Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

OK with you?’ she says. She looks at me carefully. ‘You’re losing weight,’ she pronounces. ‘But not in that “I work out with a hot trainer to melt the baby fat” way. In a sickly, peakish, “not eating enough” way.’

      She stares at me some more. Disconcerts me.

      ‘Um, no, I don’t think so,’ I protest. ‘Probably just tired today. And not at my best.’

      I drive away a little faster than necessary.

      I will not cyberfuck on a Saturday afternoon during my kids’ piano lessons. Even though there will be nothing else to do in the waiting room but fiddle with my phone…

      Fuck.

      I have no self-control or will. Annie sucks on markers and colours, and Eddie fiddles with his Gameboy.

      I take out the phone.

      —Sleep was elusive.

       what have you done today

      —suffered

       I am in withdrawal.

       I tortured myself by rereading our missives.

      —The extent of my desire for you is obscene.

       I like that word

      —Madness

       I’m on a conference call. Because of the Friday disaster. Fuck. Can’t even concentrate on what I’m saying.

      —I’m writing to you from my kids’ piano lesson…so fucking wrong

      —I was with my trainer this morning. When he told me to lie down on the bench…

       I wonder if he could sense your heightened state.

      —I don’t know. I don’t think so. Possibly he just thought I was insane. I was not myself.

       No. You were mine. Are mine.

       Fuck. You bring out my dominant side to a nearly frightening degree.

      —frightening

      —appropriate word for this

       my anger hasn’t abated. I thought it would by now.

      —the build-up…

      —so hard to let go

       Especially when I don’t want to.

      —I’m glad

      —that you don’t want to.

       I need to see you. Send me a photo.

       Now.

      —Now?

       Of your face, Jane. Do it. Fucking now.

      —sent

       god you look good

      —thank you

       that mouth

       will you keep your glasses on?

      —do you want me to?

       yes

       brainy sexy hot

       this isn’t helping my anger

      —they might be hard to clean if you cover them with cum

      —I guess that didn’t help either

       I don’t care

      —Tell me about your anger.

       It’s a hot heavy feeling.

       in my stomach. in my cock.

       i want to fuck you so angrily

       need to use you to release.

      —i want you to use me

      —i feel the bruises on my wrists from where you gripped me too hard

       the marks on your thighs where i fucked you so hard

       i can’t take this. i have to have you

       send me more of you

      —i can’t

      —there are…considerable logistical difficulties in the taking and the sending

      —did I mention I was in the kids’ piano class?

       Later then.

       Fucking reality calls me as well: another emergency meeting.

       now go cum for me

      —At my kids’ piano lessons?

       Wherever the fuck you are. Now.

      —Fuck you. Go to your meeting.

       I’m going. Take more photos of you. I want to suffer more. And I want you to suffer with me. xx

      —xo

      Fuck. Mad. Mad. Clearly losing my mind. At home, I find myself moving from task to task without focus or concentration. Marie texts me. Still no word from Zoltan. What should she say? She’s texted him again. Should she text him to say it’s over? And more…I don’t respond. What can I say? Truly, I give not a fuck. Tepid little faux affair. Not real. Not real. She calls – I don’t pick up. I am a bad friend. I don’t care. The text from Alex telling me he’s going out for drinks with the deal team and won’t be home until late barely registers.

      I suffer.

      Sleepwalk.

      I hear Alex come in late, as I’m reading Annie to sleep. Hear him moving around in the kitchen. Heating up food. Dishes clinking in the sink. Then his head pokes into the girls’ bedroom. He gives Cassandra – quietly reading a book – a kiss. Another one for Annie. A third for me.

      By the time Annie’s asleep, so is Alex. And I, shaking, shaken, sit in bed beside him and do yet another unforgivable thing. One night. It would have been just one night. One night, and over. And now what?

      I get up. Lock myself in the bathroom with the phone. And take photos.

      Send.

      It’s very, very late in Montréal. But he’s waiting.

       Holy fucking hot.

       The open mouth. Yes.

      —the things i do for you

      —slut

       The things you’ll do for me. Slut.

      —promises

       Looking at you again. (Carefully)

       Hold your fuck-me heels up to the camera.

      —oh god done

       And so well done

       I WILL have those on your feet, pointed at the ceiling.

      —My stomach is in knots

      —I feel sick with desire for you

       Did you like showing yourself to me?

      —no

       Good.

      —this is so fucking sick

       Yet we can’t stop.

       Addicted.

      —I