Until it's too late

Billy Hargrove is a temptation dressed in flesh, and what flesh this is! He is all muscles and steam, built up like one of the bare-chested heroes from the covers of romance novels that are strictly closer to mild erotica for housewives than novels. Karen has never given those covers a second thought after she was done with each one, preferably in the bath-tub filled with soaks and foam, with music selectively picked for the evening and an occasional glass of white-wine to go with a new fantasy about passion that can melt the ice and blah-blah-blah. Karen knows her romance novels for exactly what they are: trash. Each book is the same, only decorations change a little. It’s never about a woman, it’s always about a girl on the verge of adolescence, either her eyes fiery and spirit untamed, or her eyes naive and trusting and hair soft and silky. The boobs, though, are always perky. Karen knows that her boobs aren’t perky anymore. Age, gravity and three kids will do that to you, but when she’s reading those trashy novels and sipping her wine, it doesn’t take much to imagine herself young, and fiery, and desired again. Men in those novels are always men. Not boys who are just learning what manhood is all about — Karen likes historical romance, so manhood there is mostly about fencing and horse-riding, and being mysteriously troubled by some skeletons in the closets. They are always men, or young men, and they fall for the heroine with fierceness of hurricanes, wild forest fires and storms that split the world with their lightnings in two. You know, the usual stuff. In the sanctity of her bathroom filled with soaks, and candles, and music, Karen Wheeler forgets about her three kids she loves very much and her husband she grew to love. She has these moments to herself, the moments when she is allowed to dream. Everyone will tell you that Karen Wheeler lives the one and only American Dream one should strive for. A house, two cars, three kids, one husband… the dog is missing from the picture but that’s okay. And while living the American Dream every day, Karen has only these moments in her bathtub to dream her own dream. The dream to be desired. Billy Hargrove rushes into her dreams like the aforementioned hurricane, his chest muscular and pretty visible in the opened shirt. And that is really… unfair. Because it’s too late for Karen, and she knows that. The heroines of her romance novels are young, and desire is something sacred, something stored for those whose boobs are perky. Karen knows she has those lines in the corners of her eyes, the ones people call laugh lines, but that doesn’t make her laugh. She also knows that they are called crow feet.

***

Billy never calls her “Mrs.Wheeler” unless they run into each other in public places. She is always “Karen”, and the way this young man pronounces her name is simply wrong but, at the same time, it’s the exact way she has been dying to hear her name said, whispered, even breathed out in a way that makes it sound almost… indecent. “Karen,” he calls, and reaches out to take her hands in his palms, strong fingers trying to be gentler than they are. Billy never breaks eye contact, and when his lips are touching the back of Karen’s hand, it’s not a polite brush but a real touch, a real kiss. She can feel the heat of those lips on her skin, and for a moment there’s a panic rising in her like a giant wave – what if this contact leaves a trace? “Karen,” he breathes out right in her ear, holding the woman the age of his own mother from behind and swaying with her in a dance. This kind of dance is the one her own daughter would never dance, she is too of a goodie-goodie, and that is fine. Karen feels Billy pressing into her, and she’s enveloped with both his arms and his pretentious perfume. It’s almost vulgar, the perfume, and the way the fabric of his jeans is rubbing against the back of her skirt is definitely vulgar. “Karen”, he pleads when his right hand dives under her skirt, goes up there and there’s lace and silk that Billy feels under his fingers. Karen closes her eyes, counts to ten and lets out a soft sigh, the one that young Mr.Hargrove takes a “yes”. He leads her to the bed, still trying to keep up the illusion of the dance, and ends up being pushed onto it himself. Karen studies him from above for any, even the slightest sign of insincerity but the awe in Billy’s eyes is unmistakable. She is not even desired, oh, no… she is worshipped. She rides him steadily, till his moans are almost pathetic. Billy Hargrove bucks his hips meeting her in the middle, and… “That feels good,” Karen says, and watches Billy’s face all light up with the praise.

***

The first time it happened, she expected the world to end. She thought that everything was plainly written on her face, that she would be caught immediately and publicly shamed. For some weird reason, in her mind it included all women of Hawkins gathering in a circle around her and chanting something bizarre like “cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater” or another, modified and vulgar variant. That never happened. For the first time in her life Karen understood how little people around her were actually interested in anyone else but themselves. It was like removing blinkers, and it kind of hurt in the very beginning, just the way bright light can hurt an unaccustomed eye. Nobody paid attention, not even her own husband and her own kids, nobody cared. And that was somehow freeing. Because if nobody really cares, then, nobody really judges. They simply don’t have the time or the energy to pay attention to anyone else. Karen knows that she’s just trying to persuade herself that cheating on her husband is not as bad as it is. But, really… if she one day tells Ted she’s having an affair, will he actually react? Or will he just keep on reading his newspaper or watching the TV and mumble “uhuh” or “right”? Because Karen thinks it might really happen just like that. Ted isn’t a bad man. Hell, no! He’s a nice man, neat and hardworking, he’s just not really invested in anything. And Karen knew what she was going for – for money, duh – when she agreed to become Mrs.Wheeler. But she was also going for something predictable, something safe… something very different from having an affair with a guy who is more fit to date her daughter. Her romance novels are all great because they are all fake. People there are just horny muppets that are good at fucking and dramatic one-liners, and Karen thinks she should have stayed nose deep in her stupid novels. Instead, she looked up. You never really know until it’s too late, right?

***

Billy has gorgeous hair. Karen likes playing with it when he’s relaxing next to her, catching his breath. “I hate Billy,” he suddenly says, and Karen raises her eyebrow. The passion is so real behind those words, it is almost sad. “That’s a fucking nickname, not a real one… a dog’s none. You know, one of those retrievers that have all the energy and zero brain cells.” “I know the kind,” agrees Karen. Then, she asks. “What is it, then? If not Billy?” He takes a good time thinking, so impossibly serious, endearing even, and Karen doesn’t rush him. Then, he says: “Will… it’s way better. What do you think?” “I like Will,” Karen replies after a pause. “He likes you, too.” There’s laughter, commotion in bedsheets, and that’s exactly what Karen is going to remember.