Page 10 of I Love My Mistake

Chapter Seven

A Month Later

Ireally need to get a maid or something for these floors, because lord knows I’m not cleaning them. From this angle on my bed, I can see all the dust-bunnies under my dresser and light gray where warm brown should be, on my hardwood floors. Ugh. Picking up my pillow and toppling it on my head, I block out the afternoon light and all evidence of my homemaking inadequacies. Napping on the weekend is supposed to make me feel better, but my mind won’t stop racing. Among the many things spiraling through it are conversations I wish I could re-have and a to-do list of inane house fixings; light bulb replacement, dish soap buying, cable password getting.

But more persistent, are thoughts of Michael. Since our night where we came so close to ripping each other to pieces, I’ve seen him only briefly to give him my portion of the rent check. He’d had to go and said I could stay and paint, but I declined and waited for him to leave. If I could get better at the Internet, I’d direct deposit his ass, so I could be spared the distressing eagerness with which my blood boils when I’m around him. Not that it would stop me from wanting him. Or from making up excuses to show up when I know he’s there. We set up when we first started that he has nights, since it’s his space to begin with, and I only pitch in a fraction of the rent. For the past few weeks, it’s has been like giving myself dental surgery to resist going over and offer to watch him work and forget we had an argument. He likes it when I watch him... maybe I could… dammit! Ugh. I smash the pillow harder onto my head, crushing my face against the cool sheet.

Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get any sleep right now.

Exasperated, I climb off the bed to go to the bathroom. One look at the tub and I think, bubble bath. Oh my God. Yes. That sounds perfect. I pour in enough Eucalyptus-scented bubble bath to froth the Mississippi, start the water, and go get my phone for my playlist. Always, when I’m in the bathtub - and I mean always – I listen to Opera on repeat. Only one artist will ever do: Lorraine Hunt Lieberman. Her voice is so soothing; no crazy unexpected explosions of volume to jar me out of tranquility, like some operas. I have no idea what she’s saying, since she’s singing in what I think is Italian. In fact, it took me two years to realize what I thought was a whole album, was really only two songs over and over. Still didn’t deter me from forgetting that little morsel of info, so I could keep enjoying my music in peace.

In my bathroom are twinkle lights I bought in an after-Christmas sale and today, despite it being in the mid-afternoon, I plug them in and use them as the only light… besides the sun that streaks in from a solitary window. Lighting can really set a mood. Lady Lorraine begins her serenade as I slide out of my PJs, dropping them on the floor in a pile by my feet. I pull my hair into a high bun so I don’t have to redo this shit later, and ease myself into the water that’s so hot I have to inch into it with all the speed of a child eating vegetables.

Lying here in rising bubbles as the tub continues to fill, I close my eyes and let go of all the stress that seems to live in me, lately. Her beautiful singing takes off any edges my willpower can’t. Soon I am free. Quiet. Soothed and peaceful. This is how I’m supposed to feel. Calm. Zen. Satisfied.

Plastic against ceramic vibrates next to me and I peek at my phone to find a number I don’t recognize, looking back at me from the screen. Normally, I’d ignore it, but I’ve been lulled into a heavenly place where everyone and everything is wonderful.

“Hello?” I purr into the receiver.

“Nicole?” a male voice asks.

“Mmhmmmm… And you are?” I bring up my knee and watch the bubbles slip down my thigh.

“This is Danny. You were at my game-night? With Grant? Ran into you at brunch awhile back?” he asks, his voice a little nervous, but nice.

With my free hand, I trace the top of my exposed thigh down the trails of dark naked skin the retreating bubbles leave behind. “Oh, right. Danny…how are you?”

I can hear his smile as he answers, “I’m good. Good. You?”

I smile in return. “Soooo good. Where are you right now?”

He’s startled by the question. “Uh… I’m at home. Where are you?”

The mirror is fogged, and beads of condensation lazily drip down my temple. I almost say the scandalous naked in the bathtub. “Home. So…” I travel my hand down into the water and lightly touch the soft tuft of hair between my legs. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I’ve got another call. Can you hold for a second? Don’t go anywhere.”

I smile and slide a finger down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He has no idea what I’m doing, which makes it soooooo exciting. The phone goes dead while he takes the other call, and I ask myself, who would do what I’m doing now? Not many women, that’s who. I smile and watch my knees wave back and forth as I lightly caress my pussy below the bubbles, hidden from my view. There’s something extra sexy about it, being down there, humming with feeling, where I can’t see. It’s like traveling your hand to your lover’s crotch under a dinner table when no one’s the wiser. This thought turns me on, and when I hear his voice return, “I’m back. Sorry about that,” I brush the tip of my clit just once for a necessary tease.

“It’s no problem,” I say softly, stroking it again. And again.

“You’d mentioned you’re a painter and I wanted to know if I could see your work somewhere.” As I listen to him, I circle my little bean lightly, feel the sweet waves of arousal rising from the depths of me. “I’m not sure if you’ve got a showing going on, coming soon… or if you have an agent I have to go through, but I’ve been thinking of calling for awhile, and just finally decided I’d ask. I know nothing about how this whole thing works.” He laughs. “I hope I don’t sound like an amateur.”

“You sound fine. Don’t worry about it,” I say quietly. “Ummm… I don’t have a showing.”

“Oh.”

He sounds so disappointed, that I offer without thinking, “But you can come by my studio.” The mention of it, of visions of Michael painting in it furiously, burns me hotter and I cup myself in my hand, applying firm delicious pressure, then back to sweet little flicks on the sides of my clit.

“You have a studio? That’d be perfect. I’d love to come by.” He pauses and I close my eyes. “Um… what’re you doing? Now, I mean.”

My eyes shoot open and I freeze. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

Did he hear me sloshing?

“Good. Can I come by now?” he says.

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