I see Carissa on Tuesdays after work; every Tuesday; only on Tuesdays. She won’t have it any other way. I tried to surprise her on a Monday once, but she was not home. When I revealed my indiscretion the next day, she was livid. How dare I intrude on her privacy in such a way?, she demanded to know. And she chose that moment to inform me that we could not meet the following Tuesday, that she had another engagement that she simply could not miss. She was rather brusque about it. Rude, really; which is not at all like her.
It happens sometimes that she can’t see me. But Carissa usually breaks the news to me rather gently and is quite contrite about it. That day is the only time Carissa has been angry with me, and I don’t intend to give her cause for it again. Tuesdays at 6:15; not on any other day, or at any other time.
I leave my office at 5:30, not a minute earlier or a minute later. I walk out to the elevator in 35 seconds. I ride down to the second level of the garage, inevitably stopping on the first floor and first parking level along the way. In 93 seconds I am opening the driver’s side door of my alpine white BMW M3 and sliding in behind the steering wheel. By 5:45, I’m crossing the mid town bridge into the suburbs. At 6:17, I press the garage door opener and pull into Carissa’s driveway. By 6:20, I’m stepping into the house as the garage door grinds down to a close.
Carissa is always ready for my arrival, as though she’s spent all day waiting for me to get there. When I step in from the garage, she is standing in the hallway with her arms open wide. She waits patiently for me to step out of my shoes and put down my briefcase. Only then do I step into her warm embrace.
She kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” I tell her and seek out her lips.
“Tsk, tsk,” she reprimands and turns to go into the kitchen.
I look back at my abandoned briefcase as I follow Carissa into the house. I always take in my briefcase. I don’t know why. I set it in the hall by the door, where it awaits my return precisely three hours later. I often see it there, disturbing the precise elegance of Carissa’s home, uglifying the clean lines of the walls and abstract artwork.
The house is always spotless; the beige carpet vacuumed neatly, the white kitchen linoleum sparkling, the table set with modern ecru dishes. Dinner is always just out of the oven; something sumptuous and extravagant and rich that I couldn’t eat on a regular basis; filet mignon or coq auvin. I appreciate the care Carissa takes in selecting and preparing these meals for me. Her consideration is apparent in every bite and morsel, always delicious.
We dine at 6:30 with candlelight in the fall and waning evening sunshine in the spring. Most often, we sit across the cozy four-person table and gaze into each others eyes. Sometimes we sit side by side and feed each other small bites of our repast. We talk about this and that, but never about our jobs. I dare not bore her with the details of the time management seminars I write, compile, and present to junior executives who can’t figure out how to manage their time and work load on their own.
I don’t know what kind of work Carissa does. She told me once it was something boring and never mentioned it again. I wonder sometimes what such a beautiful, intelligent, vivacious woman could do for a living. In my daydreams, I see her as a stewardess. It’s flight attendant nowadays, isn’t it? Well, as a flight attendant in a little figure hugging uniform that opens just so when she bends over to hand a passenger a drink. But Carissa is not the type of woman to wait on others. Oh, she does it for me. That’s one thing. But serving strangers on a plane? Alcoholic businessmen or bratty toddlers? That is beneath her. Carissa is much too refined for that. She could be a model. Oh, not some plain-Jane model, like those waifs in magazines. A real model; an artist’s model. Perhaps a sculptor’s muse. A woman of Carissa’s caliber would inspire the best from any artist.
As I was saying, we don’t talk about our work. Instead, we discuss current events, the theater and opera, the symphony, and the like. Carissa prefers ballet to opera; she finds the dancers’ lithe and strong bodies captivating. Perhaps she was a dancer in her youth. In her youth, I say, as though it was very long ago. But truth be told, Carissa is no more than 30 years old; 32 at the most. I am curious to know her age, but I can’t bring myself to ask the question. The query may ignite her anger again. I couldn’t forgive myself if I ruined our relationship because of some childish curiosity of mine. So I don’t ask.
At 7:30, we clear the table. Carissa makes a trip or two to the sink, then begins to wash the dishes. I bring in the rest of the things and stack them on the counter. She giggles when I step up behind her and put my arms around her, but she doesn’t push me away. I move the hair from around her ear and kiss the lobe. Then behind her ear. Then along her neck. The water runs and the dishes sit. Carissa doesn’t worry about them any more. I press my body against hers and feel her breath catch when I move my hands from her neck and shoulders to her breasts. When her breaths grow deep and she closes her eyes, I reach around her and turn off the tap. The dishes can wait. I dry her hands and lead her out of the kitchen, past my lonely briefcase, into her bedroom.
It’s a very comfortable room. The furniture is classy. Nothing is out of place or untidy. The closet doors are always closed. Carissa’s things are always stored away. The bed is always made. It’s a shame, almost, to tumble into the fresh linens and mess up their perfect arrangement. But we do. We roll together, kissing and touching, caressing cheeks and tousling hair. Then we come to our senses and compose ourselves and act like the civilized human beings that we are. I unbutton her blouse and slip off her skirt. She undoes my tie and loosens my belt. Between the cool sheets, we make slow, steady, rhythmic love that takes our breath away at the very end. No panting, grunting, or sweating. We’re not animals. We’re modern human beings. I always wear a condom, which I remove promptly and dispose of properly.
In the bathroom afterward, I wash my hands with the fragrance-free soap next to the sink and dry them on the white monogrammed towels aligned on the racks. I moisturize with the lotion that stands on the counter. I study the plain walls; relaxed by the simple serenity they exude.
At 9:17, I pick up my briefcase on my way out the door, returning a soothing balance to the beauty of Carissa’s hall and home. I pull the car out of the garage at 9:19 and coast down the driveway. In the garage, Carissa waves goodbye, holding her Egyptian cotton robe closed at her throat with her other hand. That same throat I kissed and sucked and licked just minutes before.
Ah, the bliss of my time with Carissa. I must ask her if I can come more often. She’s declined before, but that was several years ago. Maybe now she’ll agree. I must run my hands along the curve of her waist again soon. If I’m lucky, I’ll dream of her tonight.
“Oh, my Carissa,” I sigh as I turn the bend at the end of the block.