Wink of an Eye by Lynn Chandler Willis

The air conditioner cycled off; the sudden quietness interrupted my dozing, slapping me fully awake. I lay there for I don’t know how long, watching the silhouette of the ceiling fan circle above the bed, wondering what in the hell I’d done.
    We had moved together so effortlessly, so naturally, it couldn’t be wrong. Although nearly twenty years had passed since we had last made love, we were still so in tune with one another, we were driven by instinct. We knew where to touch each other, where to kiss one another, when tenderness was needed and when a heated frenzy was more to the liking. I wondered if her still unnamed husband could take her to the body-spasm heights I could? I wondered if he teetered on the verge of a blackout when she took him in her velvet mouth?
    I eased out of the bed, careful not to wake her, slipped my shorts on, then stepped outside. The air was still stifling hot, forcing my lungs to work overtime just to catch a breath. The crowd at the roadhouse had long gone, drawing unwanted attention to the lone van and Dually still parked where they had been hours ago, the occupants’ whereabouts obvious given the close proximity to the pay-by-the-hour motel next door. I walked down to the vending machine near the motel’s office and dropped a dollar for a bottled water, then walked back to the room. I sat in the cheap motel room chair across from the bed and watched her sleep.
    My head and my heart weren’t in agreement. Damn Claire Kinley. Or whatever her married name was. Did he hate her as much as I did? Did he love her as much as I did? Did she love him, like she used to love me? There had been many women in my life, but only one Claire. Once, when we were teenagers, she came damn close to killing her own father to protect me. There were times after that I often wondered if pure love and hate really could spark the fire of insanity. Rhonda had been right. Claire Kinley was the only woman who had ever taken me to my knees.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Claire asked in a sleepy voice. She sat up, covering herself with the damp sheet. She brushed tangled hair from her eyes.
    I didn’t answer her. There were so many things I wanted to say, but kept coming back to the one thing I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
    â€œGypsy?”
    â€œTell me about your husband.”
    She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Even in the shadowy darkness, I could see the fury in her eyes. Finally, she sighed heavily, then fell back on the bed. “His name’s Steven,” she said matter-of-factly.
    â€œHow long have you been married?”
    â€œTwelve years. Twelve long years.”
    Cue the excuses. I was sure there were dozens of reasons she was in a fleabag motel with a man other than her husband, and I had heard them all. He doesn’t pay any attention to me … he works all the time … he’s a lousy lover … I’m lonely … I’m horny … I like the excitement, and, my personal favorite, he’s screwing around, too. Nothing like a good revenge fuck to screw with everybody’s heart.
    â€œDoes Steven work on the ranch, too?”
    She sighed heavily again, then propped herself on her elbow and stared at me. “He’s a state senator. He spends ten months out of the year in Austin.”
    Ahh … so it was going to be the combo special: “he works all the time, I’m so lonely” excuse. And judging by the way she was in bed a few hours ago, you could probably safely add the “I’m horny” excuse, too.
    â€œGypsy,” she said softly.
    I pulled myself up from the chair, then slowly walked over to the window and stared out at the blinking sign, a flashing reminder of my indiscretion. “I’m not in the habit of sleeping with married women, Claire. I’ve seen too often the trouble it brings.”
    I felt a pillow whap me on the back. “You pompous