Now that I’d persuaded Rory to let me adopt Philippe, it was time for the chickens. I dreamed about beautiful hens running around our property. I imagined going out to sing to them while collecting their eggs. For your information, I’m a vegetarian, not a vegan, so I do eat eggs and dairy. Anyway, I could almost see the birds out there, pecking in the snow. I could almost hear the rooster crowing. He wouldn’t be a mean rooster. He’d be a sweet little rooster that would wake us in the morning with promises of a lovely day ahead.
My chicken-owner dream carried me away. I saw my ark coming alive out there in the snowy clearing. Sheep, goats, donkeys, alpacas, and even llamas, despite their tendency to spit on people. Many more dogs. Horses. If I could legally do it, I’d have zebras, lions, tigers, and bears. I didn’t mind that our grasswould be uneven and that we’d have to build fences. I wanted my ark. Knowing Rory, though, I’d only get so far.
I undressed and looked at myself in the tall mirror inside my walk-in closet. I still hadn’t gotten used to the woman looking back at me. For all my life, I’d been curvy and plump. Not grotesquely overweight but generously paunchy enough that I wasn’t excited about wearing a swimsuit during summer vacation. This year, however, I’d dropped below my college weight. I was skinny with a flat stomach, and what I had considered to have been overly large breasts had settled into a gorgeous D-cup. I had it all.
I couldn’t figure out why Rory still hadn’t noticed the new me. Not enough to come after me, at least. Lord knows, almost all the other males in town turned their heads when they saw me. I kept telling myself to be patient. You don’t fix a marriage in a few months. But half of me was always on the verge of screaming, “I did all this for what? Nothing is getting better!”
I hadn’t come to look like this without sacrifices, as ingargantuansacrifices. It had been so long since I’d delighted in a refined or starchy carbohydrate that my ribs showed. I needed to be careful that I didn’t get too skinny! I missed all the good food in a big way. As often as we ate out, I missed ordering whatever I wanted, a practice I’d followed most of my life until this year of what felt like my year of starvation. Honestly, though, I will admit that the feeling of being slender warmed me up inside. It gave me a kick in my step when I strolled down the street. I enjoyed being what some guys called a MILF. If you don’t know what that is, please don’t bother researching the term.
Along with this new killer bod, I’d chopped off my hair. Occasionally, over our years together, Rory had overtly hinted for me to go short. I suspected it had to do with his career. Everything he did had to do with how it affected his political trajectory. I secretly postulated that he had run a poll with the women at his office, and they’d suggested that, as the mayor’swife, I might look more dignified with short hair. Polls, polls, polls. He didn’t make one decision without a poll. I wouldn’t have put it past him to direct his people to run an actual poll using his constituents. Even if I asked what he wanted for dinner, he’d consider running a poll. To his credit, hedidnotice the day I cut my hair, though, and his compliments spun me into the stratosphere. He didn’t tear my clothes off, but at least he’d noticed.
To be truthful, he hadn’t torn my clothes off in more than a year. The last time almost didn’t count. It was around Thanksgiving, and our short stint of making love felt more like work. Though he would never have admitted to as much, getting undressed, hanging his clothes so they wouldn’t wrinkle, and working his way to getting hard were chores for him. For me, the chore was trying to believe he wanted me.
Not easy for a gal who has always battled her weight and questioned her worth in the world.
Fasten your seatbelt, because I’m about to overshare. That’s what I do, so you’d better get used to it. The fearlessly unfiltered, oversharing Margot is about to make you blush.
Don’t believe me? Fine, let’s go.
Our first time making love, when he returned to New York, was mesmerizing. He could do things I only had read about in books. None of my boyfriends to that point had ever given me such monumental orgasms. We’re talking dirty talk, roll play, blindfolds. There was a time when he turned me into a human vanilla sundae, painting me with whip cream and chocolate syrup, then licking off every last bit.
Is your face red yet? Knees quivering?
As the years ticked by, we went from three times a week to once a week to once a month. Then I wasn’t having orgasms. He would often go limp after a few minutes. I toiled for many years before I started using a vibrator, but once I was introduced to myfavorite purple one, that well-endowed silicone member endured plenty of use, and I was sure to keep a ready supply of batteries.
