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Tit for Tat by Vickie Tern I couldn't believe it! I just sat there stunned. Dead silent, my mind blank as if stoned! Jessica looked at me and saw she'd said enough and sat back, her face mostly impassive but faintly registering sympathy and concern. Would I lose it, explode and smash something? Implode and melt into blubber right there in her overstuffed living room chair? "You must feel just awful about it," she said quietly. "I can understand that. I know just how you feel." But she couldn't possibly! Her husband Jim returned carrying an Old Fashioned glass filled to the brim with straight bourbon and ice. The stiff silence in the room took him aback -- "What ...?" he started to say. Then he realized he'd better do exactly what his wife had told him to do, no more nor less, serve and leave, that this was not the right moment to say anything. So he set my drink down on the little table next to me, glanced at Jessica -- who was still staring intently at me -- and gingerly got the hell out. And left me alone with his wife to cope with the worst crisis of my life. I'd had no idea it would come to this when I came over. It was Friday afternoon, a short day at the office for me though usually a long one for my wife Amy, who was trying to clear out work left over from the week so she wouldn't have to face it on Monday. Some Fridays it took her till past midnight. But she'd asked me to stop by at Jessica's this afternoon, Jessica'd mentioned there was something she wanted to tell me. So when I'd gotten home I'd done just that, gone next door to ask Jessica "What's up?" Her face had suddenly grown sober, and she'd told me to sit down. I did, puzzled and worried. "Randy," she'd begun, and let out a long sigh. "There's something you should ...." Then at that moment her husband Jim had come in unexpectedly, his golf game apparently finished early. His partner had another engagement, no time to spare for nineteenth hole gabbing in the club bar. Not this time. So Jim had come on home. Jessica looked annoyed but waited patiently for him to finish greeting me. "Hi, Randy. Amy out shopping?" he asked right off, partly because he was puzzled by her absence -- usually we arrived as couples when we visited each other. But partly just to be hospitable and make conversation. "No, she's working today." "Not out shopping and getting her hair done for her big Friday night? I heard ...." "I don't think so. Friday's a busy day for her." It was true, though, that lately Amy was finding time -- who knows where -- to pay a lot of attention to her appearance. All manner of self-improvement and grooming rituals -- hair, nails, massage, tanning, clothes. Looking after herself, and looking rather pleased with herself too each time she came home from yet another round of pampering, polishing, or perfecting. Increasingly stunning each time, I had to admit that! These days she was gorgeous. The beginnings of an early middle age anxiety, I supposed. It hits some women that way -- Amy took a tighter grip on herself when other women simply let themselves fall apart. I'd told her that she didn't need to bother, she was approaching her prime, that was all. "You bet I am," she'd replied rather forcefully. "And I don't mean to waste it!" That had puzzled me. There was determination in her voice, so I didn't raise the topic again. But I did notice that some days she'd head out to Yvonne's, or Trudy's, or Edie's, one of those places women go, and I wouldn't see her again till nightfall. "I'll be most of the day," she'd say over her shoulder. "Fix yourself lunch. Dinner too if I'm not back by then." "Your wife looks more attractive every time I see her," Jim commented, looking down at me as I sat in his overstuffed easy chair, Jessica sitting across from us and waiting for him to finish. He grinned to show he meant that as a compliment to her, nothing more, and a compliment to me too, that I was a lucky dog to be married to her, that was all. I suppose that was what he meant. I glanced at Jessica to see how she was taking that remark, hearing her husband compliment another woman. She was unconcerned. There was something else on her mind. She turned to him and said, "Jim, I've got some private things to talk over with Randy here, so be a dear and bring him a really stiff one and then make yourself scarce. I don't need anything right now." "OK," he said slowly, and knowing his wife as he did, he went off without another word. He already knew what I drink, bourbon on ice. When he disappeared she turned immediately to me. "You know, he's right, Amy is a very attractive woman, and she's been looking more so all the time," she said. This sounded like small talk, but Jessica's manner was much too earnest for that. I'd nodded. I couldn't disagree, and I wanted to hear what was really on her mind. "She attracts lots of admiration," she said. She paused, and seemed to realize that that remark also sounded too non-consequential for her serious tone of voice. "From men," she added. "You've got to expect that." "I've noticed," I said. Now I was slightly worried. There was something going on here. So far she'd only declared the obvious. "Not