“So, how do they do it?” she asked as we sat on a blanket watching the kids trot from the baseball field to their bench. She leaned forward to pick a dandelion and then formed her lips into a perfect O before blowing the seeds away.
Since I didn’t think she was asking about baseball, I checked to see how near the other parents were and if anyone was paying attention to us. But, of course, they weren’t. We were never the ones others paid attention to. At least, not then. Not yet. Anyway, how was I supposed to know? I hadn’t done it before either. And I didn’t know if she was still asking a hypothetical question or if we were going to test it out. A shudder rippled through me.
She nudged my arm. “Justin’s up,” she said, leaning forward to get a better view of her son.
I acted interested, but her question was far more enticing than watching a little boy strikeout.
“Damn,” she said, slapping her hand on the ground.
“Next time,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile.
“I recently read a book with some—some women in it.” Now, she was the one who looked around.
I assumed she meant Lesbians. A word we hadn’t said out loud and one I could barely say even to myself. When we talked, we spoke a convoluted language, without the ardent verbs of our later exchanges.
“And…,” I said, almost afraid of what she would say next.
“Apparently,” she said, turning toward me, a smile flickering on her lips. “They use their tongues.”
I pointed to my daughter, Anna striding toward the plate. “She’s up,” I said, trying to control my breathing.
As usual, Anna got a hit to deep left-center. But, before the outfielders could track it down, Anna crossed home plate. I stood and clapped. “Way to go,” I yelled, my knee brushing hers when I sat down again.
“Are you like your daughter?” She jiggled her leg into mine.
“Huh? How do you mean?” I pressed my knee further into her.
“Anna always scores.” Her gaze lowered as she bit her lower lip.
A month later, I sat across from him at the breakfast bar, drinking a glass of wine and dipping carrot sticks into the homemade hummus as soft music played in the background. We are civil, civilized. I speak to him of his her, he inquires of my her. Our conversation is dominated by the words: she-her-us-we said in the calm tones of our passionate passionlessness. We plan which nights the other will take care of the children, which rooms will be shared, which private, if overnight guests are allowed, and what we will tell the children. We drink more wine, anesthetizing ourselves, so the peeling away of our dignity doesn’t hurt—quite so much.
Now, as the leaves change to red, orange, and yellow, our children play soccer. The four of us: him, his she, me, and my she, sit on two blankets separated by a strip of browning grass. His she sits next to me on one blanket while my she sits next to me. He sits next to my she, pretending to chat with her, but his comments are intended for his she, who has the jealous husband who does not yet know of his wife’s duplicity. We hope we’ve hidden who is with whom, who is friends with whom, and who is having sex with whom. My marriage, always so practical, now serves another purpose by obscuring others’ understanding of our bargain.
The whistle blows. The kids run off the field and line up to shake hands with the opposing team. I want to do that too—to move on. But, instead, I fold a blanket and touch fingers with my she before I walk from the field toward the minivan, toward my home with him and the kids.
Game over or just beginning?