A Decomposed Obsession
Two steps across from his room, Scott Costello, the owner of the house, watched TV from his bed. It was his nightly routine. Lying in bed, sipping on his iced Scotch that he would refill at least twice. Much more on the weekend. His door was open for circulation he said. Something Don could not understand nor knew before he moved in. He should have asked. It’s a small house for two men to share.
Renting a room was similar to when he was in college, but this wasn’t college. That was thirty years before. He owned a home. Had four kids. Now he was alone while his soon to be ex was under the process of their divorce. He accepted her demands. Besides, it was his fault why he was staring up to the ceiling in the small room.
Outside a marsh lined the backyard. It was quiet. In the summer, if they could not resolve their differences or attempt counseling or maybe she’d realize life was more difficult without him, even if he drank too much and lost his temper and swore to Immaculate Mary, he’d be more faithful, but they both knew the truth. In time he would be back to his old patterns and have to defend himself. The drinking was acceptable, even the temper, but the one affair she discovered broke it.
Don wanted to blame her for his indiscretions, if only she was more tender, if only she was more open in bed, trying different things since there were so many things he saw while surfing the web. If only she said he was handsome. He was desperate for attention. Maybe if she lost a little weight or even cared for herself more, getting her nails done. It was not her. It was him. They lost interest in each other years ago. And this is the time for introspection, when he can take in account all of his behavior. She lost interest in him since she lost any trust.
Cheating was part of his DNA. Flirting was habitual. But he never had a long-term affair. Most lasted a few months till they both came to their senses and went back to their normal lives without running off to a local hotel when he was in town. They were his clients. His pattern was the same, get to know them and ask how their lives were, and that opened up a flood of emotions. He listened and took notes, especially when they divulged the frustrations of dealing with their husbands. Some of the men didn’t engage in sex, were alcoholics or out of work or emotionally abusive. He appreciated their honesty and said what they needed to hear, but the more he listened and would ask subtle but probing questions, the more they were drawn to him. It was a skill he developed through years of therapy. Like James Bond, he had affairs with married women and most had children. There was too much to risk for both if they were married and had children, but they needed an escape. A dinner, a fling in a hotel room, close to their home was the answer. Few had regrets and most wanted to see Don anytime he came back.
Working in sales made it easy to conduct affairs. He was good at his job and made himself available for his clients, he was their advocate. If there was an operations issue, he dived in and tried to get it resolved as quickly as possible, it gave them the impression he really cared about their orders. Anyone could do his job, he thought. He was lucky to have a good paying job. He was grateful that his ex did not expose his behavior to his management. He was sure it was intentional since it would impact on her alimony.
He was obsessed with Fatima and thought about her constantly. She was young. Could have been his daughter. They met when she was twenty-one, but she looked younger. Not that he minded. She reminded him of an old girlfriend he had back in high school, but Fatima was more mature and cunning. She was intelligent and yet very sensitive. She smoked cigarettes and wore nylons in the winter that she’d roll off her pale legs and toss onto a chair in the hotel. It was always a hotel till she left her husband. After they broke up Don feared she’d meet someone new, closer to her age and in better shape. Someone who could handle her. But he kept it going as long as possible. The sex was intense. And a few mornings when he’d wake up in her bed he’d ask if it was worth the risk. If he got caught it was the end of the marriage and possibly the end of his job. Was it worth it? And he lay there and weigh the potential consequences and want to fuck her. But there was more than the sex or so he wanted to believe.
The others were closer to his age. The sex was different, and he had to have a few glasses of wine to have sex with one and the other was always wine and dirty talking, porn and giving into the moment when they’d toss aside their responsibilities and memories of their children and spouses since the moment was a rare event in their lives and it was time to sink into the warm abyss of lust. It was typically quick. Once in the front seat of his rental one of them went down on him in the dark hotel parking lot and as he ejaculated, he was amazed she did not move her mouth away.
Each mile he drove back to his home, the reality of his life would loom and what he did would flutter away like some dream. He compartmentalized. Nothing happened and yet his phone was off limits. She sensed something was going on. Christmas Eve that year, she was preparing for her family to visit, and she asked him, “Are you having an affair?”
“Of course not, why?”
“I don’t know, there’s something going on.”
“You’re crazy.”
And there was. The evidence was there. He was leaving home earlier on Sundays to avoid the weather or traffic, he’d tell her, but he wanted to get back to Fatima as soon as possible in case she was seeing someone else. He would arrive in the afternoon with a bouquet of flowers. Hoping not to see one of the neighbors in the apartment complex and just get in without anyone noticing. A hotel room was ready, and he’d check in without stepping a foot in the hotel. They would go out shopping, the mall, IKEA, supermarket, dinner in a Russian restaurant, sushi, whatever it was he wanted to be in her presence.
But he knew it was wrong and eventually they grew apart and broke up.
But it was too late. He wanted to be happy, and he knew Fatima was not the person nor was his wife, but he did not admit he was having an affair till months later when he was accused again. It was Saturday in July, and he was driving back home. She called and wanted to know where he was. I am coming home, he said.
“Good,” and she hung up.
When he got inside their home, he called out for her. She called back to say that she was upstairs, and he went into their large bedroom and looked at the suitcases.
“I packed your clothes. You’re leaving.”
“What?”
“I know the truth. Who’s Fatima?”
“A friend.”
“Just a friend, bullshit, tell me the truth.”
He said too much. Said he loved Fatima even though it was over, he begged for her to reconsider, bawled since he was not sure where he would go.
“Go back to her.”
“We broke up.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He lived with his parents for three weeks till he found this place. The radio is playing classical music from a college radio station. The same station he’d listen to on Sunday’s evenings when he was home and would listen to the DJ share stories about the composers and was impressed that he knew as much as he did. Sex was his obsession and now, he is paying the penance and staring up at the ceiling recalling her body and scent of her on his lips. Her distinct taste, the tight sensation when he’d push inside her. Maybe now she’s with another, sharing her bed as her cat prowls around her living room looking for something to get into.
Roberto Picado lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, two cats, books, and incorrigible vices. His novel, Black Market Bones, Book One, Bombastic Adventures in the Arizona Desert, is available on Imzadi Publishing. Expect Book Two, Desert Ghosts to be released in 2025. This is his first short story that he wrote in seven years. He recently wrote a collection of poems after being persuaded by the voices in his head.
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