any one man's admiration. Lots of them." I nodded. Especially during the past year when Amy had begun taking what had to be called exquisite care of herself, lots of heads had been turning wherever we went. Restaurants, theaters. I was proud of her. Women's heads too, checking her over to see how she did it. "It can be very flattering," Jessica added. "And flattery can reach into a woman in lots of ways. It can soften her up and make her feel grateful, inclined to return the favor. It can harden her and make her feel powerful and suggest new ways for her to express that gratitude or use that power. It can give her whatever confidence she needs to start seeking her own satisfactions. It isn't that women can't resist rewarding an admirer, it's that there are so many advantages in not resisting. You haven't been worried about Amy's many admirers?" This was getting uncomfortable. She was telling me that Amy's been tempted? Is feeling tempted? Sure, who hasn't been? She was warning me to be watchful? "You yourself said it," I replied. "Sure she's attractive, to lots of men. That's why I don't worry. If there was some one man in particular I'd worry. But I think I'd know, so I'd watch him and maybe feel I had to do something about it, relieve her of the need to cope with unwelcome advances. But there's no one man. As for her other admirers, there's safety in numbers." "That's what Amy thinks too. We've talked about it. One man falling for her might attract your attention and get you all bothered, but when there are lots of men there's less suspicion and less fuss. She doesn't want anyone who isn't a friend confronting you with ... a situation you'd feel you have to deal with." That sounded reassuring. "That's good," I said vaguely. And repeated, "As I say, there's safety in numbers." "Exactly," Jessica said. "So she's felt safe from exposure for nearly a year now." She then simply stared at me. Silent. She was watching me with intense concentration. I stared back. I didn't get it. "There's also variety in numbers," she added. "The spice of life. You know?" I didn't know, or maybe I didn't want to know. I wasn't sure what she was saying. But the ball seemed to be in my court. "She's ..." I began, trying to wait her out. "Exactly," she said again, deciding that I'd understood her. Then she shocked me with an elaboration of whatever it was I'd supposedly understood. Her words tumbled out. "When there are lots of ... admirers a woman can favor first one and then another, change her men every week or so. That way none of them ever get to feeling they own her or she owes them. They all stay grateful. She can try out lots of different kinds of men, all sorts of styles and sizes, you know how guys are, try out the different advantages of each and never get too fond of any one of them. Have as many men as she has moods. Her husband never gets suspicious because there's no one rival. There's never any one person raising up gossip he might overhear. All she needs to do to maintain a flow of men in and out of her body is, keep an accurate appointment book and keep herself looking attractive." I sat there stunned. "Are you saying...?" But I shut myself up. Of course she was. "Amy is...?" If I didn't say it, maybe it wouldn't be so? I couldn't say anything. "You must feel just awful about it," she said quietly. "I can understand that. I know just how you feel." And then she waited. I was stunned. Jim came back with my bourbon. I scarcely noticed him. He looked at each of us in turn, said "What ...?" decided not to say anything more, set the drink down next to me, and left. Got the hell out. We were alone again. Jessica then added. "If a man's wife is unfaithful with lots of other men, there's not much any husband can do I suppose. " Not true, I was now thinking as a bitterness rose within me, and rage. Kill her or divorce her, for openers. Or try to commit mass murder on all those men. Impossible! My anger grew even more violent. But directed against who? Against fantasies. Fantasy anger, fantasy violence. Nothing real. What did I actually know? Nothing. Nothing. To calm myself I picked up the glass of bourbon and took a swig, and half the liquor disappeared down my throat. This would not do, I needed a clear head. I set it down. I had to avoid leaping to conclusions. So as if asking her for the time of day, I asked, "How do you know? Why are you telling me this?" Jessica was altogether unfazed. She was a clinical psychologist, and always used measured language. I suppose she'd seen all kinds of people having all sorts of extreme reactions, I was only one more of them. But was any of this true? She had a professional obligation to the truth, didn't she? Some of the other women I knew, friends of Amy's, they might try to tweak my trust in Amy, pull my chain for the hell of it, have some malicious fun just to see what happens. But Jessica? "Why do you ask?" A psychologist's reply. She knew that my questions were all part of my mind's effort -- futile -- to deny what she was saying. "I don't want to believe you. I don't know why I should." Her voice remained even. "Fair enough," she said. "I can't really say why I'm telling you this. I like you two as