The Scarlet Letter Society. Mary T. McCarthy

      “I was just going to get some shop paperwork done before I go into town.”

      So much for Jim leaving for his trip before she woke up. And here came the scene she had been hoping to avoid.

      “I guess there’s no time for a foot rub then,” said Jim in the whiny voice that made Lisa want to drive icepicks through her own skull. She looked over at him in the bed, and then she saw it. A bright red Christian Louboutin stiletto peeked out from under his pillow.

      “Jim! Those are $6000 shoes!” said Lisa, exasperated. “Why are you crushing one of them under your pillow?”

      “I bought them for you, Lisa,” responded Jim, sulking. “You know I got them online for way less than that, and it’s not my fault you continually refuse to indulge my fantasy.”

      Lisa shuddered. A foot fetish, of all things. How had she managed to marry someone with such an annoying addiction? She would never wear those stupid shoes. They weren’t even new. Gah! Who knew where they’d been, or what she’d have to clean off them.

      She thought to herself, I have already honestly tried to go along with the whole “fantasy” thing, as he called it. Remember when I wore the thigh high black leather boots (and nothing else) to bed? Or how about the time I let you masturbate into a gold pair of stripper heels bought especially for the purpose? But she was sick of him being more interested in her feet and her footwear than her preferred parts.

      “Honey,” she said, “I need to get to the bakery. Maybe you could just pack the shoes in your suitcase for the trip.”

      “Don’t be mad that I spent the money. They’re beautiful! Like you,” said Jim.

      “You damn well know we need that money for the fertility treatments,” said Lisa. “I don’t even want to look at them!”

      She went downstairs, grabbed her laptop, and headed to the downtown bakery. Beautiful, my ass, she thought.

      “Welcome to Keytown!” the town’s sign cheerily welcomed her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Bakery therapy. She arrived at her shop, prepared batter, popped the first batch of cinnamon buns into the oven, and washed her hands, absentmindedly wiping them to dry on her apron. She sat down at the counter stool, opened her laptop and hit “compose.”

from:	Lisa [email protected]
to:	Ben [email protected]
date:	Tuesday, May 2, 2012 at 8:10 AM
subject:	My logo Ben, It’s hard to believe we have met three times and I still don’t have a mockup of my new logo. I demand customer service. Sincerely, Lisa Swain

      She smiled as she hit ‘send.’ And her friends thought she was licking cherry juice off this guy? Geez, wouldn’t that be amazing. So far in real life versus Scarlet Letter Club fantasy league, she’d simply had two “brainstorming” lunches and a shop visit to “gather information.” And of course the email fluttering back and forth like middle school notes passed from classmate to classmate. Is Ben taking a long time to produce my business materials so he can prolong this? Lisa thought, doubting herself. Or am I just being silly? He’s probably just busy.

      Ping, came the sound of a new email, and her heart rate quickened.

from:	Ben [email protected]
to:	Lisa [email protected]
date:	Tuesday, May 2, 2012, 8:13 AM
subject:	Your pie You know that I feel strongly about the image that is presented for your business, and that I’m trying to get a feel for the message you want to send to your customers. Don’t try to rush the creative process. Are you free for lunch? We can discuss this further, as customer satisfaction is my goal. Ben

      The blush crept up from her neckline to her face as Lisa nervously wiped her hands off again on her apron before hitting “reply.”

from:	Lisa [email protected]
to:	Ben [email protected]
date:	Tuesday, May 2, 2012 at 8:17 AM
subject:	Customer satisfaction Thank you for your prompt response. I agree a lunch meeting is in order. Meet me at Provence at noon. L

      Oh yeah, middle school was definitely on the phone, wanting their geeky note-passing routine back. What was it about written communication that made it so sexy? Lisa stood up, realizing she had just sent out a lunch invitation. She looked at the clock, and down at her beat-up Gap jeans and worn cotton t-shirt. I can’t wear this to the Provence. A visit to Maggie’s shop for something to wear was in order as soon as those cinnamon buns came out of the oven.

      Zarina smiled as the women entered the shop for their monthly meeting.

      “Good morning, Zarina,” said Maggie as she came in. “Always good to start the day at Z’s!”

      Zarina’s mom had never really ‘decorated’ the shop per se, just covered it in a scattering of 80s memorabilia she’d picked up over the years at yard sales and online auctions. Pac Man memorabilia, Bon Jovi posters, shadow boxes of scratch-and-sniff sticker and Garbage Pail Kids cards, plastic Gremlins, and other vintage trinkets bedecked the shop. On the wall hung a large 80s-font print featuring a shop-namesake quote: “Screws fall out all the time; the world’s an imperfect place.”

      Eva and Lisa crossed to the brown leather couch area as Zarina locked the door behind the ladies. She didn’t flip over the ‘open’ sign since their monthly meeting was private and the shop didn’t technically open for another hour. She busied herself getting their standard order ready: two Neo Maxi double espressos, a caramel macchiato for the bakery lady, Lisa, plus warming up the blueberry muffins she baked last night.

      “So how’s everything with Ben, Lisa? And have you figured out a way to deal with that foot fetish husband of yours?” Eva smiled.

      “Ben and I took a walk the other day to Bailey Park,” said Lisa, “and we ended up having sex in broad daylight under the covered bridge.”

      Maggie and Eva laughed. “Well that’s a new one,” said Maggie. “Bravo, kid. You’re lucky Keytown’s finest weren’t patrolling the park at the time—or worse, some poor mom and a toddler going for a walk.”

      Lisa grinned, cursing herself for making up such an outrageous story.

      “Well I got a can of homemade whipped cream unleashed into my vag,” said Eva, breaking into laughter. “The chef had prepared it especially to be organic.”

      “That was thoughtful,” said Maggie. “I mean, you wouldn’t want any of that trashy-ass grocery store canned whipped cream up there.”

      “It was of course delicious, too, when I sprayed some on him and got to taste it during the expert blow job I served up.”

      Lisa, ever the junior member of the club, asked, ”Where did you learn to give great blowjobs? I mean, I’ve been married for five years and dated before that, and of course there’s Ben now, but I’ve always worried I’m not good at it. Not to mention I don’t like it. I