FICTION

By Laura Leigh Morris

“I guess we should talk about Leander.” She’s cute in a ruddy cheeked, out­doors­man sort of way. Not the type of woman I picture with my husband.

I stab at the salad with my fork, wave at her to dig into her own plate. If I weren’t trying to lose five pounds, I’d eat a burger too. “What I want to talk about is how buttery this romaine is. Do you think they get it locally?”

“I didn’t know he was married when we met,” she says, which is what they all say. “But he told me on our second date, so that’s no excuse.”

“What do you do for a living?” I don’t really want to talk about Leander. I want to ask where she gets her hair cut––if the splash of freck­les across her nose is natural.

“I power wash houses.”

I guffaw. “For real?” Her toned arms make more sense now.

She nods. “I bought a pres­sure washer a few years ago and adver­tised online. It was sup­posed to be a side gig, except I couldn’t keep up with the work. I hired a few other women, and we pres­sure wash houses and dri­ve­ways and patios. We’ll clean your gutters too. Plant flowers in front of your house. If you see a house for sale any­where near here, chances are we did the exterior.”

Leander’s girls are usually sec­re­taries, teach­ers, nurses. Helping pro­fes­sions. Or grad­u­ate stu­dents. They used to be under­grads, but that was before Leander devel­oped a paunch, before his bald spot. He was my history pro­fes­sor, which sounded sexier when I didn’t know it mostly involved long evenings grading papers. I got an A, married him before I knew being his mis­tress would be the best part of our relationship.

“Sorry.” Her cheeks pink. “That’s not why you’re here.”

It could be, I want to say. Maybe she’s hiring. I can already see myself reach­ing into leaf-filled gutters, fling­ing muck onto the tarp below. When I repo­si­tion my ladder, I’ll smile at her. She’ll grin back. We’ll be friends. We’ll get our hair done at the same salon. She’ll show me how to daub freck­les on my own nose. Or how to dust blush across my cheeks so that I look as young and wind­blown as her.

Except she is Leander’s sixth mis­tress in as many years. Some­times, Leander’s girls tell me it’s over, that they never thought of me as a real person. Other times, they want to fight for him. This one says, “I knew he was married, but I never con­sid­ered you.”

This is my cue to push a polaroid across the table: me between two girls, twins. Seven years old. Missing their top front teeth. My winning move. “He has a family,” I usually say, locking eyes with the mis­tress. I force her to think about my girls and me. Her eyes widen, and the color leaves her cheeks. She never looks at me, keeps her gaze on the photo, her mouth open in an O. All the fight leaves her. She doesn’t want to be a homewrecker––hasn’t signed on as step-mom.

I take a bite of my salad, enjoy the mouthfeel.

I never tell the mis­tress that the girls are my nieces. If she looks closer, she’ll see I’m younger in the photo. Thinner. That my mar­riage was still new then, that I didn’t know the hurt Leander would inflict. That he didn’t yet know what I could endure, the damage I could wreak.

This time, I don’t reach for the photo. Instead, I say, “You be the wife.” Her mouth opens in that same O. “I’ll pres­sure wash houses.”

And I can picture it: I arrive at the office in jeans and a t‑shirt, hair pulled into a messy bun. The women gather around, and I tell them about today’s projects—a yellow house with dirty gutters, a garden to fill with peonies and marigolds, a patio in need of a good scrub. We ride to the first house togeth­er. They admire my toned arms, the dusting of freck­les on my nose. I drive with one arm out the window, palm raised to catch the wind.

I pull her plate toward me, take a giant bite of her burger, close my eyes as the fat and juices invade every corner of my mouth. It’s been years.

“I don’t—” she begins, but I hold up my hand.

I take another bite and shove my salad toward her. “Leander will make com­ments about your weight. It gets old, but he stops if you eat salads.” I point my burger at her plate and, mouth full, say, “You should ask where they get the lettuce. So buttery.”

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Anna Evans.