“I want to see you getting wet,” I say. “Can I?”

She moves the phone closer to the spot and, soon enough, I see a line of wetness over the blue. I see the faint contours of what lies beneath, too.

“Do you want to see my cock?” I ask.

“Yeah. I do.”

I lift my butt from the bed and slide my boxers down. My pubic hair has grown since the last time I shaved it, but only slightly. It's just an elegant patch of black at the base. If my cock was full and hard already, it stiffens even more under my direct touch. The camera captures perfectly the wet glare of the precum spread all over the head. I swipe the visual back to Joanna's cam and see that she's slid her hand underneath her panties and is now rubbing herself more vigorously. Circular motions. I give myself my first few strokes, slow at first, with an eye on giving Joanna the visual that she wants.

“I want to see your face now,” she says. I do as she asks. I let loose on my stroking, so hard at one point that I make my bed creak. I remind myself that Hiranur is just one room away, still typing diligently.

“God,” I whisper. “You're perfect.”

“I'm so close,” she gasps. She's moved the camera up to her face, framed turbulently due to her frantic movement. Her brow is furrowed, her mouth open and gasping, her chest heaving. “Oh, God. I'm so close.”

She greets her orgasm by burying her face into the pillow. Her entire frame shakes and her hair drapes down over the visible part of her face. Her heavy breathing blows strands away every time she exhales.

I'm still a minute away from mine. I decide to postpone it for her sake. As explosive as it was building up to be.

If I was expecting awkwardness, or maybe even a shade of regret in her eyes as soon as she was done, I'm quickly proven wrong. She looks at me and laughs into her pillow, then turns sideways onto her back and stares at the ceiling, her hand over her forehead. Blowing air through her lips, as if catching her breath after a particularly demanding game of tennis.

“Oh God. You really hit the right buttons for me there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you wear the Donald t-shirt on purpose?” I ask. “That was a master touch.”

“A mastur… touch.”

“Hehe. Good one.”

“I mean, it's practically porn,” she says. “The guy is wearing no pants.”

“Yeah. You know who else is wearing no pants?”

“Your mom.” She snickers at her own joke.