Rob Sheely
Vivian Morris was enjoying some Trader Joe’s Organic chicken nuggets when she noticed that the honey mustard she used as a dipping sauce tasted off. She checked the label, only to find that it actually read “Horny Mustard.”
She leaned closer and read the label again—with the exact same result. How was such a thing possible? What slipshod system could miss such an embarrassing typo? She reached for her phone to send a photo to Carl—only to remember once again that he was gone.
Despite the wave of grief that filled her, Vivian gradually noticed hands touching her, caressing her body like the most presumptuous of lovers. To her horror, she realized those hands belonged to her.
She pulled them away, holding her arms out from her sides. Her body responded with a sudden ache she hadn’t felt since the first days with Carl.
She wrapped her arms around her body, offering herself a chaste hug. But her hands had other ideas. They stroked her sides, moving in gradually increasing circles, touching more and more. She shoved them into the pockets of her jeans.
What on earth was going on with her?
Her eyes went to the mustard bottle. Could it be more than just a typo? It was a ridiculous thought, but something was going on with her body, something she hadn’t felt for longer than she could remember.
Whatever the cause, Vivian couldn’t stand still. She needed to move.
She shoved the mustard into the fridge, grabbed her keys, ran a brush through her hair, and stepped out her front door.
Before she could take three steps, she froze, her every sense assaulted. The light was too bright, the colors shockingly intense. The sounds, both natural and man-made, were music: a delirious counterpoint of bird calls, car engines, barking dogs, and voices. The breeze carried a rich perfume, delighting her nose. And the air on her skin was a lover’s kiss.
She forced herself to move, taking one stride after another. Up ahead and coming her way was the young couple from down the street, he pushing their two-year-old in a baby jogger while she carried the newborn in a sling against her body. Vivian couldn’t keep from staring at them. Her hand wanted to reach out and caress their faces, her fingers already feeling the firmness of his jawline and the rough stubble growing there, as well as the exquisite softness of the young mother’s rounded cheek.
They smiled, and she returned it, forcing her eyes to remain forward as she passed them. It took all her willpower not to turn and stare at their backsides.
Being out here like this was a bad idea. She needed to get to the safety of her home.
On the way back, she ran into the Chins, Pat and Mary Ann. Mary Ann carried a foil-covered casserole dish while Pat toted a mysterious wooden box.
Vivian desperately tried to pass them, but they stepped into her path, smiling and asking how she was, and she couldn’t be rude, so she smiled back and asked how they were, which led to them saying that they were headed to the Palmers for a little backyard picnic, and they were sure the Palmers wouldn’t mind if she came along, the more the merrier! She fully meant to decline politely, but the next thing she knew she was walking arm and arm with Mary Ann Chin through the Palmers’ gate and into the backyard, where she was welcomed with apparent pleasure.
In addition to Bud and Betsy Palmer, who gave her cheek kisses, there was another guest. When Vivian recognized him, her heart fell. Of all the people in the neighborhood, why did it have to be the endlessly chipper, unfailingly chatty, Mr. Touchy-Feely Chuck Tomasino? She and Carl had spent many an evening discussing the man and how incredibly irritating he was: always smiling, always laughing, always ready with a hug or an arm squeeze, utterly unaware or unconcerned at being too loud, too eager, too everything.
Sure enough, here he was, holding open his arms for her to step into. Before she could think of a polite way to decline, the mustard had propelled her forward and startled him into silence by shamelessly wrapping her arms around him in a full-body embrace. The feel of his cheek against hers was exquisite, the scent of him intoxicating. She held on a second longer than was polite, and after she stepped away, Chuck Tomasino was, for the first time in living memory, silent.
He recovered his composure gradually throughout the meal, soon back to being the life of the party. Or rather, he would have been, if it weren’t for Vivian. For the first time in her adult life, she abandoned caution and gave voice to whatever came into her head with no thought for what anyone might say.
To her astonishment, no one seemed put off by the uncensored version of her. In fact, they all seemed to enjoy her company. Even Chuck Tomasino lay back and let Vivian shine. She returned the favor, and they quickly developed a rhythm, playing off each other as if they’d been a team forever.
When Pat Chin opened his wooden box and pulled out the bocce set, Vivian’s first impulse was to beg off. Instead, she gave it a try, laughing at her own awkwardness and letting Chuck coach her. When she wasn’t playing, she found herself studying him.
Despite his advanced years, he was alert to the world around him, subtly registering every sight, sound, and smell. His hands moved constantly as if clutching at the very molecules of the air. She felt her own hands moving in the same way, hungry for sensation.
It was dark when the last game ended, and Chuck walked her home. After the exuberance of the day, they were both surprisingly quiet, almost shy. Vivian felt sixteen again, when every little thing was new and thrilling. She was exquisitely conscious of the man beside her: the heft of him, the musk of his sweat, the heat radiating off his body.
She was equally conscious of her own physical being, generating heat of her own, and offering her own perfume.
When they reached her front porch, he stopped, endearingly awkward as a teenage boy. She could see an inner struggle play out on his face. Rather than waiting for it to resolve, she lifted her face and pulled him to her in a playful and teasing kiss.
“Good night,” she whispered before opening her door and disappearing inside.
She stood, her heart racing, replaying the day as her heart raced. Her pulse slowly calmed as the adrenaline subsided, taking her mood with it. Instead of recalling the hours with excitement, she flinched at all the uncharacteristic things she’d said and done. What had she been thinking? How had she let herself get carried away like that?
How would she ever live it down? How was she going to face the Palmers or the Chins? And what on earth did she do about Chuck Tomasino?
The more she thought, the more shame filled her. Every memory of the day was another humiliation. With each one, more of the life drained from her, leaving her old and used up. She shuffled to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. There, in full view, was the offending bottle. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of shame through her. What kind of woman was so morally suggestible that a condiment could alter her character so drastically? Thank God, Carl wasn’t here to see her humiliating performance.
She grabbed the offending bottle and hurried to the sink. She opened the cap, tilted the bottle—and froze, pausing before taking a step she couldn’t undo. Carl wasn’t here. She no longer needed to shape her life to earn his approval. Yes, Chuck Tomasino was a ridiculous character, but he was also a sweet man, grabbing for joy in the final years of life. For one day she’d done the same—even if she winced at the memory.
She stood motionless, torn between two visions of her future. Which Vivian did she want to be tomorrow? As the minutes stretched with no answer, her hand tired and the bottle slipped from her grasp. In a fraction of a second, her body decided for her as her free hand swooped to catch the falling bottle before it could shatter on the bottom of the sink.
She clutched it to her chest, heart pounding, breath coming in short, shallow pants.
With tender care, she capped the bottle and carried it back to the fridge, setting it carefully inside. She shut the refrigerator door and headed for the garage, hurrying to the grocery to buy up every bottle they had left.
~
Rob Sheely an award-winning playwright, as well as the author of two short story collections published by Boulder Weekly Press. His short story “Stet” has recently been accepted for publication in the Thomas Wolfe Review. He is currently finishing up his first novel.
