Page 6 of Midlife Crisis

“He didn’t do anything. But it’s what he said he wanted to do. And then I told him no.”

I swallow. “Why?”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“Don’t say such things about yourself.”

She exhales sharply. “What woman—who hasn’t been touched in ages—denies a man who wants to touch her? I mean, maybe it wouldn’t have meant anything to him, but it doesn’t have to, right? It could have just been sex. It could have been for one night, right?” She sighs. “Why can’t I have a one-night stand? Just let loose. What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I say yes to something I wanted instead of telling him no?”

I don’t really have an answer here, and my job isn’t to dispense advice. I just listen. We’ve come a long way from the burnt toast, so maybe we are getting somewhere.

“Why did you tell him no?”

“Because I’m old.”

I bite my lip, trying not to chuckle. Her voice doesn’t resonate anywhere near an advanced age, but voices can be deceiving. My lip slides free of my teeth, and I ask, “How old are you?” It’s not really proper to ask these things. No identifiers of any type allowed. Pure anonymity.

“I’m forty-one. Today.”

Ahhhh. Here we have it.

“Happy Birthday.”

“I wish I was happy. I mean, I should be, right? I have a decent job. I have a roof over my head. I have three amazing boys.” I hear her pride in the last remark. She’s a good mother.

“But you want a little more,” I offer, sitting back in the swivel chair. I don’t know where the words come from, and I shouldn’t be prompting her like this. Yet somehow, I know the feeling. I’m still waiting for something more myself.

“Yes.” She sighs. I bounce back and then sweep forward, sensing I’m about to tumble from the seat at the purr in the word. The hint of recognition rings again.

“Excuse me.” I’m a musician at heart. Sound is my trade. I remember rhythms and beats, and the linger in her -s reminds me of something, someone.

“Excuse me?” she repeats as if she misunderstood me.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat…” I swallow. This is so unethical. “Could you say yes like you just did?” I pause another beat. “I mean, didn’t it feel good to say yes?” There. Nothing wrong with prompting her in a positive way. Nothing suspicious here.

“Yes.” Huh? I fall back in the seat. The answer is too sharp, too direct. I must have misinterpreted her, and I shake my head, telling myself I’m an idiot. I’m imagining the lingering lilt to be what I want it to be—the desperate plea in her voice, my pretty eyed lady—but it isn’t her.

“Are you still there?” she asks. We’ve remained silent too long.

“I’m here for you,” I assure her, reaching for the pen again. I think of those sparkling, gold-speckled eyes one more time when her voice hitches. Another sound. Another trigger.

“Um...” I begin.

“Oh, God.” She draws out with a breath.

Shit. “Midge?” I question.

And the line goes dead.

4

Lingering silence

[Hank]

The quiet on the other end of the phone lingers in my ear. Her birthday. Thoughts of entertaining her fill my mind, but I shake my head. My gut twists with the knowledge I crossed so many lines by calling out her name. I want to call her back, but the anonymous phone line provides no callback number. Dammit. How can I help her if I can’t reach her? I could always call Tommy, but do I want to breach the silence of our long lost friendship? I still can’t believe I received an invitation to his wife’s party.

I don’t know why I went.