problems/Rachel workman

Problems

By Rachael Workman

The man was at work when she called and told him to come. With an air of feigned reluctance, he agreed.

She promised to be his fantasy and she was.

“There will be problems,” he warned.

“What kind of problems?”

He planned to work on the train but couldn’t concentrate; memories of the woman’s legs around his waist, the

way she gasped. Thoughts of her occupied him almost constantly, with no regard for appropriate timing.

Erotic memories, the stickiest ones, intruded at the worst moments: playing with his kids, driving beside his

wife, during business meetings. He thought of her standing before him, completely naked, her long hair

draped across her shoulders, biting the edge of her thumb, staring into him. If he could manage his rogue

imagination, he wouldn’t even be on this train.

You know why you’re so beautiful? He once asked her.

Why?

He had just gotten a promotion, couldn’t afford to be distracted. The man risked everything he was not willing

to lose. He had a family, a wife who would humiliate him before everyone he knew, his family, his

colleagues; kids who would be disappointed, look at him with shame. Any potential problems would be his.

But he couldn’t afford not to accommodate her, either. He wanted to give her everything she wanted, but

promised himself that he would never ask. It was obvious, anyway, and he refused to owe her.

It’s your eyes, they’re so big, he’d told her.

She had begged him with her eyes.

On the train, a mother with her young son sat across from the man, who was haphazardly replying to

emails in spite of his nagging imagination and anticipation. He constantly wrestled with the question of

whom he was truly betraying; wondering if it was he who was the biggest victim. If he lost, if he made a

single mistake, he would lose both women.

“Because I have to see you,” the woman had said.

Any other man would have refused the temptation of her invitation. If the other woman knew where he was

really going, she could leave him, ruin his life.

“It’s a business trip,” he told the other woman. Trying to convince himself, he added, “It’s for business.”

The unfinished kind, that much was true.

“You work for a car company,” the other woman said. “Why are you taking the train?”

Her skin and her arms and the way her breathing gets heavier when I bring her to her edge.

He had to go to her. She asked him to.

“Doesn’t that make you queasy?” the boy on the train asked, jarring the man out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Reading. On the train. That makes me woozy,” the boy said.

“No.”

“I’m going to Philadelphia.” After a short pause, the boy explained: “To see my uncle.”

The train was for people who couldn’t afford self control. “Because of traffic,” he had told the other

woman, “it’s just easier.”

He thought of the woman tracing his collarbone with her fingertip, like she always did, lying with her head

on his shoulder. In a whisper, she once suggested he let go, lose himself, but he didn’t hear.

“Oh?” the man asked the boy.

“Yeah, he’s got cancer,” the boy said. The boy was small, scrawny, probably ten years old. He reminded

the man of his own son, with his narrow body, spindly limbs, and dark, shiny hair curving over the side of

his head. He wondered what his own son was doing right now. What he would think if he were sitting

across from a man on a train visiting a woman that wasn’t his children’s mother? The boy held his hands in

his lap, pinching his fingers over his knees, staring down, speaking under his breath.

“Shh,” the mother gently scolded, while patting the boy’s leg and smiling apologetically at the man.

The man closed his laptop, smiling back at the mother, as if to say, “It’s ok.” It’s the distraction I need, he

thought.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man replied, genuinely.

“Yeah.” He looked into the man’s eyes. “It’s ok.”

“Edward,” said the mother. The boy smirked out of the corner of his mouth and looked out the window.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized.

“It’s ok.”

Looking out the window, the man watched sea gulls chasing the train, their pace falling behind as they

soared over and under a breeze as if on an invisible roller coaster. He thought of the time she once told

him to grow up and how much it excited him; no one had told him to grow up in twenty years. The other

woman wouldn’t dare speak to him that way.

The boy stared at the man. “Where did you get those eyebrows?” he asked.

“I don’t know. From the wind, I guess.”

The mother smiled again, embarrassed, confused, and squeezed her son’s elbow, wordlessly

signaling, “Edward, please.” The boy was silent until they reached Philadelphia, fidgeting occasionally.

The boy and the man made eye contact a few times, but never held it long. The boy always looked away

first, like an accusation.

The man felt false confidence that he knew what he was doing, that he was safe, that there were no

consequences, there were no stakes. He had convinced himself he wouldn’t get caught. But indeed, the

stakes were high, and he feared he really was being reckless.

In Philadelphia, the boy and the mother got off the train. “Have a nice day,” she said, pulling her son’s

hand behind her. The man smiled and nodded, letting his head drop back against the seat with a soft thud.

She must be home, getting ready, he thought. He imagined watching her feeding the dog, lighting a

candle, putting on music, dropping her clothes on the bathroom floor, stepping into the shower.

In her shiny high-rise apartment in the city, the woman sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, staring

into her own eyes in the mirror.

Eventually it’ll all collapse, she thought. She never forgot the reason she left him behind in Tennessee. It

was important to note what she left: everything.

She considered asking the man where he was, but ruled against it. He thought about letting her know he

had just left the Philadelphia train station, but he, too, restrained himself from the unsolicited update.