a couple, a lot, we're friends. I like you too, Randy. I admire you in lots of ways, and Jim does too. People know what they know. It isn't pleasant to happen to know things about people and yet act as if we didn't. This way, everybody knowing, seems more sincere. Now that I've told you how it is, I no longer have to decide what to do about it. You're the one who has to decide what to do. Whether to act on that knowledge and do one of several things, or maybe to continue to act as if you didn't know." I just stared at her. Pretend there was no problem? "Let me ask you this. There are always things no husband wants to know. Bear with me. Have you and Amy ever discussed former boyfriends with each other?" "In general terms, yes." In specific terms? Have you ever asked her what she and her earlier lovers did with each other? Which had the greatest stamina, or the biggest cock, or the most ardent way of making love? How you measure up against them?" My gut lurched at the thought of her former boyfriends. "No, we avoid talk like that. What's past is past. When we married we both began again." "But what's past is never really past. Has Amy ever asked you about your previous intimacies? If only out of curiosity?" "Yes. Often, when we were engaged. She wanted to talk about all of them, what I liked most about each girlfriend, what we did together. She thought it might improve our own lovemaking." "She wasn't very satisfied with your lovemaking?" That had never occurred to me. It was possible. It was never great lovemaking, but always satisfactory. If I couldn't get her to cum by fucking her, I'd do it by licking her. Lots of times she preferred just to have me lick her, she'd wrap her thighs around my head and close me off from the world, and that's what I'd do. Time would pass, and I'd feel her tense up now and then, and what she was doing up there I had no idea. Reading a book maybe. Any which way, Amy always seemed satisfied. She did seem satisfied. I didn't answer. Jessica took note. "Did you ever ask her about any of her boyfriends? What they were like? Whether they fucked often? How well they fucked? How often they brought her off? Anything?" "No. Nothing." "Why not? You weren't interested in improving your lovemaking?" "She'd suggest things. I'd try them." "But you didn't want to know how she knew? You didn't want to know which men were better than you? Be honest now." Her questions were reaching deep into forbidden areas, places I blocked off. "I didn't want to know." "You couldn't even stand the thought." What could I say? It was true. "No." In fact, it was unbearable. "So there you are. You prefer not to know anything about Amy and other men. You block and evade all such thoughts. Well, maybe Amy does want you to know something about her other men. It's possible. Maybe she's been dropping hints and you just haven't caught on. Maybe because it would ease her guilt if you knew and she knew you knew and you still did nothing. Maybe simply for convenience, it would liberate her from further need to hide anything. It would mean you accept her ... private life. She'd love that, I bet. But I can't say." "I don't believe it." She shrugged. No need for her to say 'Because you don't want to believe it.' Case proven. I took another swallow of bourbon. The glass now held only ice cubes, I must have gulped again without realizing it. I instructed me to ease off, so I set the glass down. "Another?" she asked. "Shall I call Jim? I'll call Jim." "Does Jim know about this?" That would add to my disgrace. This sickening humiliation. My merely asking added to it -- I immediately wanted to take the question back. My brain was now slightly fogged, but I tried to focus. I still had enough sense remaining to disbelieve, to look for corroboration. To decide whether this ... accusation, or revelation, or whatever she was saying, was for real. "Does Jim know about what?" Jessica asked innocently. And stared at me mildly. "That Amy has been unfaithful to me!" I half-shouted. This will never do, I told myself. "Unfaithful," I repeated in a somewhat more subdued voice. I must be drunk. I tried to seize control of myself. "I don't believe it. I don't want to believe it." She shrugged again. This time looking at me pityingly. "Do you think Jim has any reason to know?" she asked. Was there an annoyed edge in her voice? Was she accusing me of accusing Jim ...? Was Jim one of Amy's 'admirers,' and she was putting a stop to it, and that was why all this? My brain was addled. "How can I know if this is so?" I asked. My "s" sounds were slurred. There was no doubt that Amy had been making herself more and more attractive lately. And succeeding. All those beauty shoppes. And designer dresses. To please herself? Yes but please herself how? Stay sober, I told myself. Too late, I replied to myself. "Jessica," I asked, trying to regain control. "How can I find out for certain?" She took note that I was disturbed, paused, then spoke very slowly. "How can you find out for certain? The usual way, I suppose. The only way we ever know anything for certain. See for yourself. Follow her without her knowing. Watch her for a few days and see for yourself." I'd do that! Of course! She