Weekend Lover

"Staying for Breakfast?"

This collage is from Aberrant art by Barry Kite. He "re-positions" historical art and contemporary media imagery. This particular one speaks to me on many different levels.

Wrote the following based on a prompt from 3-Word Wednesday:

The telephone rang twice before the machine answered. Lydia paused, fingers over keypad to hear who was calling before answering. “Garry?”

“Hello. How are you?”

“I’m sooo happy to hear from you,” Lydia said, meaning every word of it. Garry had been her weekend lover through three years of college twenty years ago. “I left a message on your voice mail about a month ago.”

“Oh, really.” He was flattered by her exuberance. Lydia had dropped all pretense when she turned forty. She never toned down enthusiasm. People either basked in it, or thought she was faking. “My home or cell?”

“You told me to call your cell,” she said. He was married to his fifth wife. During the weekend years he’d been divorced from his first wife and single. For a time, Lydia had thought she might become Mrs. Garry number two.

“Damn, I’ve been having trouble with my cell. Why did you call?”

“Check up on you, of course.” They laughed. Garry was fourteen years her senior. When he hadn’t returned her call, she’d worried that he might be dead, but she didn't say that. “Probably something to do with politics,” she said instead. Garry and Lydia had always found it easy to talk with each other. Their weekends had been filled with lively political debates which added an unexpected sensuality to their lovemaking.

Their conversation now flowed from the presidential candidates to the war in Iraq to the environment to family, mainly the children. They took care to avoid discussing their spouses. Garry’s wife was notoriously jealous, and Lydia’s workaholic husband didn’t seem to care.

Garry launched into a description of his latest entrepreneurial venture, something high tech. He was very creative, and extremely wealthy. While he spoke, Lydia imagined his head, now partially covered with silken white hair, bobbing up-and-down between her legs.

“So I just need to raise another million,” Garry said, snapping Lydia out of her reverie.

“Well, at least you have some,” she said, meaning hair on his head, not money.

“Yes,” he said, “but not enough.”

“But you’re sooo amazing with what you do have,” Lydia said, sounding like a love-struck nineteen-year-old. Across the miles and years, they laughed again.