Secret Lovers

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This chapter opens with business owner Caprianna and her police officer Marquise. They are just returning from a three day Labor day holiday get away in Solvang, CA. Caprianna senses something is not right between them. She feels it is like the seven-year itch, which between their courtship and marriage, their relationship is seven years old.

Caprianna has just made love to her husband, who is seeming more distant than ever. To add to her problems, she has never had an orgasm with him and she wants to get pregnant. She is also faced with the possibility of losing her business as business has slowed up following 9-11 and the dot.com failures.

1

Capri

Autumn Equinox

West Los Angeles , California

September 2003 6:00 a.m.

“It’s true what they say.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at  Marquise as he twists his mouth like someone who’d just swallowed castor oil, then,  in what can only be described as a backward crab crawl, glides his body away from mine’s. As an afterthought, though, he reaches back and pecks my lips with this offhand, fake kiss. I peek out one eye so I can study his face as he kisses me. I swear I can see a cumulous cloud passing over his features. This is not exactly how a man should look after he’s just made love to his wife.

“What’d’you say?” Marquise turns away again and buffs up his muscular back to me.  Although his voice is muffled, the tone is cold. Well, I’ll be a flying donkey, as Aunt Mutt used to say. Just moments before, he’d acted if I were the last lifeboat thrown to him in a shark-infested sea. Now I’m a pan of dirty dishwater to be tossed aside.

Miffed, I snatch  the ecru satin sheet from his side of the bed, tighten it under my armpits, then lean on my elbow and study the freckles on Marquise’s persimmon back. Goose bumps rise on my neck and an ice dagger lodges between my breasts as I recall my recurring dream from last night. I dreamed I was drowning. 

I decide not to drop the subject. “It’s true what they say about the seven-year itch.”

Right eyebrow lifted, Marquise jackknifes straight up in the bed and cranes his neck around. “Come again?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” I chew the inside of my left cheek, a habit I have when I’m annoyed; then I heave an exaggerated sigh, cross my arms across my chest, and wait. After a few moments of silence, I realize Marquise isn’t going to answer. Instead, he takes a deep yawn, stretches out his body in a lotus position, then clambers his six-foot frame out of our king sized bed. His feet hit the hardwood floor with a thump.  Momentarily, he stumbles over the circular oriental rug  in the middle of the bedroom.

“It’s you. Something’s going on.” There, I’d said it.

Marquise pivots around and my eyes dive-bomb right into his light tiger eyes. For a nanosecond, he holds my stare, then looks away.

“What are you talking about? Didn’t I just take you to Solvang?”

“You acted like you didn’t want to go.”

Marquise’s full lips curve upward in a slur. “What d’you expect? I work midnights and usually don’t get three days off together.”

Bingo. That’s it. Something about our get-away, second anniversary, Labor Day weekend trip, which we’d just returned from the night before, just wasn’t quite right. The memory of Solvang parades before my eyes in a blur; an array of terra-cotta, rustic shops and a splash of Danish culture away from the craziness of Los Angeles . Even the soothing sage and sable setting hasn’t been able to hold at bay this gnawing evil at the pit of my stomach. Why did our trip feel more like a three-day game of charades than a romantic tryst? Something is wrong. Something I can’t quite put my finger on, but . . . .

“Who is she?” I blurt it out. I’m just fishing, but I want to see his reaction. I’m sure he will deny any indiscretions and assure me nothing is going on.

Marquise is silent for a moment, then surprises me. “Don’t start that Jerry Springer drama again. Maybe you need to close that business of yours and get a real job.” With that, Marquise reaches for the white terry cloth towel draped over the mahogany headboard, snaps it around his loins, and pivots on one foot as if he were doing a salute at roll call.  Mmmm. Nice way of showing me which side of his behind I can kiss.  I recall how at one time, the sight of his toned buns imprinted on the towel used to arouse me, but now, there is only a hollow feeling.

Suddenly, anger bum-rushes me, wraps its boa tail around my neck and constricts my heart. With the sheet draped around my nakedness, feeling so livid I could burst, I leap out of the bed and stalk behind him. “Don’t patronize me, Marquise. Do I say that about your dream? Your running around all day like a little boy in a black uniform playing cops and robbers?”