paused. "But seriously, Randy, I don't advise it. It's best not to know some things for certain. Marriages survive as much because of what partners don't know as because of what's known. " "You think I should do nothing?" I was struggling to feel outraged again, but now self-pity was taking over. I felt more like a victim. I was a victim! She settled herself squarely on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. "I'd like a drink too now." She raised her voice. "Jim?" A faint answer came from their game room in the cellar. They kept a TV there. "Honey?" "Would you be a dear and fix me a Margarita, salt and all? And refresh Randy's glass?" "Sure," came the faint voice. "No problem. Coming right up!" She seemed to resettle her mind as she leaned back and looked at me. I looked straight back at her. "Even if you did know for certain," she said, "which isn't the case, you don't have to do anything about it. Not at all. Lots of men are cuckolds and don't know it, so they do nothing. Lots of men do know it and still do nothing. You aren't obliged to do anything. A wife's infidelities can always be considered nothing important at all, one more of those things she does that you live with for better or worse, like trips to spas or spending sprees for clothes. Think of it this way. There's a good chance she's better satisfied sexually than before, more so than she was with you. So she'll be making fewer demands on you. Maybe she'll even feel obliged and grateful to you for letting her go out with other men, for being such a nice guy. Maybe because of that she can better appreciate your finer points. That's a plus." She paused. What she was saying made sense, but even so it was intolerable! She looked intently at me. Was this the clinical psychologist speaking now? The therapist? "Some men actually get off on the idea. There's nothing wrong with that. You can be in heaven, blissfully stroking yourself raw every time your wife leaves the house to meet some man somewhere else and enjoy herself with him." She paused again. "Maybe you can imagine that you're the man and having great sex with her after all." Then one last pause. "Or maybe imagine that you're your wife and having sex with him. Some husbands love that fantasy." I felt a roiling in my gut, and I shook my head to try to clear it. I was a cuckold, apparently. So it seemed. For centuries cuckolds have been figures of ridicule. Less than men, can't even satisfy their own wives. Were they ever men? "What about respect?" I cried out. "Amy's respect for me, and my own self-respect? And everyone else's?" "Well, obviously you've lost her respect as a lover, or she wouldn't be ...." She didn't want to say it directly. "But I'm sure she could respect your forbearance and patience, especially after she knows that you know all about her ... new interests, and aren't making a fuss. She could chat with you about her feelings for various men, how her last night's date went, you know, girl things. You can be ... co-conspirators when she's planning a new seduction. Maybe you can keep her appointment book for her, and learn how to help her stay beautiful for her men, and so on. Nobody says these things are easy. But people have to respect anyone who deliberately chooses to do something difficult and succeeds at it." She made sense, but it was crazy! "As for self-respect, that's up to you. Some men feel destroyed when they hear that their wives are going somewhere else to get laid. They feel like eunuchs. Like former men. But some enjoy that kind of emasculation, even seek it out. How do you feel?" "That's how I feel right now." "Enjoying it?" "I mean emasculated," I added. I didn't want her to know anything else. I did feel twisted. Peculiar. Helpless. "See? Even though it may not even be true! You may not be a real cuckold, it may all be a misunderstanding. Yet the feelings are real enough! Feelings can be based on whatever you imagine." She waited. The silence grew more dense. "Jessica, what should I do!" I practically shrieked. A terrible cry for help! I was drowning! She waited a moment. Then another moment. Calculating something. Then quite calmly she began. "Randy, hold in mind that right now you don't know anything. You can't be sure of anything. You don't even know for sure what Amy's doing right now, do you?" "No, I don't." I looked at my watch. It was hopeless. "She said she was going to the office." "Call her. See if she's there." "She never answers her phone on Fridays. She doesn't want the interruptions." "Well, how did she look when she left the house? How was her hair?" "Perfect. As always." I sat silent. "You don't think that at this very moment, while you think she's working her way through her files, she's actually sitting in some cocktail lounge flirting with some man you know nothing about, smiling secretly to herself as he leans over to whisper into her ear and steals a nibble on her earlobe, glancing at the bulge in his pants and then turning her face toward him to allow him to kiss her perfectly made-up lips?" "No." Yes. I was thinking it. I could see it. What was she wearing this morning when she left the house? Was it low-cut? "Or maybe that was earlier, when they