While sipping her gin and tonic, a double, her date is telling a story about a hooker in a brothel. He’s on one of his first trips overseas with his unit, just another night out with the guys. He tells her in vivid detail the shape of the fan blades, the way she is kneeling between his legs, the sounds in the room next door, the way he was helping her with his hand, since he’d had too much to drink.
And at the table next to them, a young woman’s voice, as she’s leaning in to the ear of a man-friend she quickly trusts. He’s already rejected her advances, telling her he’s happily married, just likes to come out once in a while and drink a few beers and see how many young things he can advise on life, love and happiness. She thinks he’s susceptible to her perfumed wrist and sees how he watches her, slowly moving his eyes from her hand to her shoulder to that little v at the base of her throat.
He asks, “Have you ever gotten lost in the act itself…like all of sudden, just stopped and looked at the clock and felt yourself return to reality? and it’s a couple of hours later? and you are very thirsty and sweaty and your thighs shake as you walk to the tiny kitchen to find the ice and the glass?”
He is comfortable in his pause, knowing she’ll answer.
And she does.
She looks to the right, above his head, and with a sigh, shares the truth as she has told it before, how her husband’s lost-in-the-moment seldom lasts more than the ten-to-fifteen-second run-up to orgasm, how during which time she could hit him in the head with a two-by-four and he’d probably be oblivious to it. She confesses she suspects this to be the case with most men, most husbands, generally.
He doesn’t disagree, knowing his charm is less necessary than a few short minutes ago, and wishing he wanted to keep it turned on.
Bringing the glass to her lips, she sips again, tips her chin to the left and stops eavesdropping. Oh, she knows lost, knows how it is worth every forgotten moment out of her head, the wandering in that place.