It was only established a few weeks ago that he would come see her. They never spoke of it again. He

knew he would be on that train. She knew he wouldn’t miss it.

There was that time back in Tennessee, when she got in his car and he put his whole body over her. The

sound of her high heels clunking when they hit the floorboard the moment she grabbed him; he’d never

known her to be so aggressive. She confided she was in love with him that night and he told her he was

too, even if it felt like a lie coming from both of their mouths. All of it was a surprise. She never said it

again, but he felt it lurk beneath their relationship like a nagging rash left untreated.

“You can’t meet me at my house,” she told him.

She wasn’t lonely. She didn’t miss him.

She didn’t have to. Because he was coming, and he always would as long as she asked.

“Meet me at Gallery Place,” she had instructed.

That meant he’d have to drive to the commuter train station and park, take the local to Grand Central,

switch trains again at Penn Station to Union Station and then catch the Metro to Chinatown. “Ok.”

“Three weeks from tonight,” she told him.

“Ok,” he said.

Somewhere near Baltimore, he thought: What if she forgot? He’d be stranded, alone. The panic didn’t hit

until he left the comfort of the first train and the boy and his mother. Of course, he wouldn’t be stranded,

not really. He had a hotel room booked on the auspices of a dealership visit in Virginia the next day, his

job thought he was working. But if she weren’t there? He’d feel purposeless and alone, his family some

three hundred miles away waiting for him to come home and be the father, the husband.

But he was committed, he was in this. He would take the risk, yet again.

She’ll be there, he thought, reassuring himself, imagining her wearing black, her straight red hair

covering her shoulders like a curtain.

In her apartment, the woman was putting on mascara, staring at her eye an inch from the mirror. What if

he doesn’t come this time? He has to.

The dog stood from his crumpled position on the floor beside her feet and left the room. “We are adults,”

she said aloud, looking over her shoulder after the dog.

It was 7:49. The Metro was scheduled to stop at Gallery Place at 8:12. She was running out of time to

catch her train. What he didn’t know is they would be on the same train for three stops, separated by one

car. Just 50 feet.

Stepping in the car, she told herself: this is what it feels like to be traveling at his speed. To watch the

scenery of his life fly past him, as if she were him for a moment.

Gallery Place. This was where she told him to get off. Stepping onto the platform, he looked up at the

coffered cement arch of the subway tunnel above. It looked like a futuristic architectural experiment from

the 50’s. The comfort of time, the consistency of their patterns reassured him that she would be here

because she had never abandoned him. And if she did, maybe, somehow, it would be for the best.

He had never been to this station. Not sure where to go from here, he looked to his right and there she

was. She stood a train car’s length beside him, hands in her coat pockets, facing straight ahead while

people stepped around her coming out of the train car like the tide washing around rocks. He hesitated,

absorbing the image. She was here. When she turned her face left and made eye contact, he sensed

finality in this moment. He knew this was probably over.

Anyway, he wouldn’t get back on the train.

As he watched her watching him, the man noticed her legs, her straight shoulders framing her body, her

hands casually resting in her pockets, her big eyes staring at him. Despite the sharp smirk in the January

air, he couldn’t slough off feeling jealous of the scarf tight around her neck. Why do you get to have her?

He wondered.

The man still had time to get back on the train before the doors slammed shut, time to turn around, to go

back, to run. Her feet were planted in the platform like roots. He mimicked her resolve.

He can still run, she told herself, knowing he wouldn’t.

He still had time.

He thought about what the other woman was doing, loading dishes in the dishwasher, his kids watching

TV, while he was in D.C. putting it all on the line. His family stood to be the innocent collateral damage,

oblivious to what was being risked on their behalf. Still, he let the train doors shut to whizz forward

without him just for one more night with the woman.

Be gentle, the woman pleaded wordlessly from the platform. She thought about the time she cried all the

way to Annapolis from the airport after she left Tennessee for good. She claimed this territory now and

he felt the shift, subtle, but not imperceptible in her resolute stance.

He took a step towards her. She smiled. He kept walking until he was just one short step from embracing

her body.

She kept her hands in her pocket.

“Hi.”

Hi.

At the restaurant, the hostess asked how many, and while the man said, “The bar is fine,” the woman

interrupted and said, “Two, please.” The hostess hesitated, shifting her eyes back and forth between the

man and the woman, and the woman repeated: two. “Right this way,” the hostess said. They were seated

at a table in the corner of two banquets, where they sat close on red vinyl cushions.

The restaurant was dimly lit with an amber glow. Like a typical French bistro in DC, it was decorated

with dark wood walls, brass accents, and red seating. It was at once romantic and the perfect venue for a

business dinner.

The man watched her pull her scarf out of the knot around her throat and her coat sleeves from her arms.

He wanted her to keep going, imagining her removing layer after layer, sliding her knee across his lap

and climbing onto him right there at the table.