were having lunch. Maybe now she's in some man's bedroom or hotel room, naked on his bed, her body soaked in perspiration, her hair an utter mess but she doesn't care at all, not now, because her legs are locked around his back and her heels are digging into his spine and she's shrieking pure joy to the whole room each time he slams himself into her, over and over? For the third time in an hour!" My mouth fell open. Was she doing this to me? Amy! I saw her! She'd never shrieked with me, not in all our married life together. Our lovemaking was always gentle, though a few times when she'd asked me to pound her more vigorously, those times she'd groaned much more loudly than usual. Mostly she only moaned. Could I ever make her shriek like that? Was I man enough? Was that what she wanted? No wonder Amy was turning to other men! I saw her again in that man's bed, in that man's arms, crammed full of that man's massive cock and unable to move. "Oh, God!" I cried out. That was the moment Jim returned, in one hand a wide Margarita glass with its rim salt-frosted, in the other a fresh bourbon on the rocks for me. He lifted an eyebrow as he handed the Margarita to his wife -- he'd heard her last comment. "Telling pornographic stories to each other?" he asked. Then he handed me mine while staring at my lap. Good God, Jessica's description of Amy's hot sex had given me an erection! He saw! "Jim," Jessica said. " Randy here has been wondering if maybe he's a cuckold. How does that strike you?" Jim was a big man, ten years earlier All-State varsity. He loomed over both of us. As if to ease the impact of whatever he was going to say he leaned back slightly and folded his arms. "Strike me? The thought that Amy's making out with some other guy somewhere else?" The image amused him -- the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He glanced in my direction as if certifying that it was wholly plausible, I'd be no competition for such a stud. Then his voice went gentle. "I'd rather think it depends on how it strikes Randy. Some men would go berserk. Some would just feel depressed." He glanced at my crotch again. Jessica saw, and followed his eyeline with hers. I leaned forward as if to hear him better. "Some men get off on it, I hear that's a primitive instinct we've all inherited from our ancestors. Like giving your woman to the Head Gorilla to please him, so maybe he won't pull your guts out through your asshole. Or like being gay but not knowing it, in effect fucking another guy by proxy. How do you feel about it, Randy?" I couldn't say. I didn't know. I was confused. I felt peculiar. "Angry," I said. "Mixed up. I don't know." I took a sip from the glass of whiskey Jim had just handed me. Or thought I did -- it was a gulp again, half of it was gone. I better get a grip! "But let's back off," I went on. "I don't know that I'm a cuckold. So I don't know how I'd feel if I were one. Not for sure." I felt miserable, but I didn't need to say that. He could see it. Finally my crotch bulge was subsiding. Maybe he saw that too. "Well, old man," Jim said thoughtfully, not unsympathetically. "If I didn't know, I'd sure want to find out." "That's easy for you to say" surged out of my mouth, an antagonism I couldn't suppress. Here he was standing in the same room as his wife Jessica, comfortably sure of her, a big man who would certainly break any rival's back barehanded, and here I was feeling miserably betrayed and helpless. Maybe justifiably, maybe not. "Not at all easy," he replied, ignoring my fit of temper. "I don't say I don't know how things are with me and Jessica. This fidelity thing is special, remember. It isn't for everybody. Some people agree even before getting married that they can continue to make free with anyone else who wants them. That's a gift of love some couples give each other. You didn't know that?" He glanced at Jessica. Was that how they were? She was looking at him with a mysterious half-smile. Was that their arrangement? Or her gift to him? Or vice versa? "For some people it's intolerable," he continued. "It tears them apart. And for some it's so deliciously intolerable they can't live without it. They get to be junkies, they can't stop imagining it's so whether it's so or not. So which kind are you?" "I don't know. I mean I don't even know if I am a cuckold. Amy may just be ...." I stopped. Being what? Or what not? Exactly what had Jessica said? I couldn't remember any more. Did she know anything for sure? Had Amy confessed anything to her? "Well, what can I say? Find out, man! That's where the fun begins." He grinned at me, then turned abruptly and left the room. I heard his feet on the steps returning to whatever game he was watching on the TV in the cellar. And again I found I'd emptied a glass of straight bourbon without noticing -- I was again holding only empty ice cubes. My stomach was aglow, though I could still focus my eyes. Just about. I turned and said desperately, "Jessica, how can I find out?" Then I tried to pull myself together and failed. I slouched back against the cushions and tried to listen to her. "I have to know!" I was near sobbing. She leaned forward, eyes fixed on mine, speaking deliberately. "You