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Tashi feels high. Tashi feels like a goddamn lightning bolt has struck up her spine and fizzled out through her fingertips setting everything she touches on fire, a brilliant blue fire. She can feel the familiar feeling in her body, the feeling she used to get in her previous body, her young body, her body that had not yet failed her.
The shot that would consume and climb up her body from the tennis court all the way into her hands and she would feel connected to the earth and the air and the ball flying directly into her face. Plainly Tashi feels. Which is something that has been difficult to achieve.
Yes everyone told her adulthood was hard and marriage was hard and a career was hard and a baby was hard and they were all fucking liars. They didn’t know what hard was. She knew.
For thirteen fucking years she knew. Hard is a body that is incapable, that is unorderable, that is intolerable. Hard is resistance and punishment and restraint. Hard is getting up at 5 in the morning every morning to train for something you can never get.
And somewhere along the line she forgot. This feeling. So wrapped under scar tissue and the minutiae of daily life, the who what where of Art’s career that needed to be constantly developing and changing and excelling and still knowing none of it was going as fast as she could have.
Knowing that she would have been better that she would not have been so goddamn tired that she would have given a fuck.
But she’d always known Art wasn’t a tennis player, he wanted to be, on that beach all that time ago with his moony eyes and fluffy hair, he wanted so badly to understand the thing she alone got. But he just didn’t.
Until today.
At least she hopes, she hopes that he feels like his hair has turned to flames and like he’s not even a person anymore, that he’s ascended form somehow and is something between god and wind.
She checks his side profile the whole way up in the elevator back to their room, after the celebrations, after his strange cold shoulder to her. She remembers last night, the ultimatum, but he has to know, he has to.
Lily is asleep when they get in, Tashi’s mom sneaking out with a quick peck goodnight. And then it’s just them. And the room feels empty. Sometimes she thinks they only had a kid to try to fill that gap but it’s never worked.
“Were you going to tell me?” Art asks, his hands on his hips.
“What?” Tashi takes off her earrings, props her sunglasses back in their case. When she turns back around he’s still looking at her.
“Patrick.” He says plainly.
“What about him? You want to invite him over for a playdate?” She bites her lip at the thought then reminds herself that Lily is in the room next door and has been frequent to night terrors.
“You fucked him!” Art yells and Art never yells, he’s such a good husband that sometimes she wants to provoke him just to see him light up like this. To see his eyes pop and his veins flare and his skin turn red. He only ever looks like this when he plays tennis, when he really tries.
Before she can say anything else, can plan her approach in a way that makes him understand he opens his mouth again, “Or did he fuck you?” And she feels that trill of excitement again, the one she usually only gets with Patrick. She can see in Art’s eyes, their small little twinkle, the deep lull of his voice, his carefulness with his words.
“Do you want me to show you?” She asks and Art doesn’t respond so she takes charge, like always. She takes her jacket off leaving it on the floor and stares at him, at his eyes, she can see he’s a little nervous with the way his hand twitches.
“You be me and I’ll be him.” She commands and he nods.
And like he knows her movements Art shoves her against the wall, kissing harder than he ever has before. She realizes he must be mimicking the way she kisses, forward, unrelenting and so she tries to play Patrick, tongue ready to reach down to Art’s lungs.
She can imagine how it would feel for Patrick, how much he’s wanted this since they were two boys in bunks jacking off with each other. She can taste the need on her own tongue and flips the two of them so she has Art pinned like Patrick pinned her to the car.
She finds herself grinding against Art wishing right now that she had a dick to make him suck. That she had one perfectly shaped to stick to the back of his throat and he’d take it like a champ, she knows he would, because he’s a good husband and of course, the dick would look like Patrick’s and isn’t that just the hottest thing. To fuck your husband with his best friend’s dick.
Art moves her back to the bed, plopping her like she had pushed Patrick onto the backseat of his disgusting car. Art moves to eat her out and she lets him, just like Patrick let her slobber all over his dick like it was a popsicle in a desert.
She’s so close she grabs onto his hand and imagines it’s Patrick’s, that he’s watching them right now instead of in some ratty motel he prostituted himself for. She can feel the ghost of his lips on hers as Art eats her out and she can’t take it anymore she brings Art back up, wrapping her hand around his dick and putting herself in charge once again.
That’s how it’s always been with Patrick, the two of them fighting for dominance so even when they got off there was still a sore loser and an unsatisfied winner.
She sucks on her fingers and sticks them in his asshole, noting the way he jumps, they’ve never tried this before but why shouldn’t they. They’re married after all, in this for life. She goes gentler, prying him open bit by bit the way Patrick did for her the first time they had sex.
She can imagine Patrick’s hands, freckled and hairy doing this to Art right now, maybe when they were thirteen and maybe tomorrow. She watches Art’s face change. That’s something her and Patrick have always liked, giving Art pleasure, watching it overtake his good old American boy face. There’s something about his crisp blond cut and smooth-shaven legs that just make her want to defile him.
So she does.
She works her fingers in deeper and notes his erect penis, grinding up against it and against it and then there it is again. The Fucking Feeling. She comes all at once, embarrassingly quick, and feels Art only seconds later, ruining her nice white dress.
They get naked afterward, he rubs the down hair on her belly, the old stretch marks she worked hard to remove and failed, damn body. She pets his hair, trying to swirl little tornadoes into it.
“We should invite Patrick to lunch tomorrow.” She declares and feels him nod.
Tashi Duncan feels fucking alive again.