Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

me

       that’s a promise

       I will put you to work

      —I see us at a table, someplace dark…and eyes on us, and someone wondering, ‘Did I just see that? Did they just…no…did they?’

       ‘I think she just stroked his cock through his jeans.’

      —‘Where are his hands?’

       ‘I’m sure she just pulled her skirt up and her shirt down…’

      —‘Was that her nipple between his fingers?’

       ‘I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties.’

       scandalous

       I have to run to a client meeting now.

       I request a picture of you in your fuck-me shoes.

      —I think I just came without touching myself.

      —Remember that during the boring parts of the meeting.

      —xo

       That is so unbelievably sexy

       get on that photo

       demanding, i know

       11 days xx

      ‘Mom?’ I turn my head. ‘Look what I made!’

      I am a really good mom.

      Except I’m not sure really good moms exchange ‘Was that her nipple between his fingers?’ and ‘I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties’ texts with their ex-lovers while their kids do crafts. In a fucking museum.

      Well, Marie probably does.

      And she’s a good mom.

      Ex-lover. Returning lover. Oh, fucking hell. The point here is…what is the point? The point is this: am I genuinely planning to fuck Matt when he comes to town?

      I drive like a maniac across the downtown, and it’s a minor miracle we get home without an accident.

      ‘Ja-ane!’

      My neighbour Lacey is pulling into her driveway as I’m stepping out of the car. ‘Ja-ane! You have to see this! You won’t believe what I’ve just been dooo-ing!’

      Lacey is…Lacey is perfection.

      I think she’s 52 or 53, and I only think this because I’ve been to her fiftieth birthday party a couple of years ago. You would never say of Lacey, ‘Oh, my God, I hope I look like that when I’m fifty.’ You would say, ‘Fuck, I wish I was that when I was twenty.’ And then you’d try to get her into bed.

      I’m not overselling. Carved out of ebony, voluptuous, curvy, perfect in every way – the centre of any room into which she saunters. (She doesn’t walk; she saunters.) She makes me want to climb into her lap and nibble on her ears.

      And she makes me smile, always, when I see her. Not even Marie does that.

      Lacey’s been my neighbour almost all of my mother-life. She has spent much of this time searching for a soulmate – and almost all of it fucking Clint.

      Clint’s car pulls up behind Lacey’s. She waves at him as she runs over to me.

      ‘You will never believe what Clint and I have been doing!’ she whispers. She leans in closer to me, her lips almost touching my ear. (Does she do this on purpose? No. Of course not. It’s just me. I think about her ear lobes at the most inappropriate times.) ‘We’ve been ring shopping!’

      As she reaches into her purse – to pull out a box? – I’m stunned. Yes, Clint allegedly proposed last summer, after he turned 50. Part of his mid-life crisis. And Lacey seemed to actually believe it. But ring shopping? Really? Clint?

      Lacey whips out her phone. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I like this one. And this one. And this one. Clint likes this one.’

      Just pictures. Not yet the real thing.

      That I can believe.

      Clint has opened his car door. One long leg is hanging out. The rest of him will stay in the car until I’m gone. That’s his MO. Limit contact with women he’s not sleeping with – and keep contact with the women he’s sleeping with or wants to sleep with to the minimum necessary to sleep with them.

      ‘They’re beautiful, Lacey,’ I say sincerely.

      Lacey smiles, and puts the phone away.

      ‘I think it’s actually going to happen,’ she says. ‘You know, the wedding.’

      I flush. My scepticism about the ring, the wedding – the relationship – is justifiable. How many years? How many ‘Lacey is single’/‘Lacey is in a relationship’/‘It’s complicated’ switchbacks on her Facebook status? But I would not express that to Lacey for anything.

      I arrange my lips into what is meant to be a supportive smile. Perhaps it comes out wrong, as Lacey takes a step back.

      ‘You look different,’ she says. ‘Have you cut your hair?’ I shake my head. ‘Lost weight?’ ‘Uhm-no.’ ‘New dress?’ ‘No.’

      ‘Well, there’s something about you.’ She gives me a critical look. ‘I like it,’ she pronounces. ‘Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!’ And she saunters into the house.

      Lacey claims to be a little bit psychic. Perhaps she is.

      As I unbuckle Annie, I see Clint get out of his car. As I lock the van, he’s reaching Lacey’s front door.

      Jesus Christ, was he unbuckling his belt with one hand while reaching for the door knob with the other?

      I need to get my mind out of the gutter.

      ‘Mom!’ Eddie wails. ‘Open the door! It’s so cold!’

      The kids snack, then disappear into various corners of the house, except for Annie, who sits in my lap as I make pasta. Alex makes it home just as I’m slopping it into bowls on the table; the children squeal with delight, and then fight over who gets to sit next to him. He offers to do bedtime if they stop fighting, and they suppress it, a little.

      I do a half-ass job cleaning the kitchen – good mother. A morally ambiguous wife. A horrid housekeeper. And then, to the sound of my husband running our children’s bath, I pop open the laptop. And this time I take the initiative.

      Because I am clearly insane.

      —I’ve rethought the visuals. I’ve never seen you in a tie. Use your belt. It’ll have to come off anyway.

      And of course he’s there.

       No, the only time I’ve ever used a tie on you, we borrowed it. Remember?

       And leather is more fun.

      —Indeed.

       How long will I have you?

      —I guess that depends on when you untie me.

       I’ll try not to be greedy. // Try // I make no promises.

       Now tell me. In detail. What you did last night.

      —I don’t know how to start.

       Begin at the beginning, insatiable you. And take me through every filthy detail.

      —No. I think I’ll just tell you Alex had gouge marks all the way down his back at the end.

       Lucky man. Unless he doesn’t enjoy the scratches.

      —And you? Did you aim at the lace and watch