really want to know? No matter what the cost?" "Yes! At any cost! I can't stand not knowing!" "This could take some time. If it were obvious, you'd already know. But women are discreet when they have extramarital affairs -- we have to be careful of our reputations. I think by this time tomorrow you'll know all you need to know about Amy's ... affairs. What you then do about it is up to you, but I have to warn you, there are long term consequences just in knowing. Finding things out changes people. Your relationship with Amy will never be the same, and you'll never be the same. Moreover, once you begin there's no turning back. Are you in this whatever it takes?" I hadn't considered this. "I have to be," I replied. "Yes." "Total commitment? Full time? As long as it takes?" I hesitated. This was the slack season. Most of the office staff were already elsewhere for the rest of the month. I could take off that long anyhow, then I'd see. For now, a phone call and I wouldn't be missed. "Yes." "All right then." Jessica paused, took a breath, and then began speaking rapidly. All the while watching my reactions closely. I was a little blurry from the liquor, but I could follow her easily enough. "Randy, I know for a fact that whatever else Amy does on Fridays, however much work she's getting done in her office cut off from all phone calls and so on, however busy she may be keeping other people's beds all over town, she has a regular hair appointment at Edie's Cut and Curl every Friday at 4:00pm. I do too, we meet there often and chat under the dryers and sometimes have tea afterward. Then she goes wherever she's going, or returns to whatever she's been doing, and I come home." She thought a moment. "Sometimes she comes there direct from shopping -- I know because she'll sometimes want to show me some delicious dresses or sexy underthings she's just picked up." I had nothing to say to that. One of my faults as a husband was that whenever she wanted me to exult with her over her prizes, talk about their color and design and price and the ways they fit her body, all I could say was "Wow!" So she'd quit trying. "Our this week's appointments are a few hours from now. Plenty of time to work up a disguise. So you can begin at Edie's and follow Amy wherever she goes and see for yourself whatever it is she does. In plain sight, and she'll never be the wiser." "A disguise?" "You do want to observe her without being recognized, don't you? She isn't likely to do anything wicked if she knows you're watching, is she? Unless she knows you get off on it of course -- then she might want to tease you." "I guess. Yes, of course." "Well, have you got any ideas for a disguise?" I thought about all the melodramas and police procedure movies I'd ever watched. People skulking around in deerstalker caps and false moustaches. Talking street slang. Following suspect's cars by driving on parallel streets a block away and giving directions to each other on police radios. "No, none." "Well, I do. Are you willing to put yourself in my hands? Do what I say for the rest of the afternoon? Maybe into the evening, if it comes to that? I guarantee she'll never be the wiser even if she looks straight at you. Maybe even if she talks to you." "How in the world can you do that?" "Never mind how. Are you willing?" "OK." I wasn't willing but I had to be. I had no choice. "You're sure now. I don't want to begin this if you aren't willing to finish it. To go the distance. I didn't say this will be easy." "I'm sure," I said. I suppose I was. "Then just sit there. Be right back." She disappeared upstairs for a moment. I heard the dim voice of a sports announcer excited about something coming from their basement game room. Then Jessica reappeared, holding a piece of black beaded cloth. "Stand up a moment!" I did. None too steadily. She held the cloth up and it fell into the shape of a dress. Then she touched its shoulders to mine. "As I thought, it'll fit. You'll wear this. It's cute, a Tadashi stretch matte jersey with a deep V neckline, not too sexy, and in your present black mood black is certainly your color." She studied my waistline and nodded to herself, preoccupied. "Yes. The waist is ruched, so you won't even need a belt to bring out your figure. You'll look just lovely." "Jessica, I can't wear that. That's a dress. That's for women." She looked at me as if to say 'duh!' but didn't. Instead she took a deep breath. "You're going to a salon to pick up her trail and then you're going to follow her, right?" "Yes." "How do you plan to sit unobserved in a salon if you don't look like everyone else in that salon?" I was silent. "You say that lately Amy has been impeccably dressed and made up whenever she goes out. How can you follow her wherever she goes if you aren't also appropriately dressed?" I had nothing to say. "You need to look like a well-dressed woman." I lowered my head. It was true "Say it." I tried, nothing came out "Say it or I won't continue with this. You're the one who needs the disguise. You're the one who needs to be absolutely unrecognizable. You're the one who needs to look like all the other women in that salon and anywhere else." I found my voice. "I need to look