I am not one of those women who doesn’t need orgasms. I need orgasms like rabbits need other rabbits. I need orgasms like boats need water. If Rory would not give me what I needed, it was up to me to find an alternate method, and I wasn’t interested in being unfaithful and stepping outside my marriage to find a lover. I had no desire to have a sexual experience with anyone other than my husband. But I did want a safe, guilt-free outlet that needed no confession or request for forgiveness. Although it wasn’t an ideal solution, a vibrator gave me the sexual release I needed.
I tell you all this to make my point that Rory wasn’t caving easily, even with all the changes I had made. He was not coming back to me like I thought he would. Sure, I knew it would take time, but with a body like mine, why was he not jumping all over me? I knew women who were overweight but continued to be desired by their husbands and were sexually satisfied, so I realistically knew my new body wasn’t the only reason why Rory should desire me, but I thought it should have helped to pique his interest.
When you’re a mom, you let things slide. Men hadn’t hit on me for years, but when I dropped the weight, my confidence rose, and men began hitting on me again. If I had taken off my ring, and if more than half the people in the city hadn’t known who I was, I could’ve found a new man every day. That wasn’t my goal. My marriage was important to me. I wouldn’t betray my husband or make a mess of things and risk losing my son’s respect if an affair were to come to light.
In the bathroom, which I’d redone to create a much more elegant feel, I turned the brass knobs on my clawfoot tub, and hot water spilled onto the porcelain. I don’t know when the following naughty habit started, but it’s a habit in which I still happilyindulge. Maybe it’s not healthy, but life needs to be enjoyed. I reached for a half-full bottle of merlot from the shelf and poured myself a glass.
I slowly eased into the water, sipped my merlot, and closed my eyes. I fell into another daydream. It was during my fantasies that I could find true peace. Before I ever dreamed of owning a chicken coop, I’d dreamed of owning and operating a bed-and-breakfast. Sadly, Rory had shot down the idea before I could even get the full proposal out of my mouth. That’s when I began to call him the Dream Killer, a name my close friends and I became fond of calling him.
Though it wasn’t fool proof, catching Rory at exactly the right moment was the key, like when he was high off an important speech or after a journalist had written something wonderful about him in the newspaper. Sneaking in the idea of getting chickensmightwork this way, but the bed-and-breakfast had been a different story.
Burlington, Vermont, was one of the best places on earth to have a bed-and-breakfast, and I had the time and skills. I could have pulled it off, but he had been quick to chop a hand through the air and declare, “There’s no freaking way in hell, Margot. Don’t bring it up again.”
Still, when I closed my eyes, I often went to work constructing and designing my adorable inn. It didn’t have to be huge. Five or six rooms. A manageable place where I could pamper people with my china, silverware, attention to detail, and, most of all, my cooking. It would have been the perfect project to prepare for the coming empty nest that dangled in our future.
Maybe that’s why I pushed so hard to save my marriage. Jasper would be leaving home and heading off to college before long, and that day would pull back the curtain on the gaping black hole growing between Rory and me, ready to suck us up into infinite darkness.
Infinite darkness?Who wants that?
Buying an inn could give us something fun to do. Rory had worked construction in college, so he could use some of his experience to join the remodeling effort. Or, if he continued to drop further into the abyss of politics, at least I’d have something to do. I could immerse myself in the tiny details of keeping an inn and providing delicious meals. Maybe someday I could expand beyond offering breakfasts and do lunches and dinners once or twice a week. We’d certainly find a baby grand piano for the sitting room, so that Jasper could play for guests an evening or two a week.
Cooking for these get-togethers like the one tonight was fine, but I wanted a place where people would come for the food first, not for the crap spewing out of my husband’s mouth. Feeding the walking dead who were chasing the next rung on the ladder was getting old.
Why was I even letting myself dream such silly dreams? It didn’t matter that my plan made sense, or that it could be the thing that saved our marriage. Or something that might save me. No, it wasn’t part of the political trajectory, so why bother?
I could still hear him shutting me down with his hand chopping through the air.Don’t bring it up again.
Are you now my father, Rory?I’ll bring it up whenever I damn well please.At least, that’s what the lion deep inside of me wanted to roar.
Speaking of, the quiet in the house shattered as the Dream Killer’s feet smacked the creaky steps. I opened my eyes and sipped my wine. A much bigger sip. Gulp, gulp, gulp. One thing to note: merlot really did make him more tolerable.
He told Philippe to get off the bed, and I was grateful that he hadn’t snapped at my sweet precious. Rory wasn’t typically a hothead. His remark had been a quick, “Phil, you know better than that.”