“Oh, that’s what you think?” Marquise spins around and throws both hands up in the air the way he does whenever he’s frustrated.

“You’ve changed.”

“You’re crazy. Look. At least I get a regular paycheck. You must be PMSing again. Send out Number 7. Now handle that!”

Marquise often says I suffer from multiple personalities throughout the month so after throwing this snide remark over his shoulder, one of L.A.’s finest stalks into our master bedroom’s adjoining bathroom and slams the shower door.

I go to my nightstand, pick up the copy of Patricia Anne Phillips’s book, June in Winter, a story of infidelity, that  I was reading the night before, and fling it  at the bathroom door. “Handle that!” I shout, then slap my hands up and down in a “Take that!” sign.
          Being married to a police officer is no joke. And Marquise has had a fullblown case of  ego since he joined the LAPD three years ago, which doesn’t help matters any. But to top that, as if Marquise’s work schedule isn’t a marriage ball buster, I have a business, which, for all practical purposes, is going “belly up.” 

Although we’ve only been married two years, we’d dated for five years after we met at UCLA. And, once again in our seven-year relationship, I’d just faked another orgasm. Moments earlier, when I held Marquise in my arms, I felt as  if I were clinging to a glacier—following the sinking of the Titanic. I know orgasms have been called petit morts—little deaths—but what about fake orgasms? I guess those are the equivalent of grand mal seizures—the big deaths where we die inside a little at a time.

I sit back down on the bed and scratch my head. Thinking about number seven, I consider filing bankruptcy—Chapter Seven, but I believe that’s only for personal debts. Come to think of it, I have some other options here. I can file Chapter Eleven or Chapter Thirteen, or I can close my business. But no, I’m too stubborn. I still have one straw of hope. I have the possibility of landing that government contract, which I bidded on last month. So far, I’ve let one employee go—my only white male employee. 

Two weeks ago on Friday, I’d pink-slipped Ernest Schroder  because he wasn’t earning his keep. At the same time, I decided to keep my two reliable, mother-earth employees, Nadine Greer and  Micaela Hernandez, who earned and created enough sales to make payroll for them from week to week, and even then, their future tenure with “ Capri ’s Writer’s Software” was uncertain. 

In fact, I’d only hired Ernest Shroder to be in keeping with the Fair Employment Act so that I would have a multicultural team.

***

After Marquise showers and leaves for work, I stomp into the bathroom and peer into the gold-veined double mirrors he’s left fogged up. How many times have I told him to wipe the steam off the mirror? Anyhow, I have bags under my eyes that resemble kangaroo pouches, and they look even worse against my rust-colored complexion. Who is that old woman?  I sure look older than twenty-nine today. I haven’t been sleeping well at night—it’s this recurring nightmare I have about drowning.

The weather is so humid outside for mid-September, I’m feeling clammy, and  I guess we’ll have an Indian summer this year.  I study my reflection as I turn from side to side and examine my thighs and hips for new signs of cellulite. I admit I’ve gone from a 12 to a 16 in two years of marriage. Maybe this is what’s turning Marquise off.

When I take my shower, I’m so bent out of shape, my stomach grinds as jaggedly as a garbage disposal. Just the idea that my husband made love to me, then blew me off as if I were some hooker has not exactly made my day either. I feel worse than a whore. After all, I’m supposed to be the wife! I want a baby, but how am  I ever going to get pregnant with our marriage going like this? Quiet as it’s kept, I’ve never really experienced the ultimate of sex—an orgasm—but I figure in time I’ll loosen up and it will happen.

I suds my body down with my usual blackberry soap and instead of feeling soothed, I feel violated. Yes, I’m still horny, but I’m so mad I can scream. As the scalding water pelts down on me, I  squeeze my eyes tight and silently cry, my tears mixing in with the hot water. I’ve seldom let Marquise see me break—he always says that I’m a strong black woman.

 I guess I’m remembering how we used to get quickies in the shower before going to work and how we still left each other with our dignity. We also used to take a moment to spoon in each other’s arms, even when we made love before we went to work.  Although I’ve never had a real orgasm, I liked the cuddling part anyhow. But not lately… What is the matter?  I decide I’ll deal with Marquise and whether he is cheating on me later—much later. 

It hits me again. I am drowning.

***