Fumbling toward dirty martinis

Life is funny sometimes.  Damn it if I am not going to satisfy my 2011 resolution as the clock to year’s end ticks away.

Not much time to lament about today’s oddly confident day.  Maybe its because I picked up my new meds.  Or maybe I am getting used to the new mustache.  Either way, I am embracing it.

***

Laura thinks about her ongoing affair with Duncan all the time.  Not mooning, dreamy moments of rapture while dropping Tatum off at preschool. Her hands do not sweat gripping the wheel of her Tiguan while ignoring the impatient wails from the backseat.  Her pragmatism constantly reminds her that she is not in love with Duncan, or even the idea of him.  He knows it too and is perfectly content with their once or twice a week furious hook ups at his one bedroom condominium in the north end of Toronto.  Laura’s thoughts about the affair are mostly questions about the cheating on her husband of eight years and how she has let her life slip a little bit away, one dirty text message at a time.

“Good morning Ms. Wilkins and good morning to you Tatum!!”

Tatum’s preschool teacher greets both of them as they arrive at the painted yellow door.  She takes Tatum’s Dora backpack off of her and tucks it under her arm.  Tatum runs inside and joins her equally cute playmates all huddled around a robot dog.

“Hi Barb, how is everything?”  Barb is thin, like a talking Q-tip.  “How is Tatum doing?”

“A-mazing – one bright little cookie!”

“No problems then?”

Barb’s eyes bulge a bit, weighing down the rest of her face.  “Problems?  Of course not!  None at all, not a darn thing, she is total angel!”

Laura turns back to the classroom and lets Tatum knows she is leaving.  “Bye angel!” Winking at Barb now.

‘Bye mommy,” she responds looking up from all fours, mimicking the creepy robot dog by quirking her head and ruff ruffing.  Laura smiles and shrugs.  Barb smiles and shrugs at Laura.  Kids.  So silly, so wonderful.

Dropping off Tatum at preschool is part of Laura’s daily ritual. It’s exclusively part of her ritual only because her interior decorating job offers more flexibility than Tim’s corporate public relations job.  She has four stable clients, all housewives from Toronto’s well known affluent neighbourhood Rosedale.  They all partially know one another, all too old to screw the pool boy, all filling their spare time creating interesting Starbucks orders or squinting at Aureolin swatches. Laura kind of likes them.  She knows she will never be one of them; she doesn’t like designer track suits or plastic surgery enough.  Her ability to find rare pieces to inhabit vacant sitting rooms affords her just enough status so the women treat her almost equally. The consistent and never late payment of her invoices makes it easy to shrug off any feeling of insecurity.

Laura’s first meeting is not until lunch, so a quick text to Duncan and she is off to have sex with a man who is not her husband, a man seven years younger, a man who affectionately praises her vagina as labtastic