“I’ll have a Cabernet,” she said to the server who approached quietly, interrupting his fantasy. The man

ordered a vodka rocks, and she smiled. It seemed like everything had changed, except nothing really

had. All the surface details, the jobs, companies, the locations, all of the important life elements, all of it

was inconsequential. Nothing had changed.

Not her wine, not his vodka. Not her affection, not his infatuation.

Putting his hand on her forearm, he said, “I’m glad you met me tonight.”

Sipping her wine, she raised an eyebrow to deflect the thoughts she feared were spread across her face.

“I have someone new,” she said, almost an announcement.

He paused and muttered something incoherent. Really? Or, I’m sure, or, Oh?

“It’s almost too late for you.”

everything she wanted to leave him for. She may have someone new, but she was with him for one more

night. One more night, he got to live in his fantasy.

Stroking her arm, he told her how much he missed her, putting his other hand on her lap. She was wearing

a short dress and her nylons shifted easily across her skin. Her legs were crossed towards him, which

excited him as he slid his fingertips between her thighs.

The woman put her hand on his and replaced it to her knee.

Like everything else, this was just part of the game.

Let’s go someplace, he had said.

Where? She had asked.

I don’t know, it’s Tennessee, anywhere we want.

She had smiled: Let’s go.

After dinner, the woman hugged his arm as they walked down the sidewalk in the cold, chatting and

laughing; making fun of mutual acquaintances from past lives.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked.

“I don’t know.”

After a block, the man pulled his arm from hers: fast and startling. He pushed her body against the

building beside them with the force of his chest, his racing heart, his fleeting time. He stared into her eyes

as if asking for permission, which she granted with her mouth on his, welcoming his fervent kiss, his

tongue inside her mouth. She quickly dissolved into him, despite the shockingly cold brick of the building

against her back. He remembered her rhythm against him even through the layers of their coats.

“Can we go home?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you’re doing this time?” She asked after a pause.

“Yes,” he lied.

“I’m afraid you do.”

In the morning, she stood in the shower facing into the water, curtain open. The man stood at the sink,

studying his face in the mirror, wondering aloud if he should bother to shave.

“What do people say?” She asked

“What do you mean?”

“Does anyone ask about me still?”

“Who?”

“Anyone. They all knew.”

“No one knew,” he said.

“You don’t think anyone noticed? The lunches, the happy hours, the calls to my desk, the friendly visits to

my floor, the emails? And then when everything suddenly stopped? Everyone noticed.”

The man walked to the shower, gently grabbing her bottom and slipped a finger into her between her legs.

She tensed reflexively, though the intrusion was welcome. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled and said,

“You didn’t keep it to yourself.”

Lose yourself with me, she had whispered.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, turning off the water and wrapping a towel around her shoulders. “But it

doesn’t matter now, does it?”

With just his mouth on hers’, he led her backwards, to the bed in his hotel room, lowering his body over

her, into her.

I can feel you everywhere, she had said with just her breath.

“You never could sleep when I knew you,” she said.

“You still know me.”

“This is the last time for us.”

Lying on her back, holding the covers at her hips, she stared at the snow slowly drifting outside. He touched

her breast, and she turned her face to him, searching his eyes, his cleft chin, his angular lips. She couldn’t

believe she was staring at him in person, like they hadn’t lost a single day.

And he was just a man.

“I was afraid of that,” he said as he turned towards her, his right knee between hers, kissing her throat,

suddenly inside her again. He was always in her.

Matching his rhythm with her hips, her head tilted back, she repeated his name, and gripped his biceps hard

enough to bruise his skin. They both had places to be.

I won’t ask for you until I can let you go, she had told him.

She meant it. They were both falling.

I can’t finish what we started, he had warned her.

“I have to go,” she said getting out of bed.

“Why?” he asked.

“The dog,” she said, slipping her dress on. She turned and looked at him.

“Ok.”

“I’ll forget you one day,” she said.

The man looked at the woman.

“I have a family,” he told her.

“I never forgot that,” she said. “Did you?”

No, he had said.

“I’ll call you later?” he asked, unsure.

“Why,” she said sitting beside him on the bed to put her stockings on.

“I always do.”

She smiled and touched his face. “Goodbye.”

He could still smell her perfume on the sheets as she walked out of the room.

Unlike the other lovers, the occasional business trip fling, she was a part of him, and he planned to hold onto it

forever if that’s the best he could get.

The door clicked behind her as she left and the man turned over, pulling the sheets to his face to keep her close

for one more second.

As the woman stepped off the elevator and out of the hotel, her feet back on the earth, cold air blasted her face

like a punch, knocking the wind from her lungs. She felt weightless, invigorated, awake. She looked forward

to getting home to her dog, letting him know: “I did it.” He would approve by licking her face and tapping his

front paws. She had no one to answer to. She had no stakes in this.

But It wasn’t over for him in every way; not in the impenetrable bond their bodies would always carry. He had

lost her after all, a loss he could not share with his wife at home, a loss he would lament alone as it colonized

his muscles, his bones heavy with grief. The problems were his.