just like all the other women in that salon." I said. "Now say it in a smaller voice, this time one that sounds like a woman's." I tried it again, a little higher in pitch, a little more plaintive. "I need to dress like a woman and look like a woman." This time it didn't sound so bad. I decided this could be a game, even though it seemed a little demeaning. The liquor, I realized, had me feeling loose and easy. I smiled. A little wanly, but it was a smile. "Yes, you do," Jessica said, relaxing. "You do have a talent for this, did you know that, Randy? I couldn't say anything before, but I can tell you now woman to woman that I've sometimes wondered about you. Anyhow, from now on that's your voice. A little more range though, please, and now and then a little more enthusiasm. We girls do love to gush." She'd wondered about me? Well, I suppose she would, she being married to a hulk like Jim. "I've noticed women do that," I said in my plaintive woman's voice. "Compare their men with each other. And gush about things." I may have sounded slightly annoyed, because that's how I felt. She'd challenged my masculinity. She heard. "I've noticed that we women do that. We women compare our men with each other," she corrected me. "I've noticed we women do that." I tried to gush enthusiastically, and overdid it. "Randy, listen. There's more to this than just putting on a dress. You not only have to look like a woman, you have to feel like one. Be one and be glad you're one, or you'll never persuade anybody. Can you do that?" That stopped me. My head was swimming slightly as I said in my slightly lilting, slightly enthusiastic voice, "Jessica, I don't know. I've been a man all my life. How do I know how a woman feels?" "Well, let's see. Short course. Imagine you're Amy. Imagine you've decided that the handsome man with chiseled features you've just met in the bar where you've gone to meet guys is the very guy you want to feel sinking deep, deep into your pussy tonight, and you can't wait to get him in there. How do you let him know that? Take your time, get into character. How would a girl like Amy do it? What would she say?" I tried to give it thought. Amy was shy when we first began dating, but after she graduated and began proving herself in business she'd become superbly self-confident. Even domineering sometimes. Her shy mannerisms didn't disappear though. They became a feinting device, a way she could seem to hesitate uncertainly before closing in for the kill. It rendered every man -- myself included -- helpless and vulnerable whenever she'd back away as if unsure of things, seemingly afraid to assert herself. So I tried that. Nothing brassy now, I told myself. I looked Jessica steadily in the eyes, then looked to one side. "I ... I ... please don't get mad," I said in a hesitant voice. "I'd like to go home now. I'd like for you to take me home now." I emphasized you, and actually managed to blush. "And maybe stay with me a little when we get there, if you don't mind. Until I'm less ... excited about meeting you." I looked directly into Jessica's eyes again for less than a second, then away, as if I'd already said too much. Jessica was filled with admiration. "Wonderful," she said. "I'd fuck you myself right now. Don't ever try that on Jim, he'd pound your pussy into pudding before he realized that you don't have a pussy, he was fucking your asshole. Stay with that voice and that character and even if you're the only person in the room Randy will be hidden. By the way, who are you? Do you have a name? I just looked at her. "'Randy' could be a woman's name, but if one of the girls in the salon calls it out it and Amy hears, it just may remind her of someone she usually leaves at home when she goes out on her jaunts. 'Randy' is short for Andrew, isn't it?" "Yes. That's how I said 'Andrew' when I was a little boy." "You mean a little girl, don't you?" "Yes. I guess." "Tell me that you were once a little girl. Never a little boy. But first picture it in your own head. There you are in a party dress blowing out candles, all the other little girls clustering around, no nasty little boys invited." I did. It felt sort of sweet. "I was once a little girl," I said. Nice. "I had a fluffy pink dress, and my hair was curled all pretty. I turned to Jessica and added coyly, the way Amy might, "And now I'm a little girl who's all grown up!" She smiled back, almost woman to woman. "You certainly are. So what'll it be? 'Andie' as in Andie McDowell, or 'Miranda'? Either way you can still sort of be 'Randy,' but not the boy kind. Your new girl kind, broken out of her chrysalis and flitting away among the flowers." "'Miranda' sounds more feminine," I said. 'So it does. Then Miranda it is. Tell me, have you always been 'Miranda' or did you had another name at one time or another?" A trick question. "Everyone used to call me 'Randy,'" I said. "But kids in school used to tease me that a girl with a name like 'Randy' must be boy-crazy. So I insisted that my girlfriends all call me by my full name, 'Miranda'." Jessica approved. "Thatta girl," she said. "We're getting there, Miranda. Now upstairs with you. Sweet, shy girls like us have smooth skins, so coarse and vulgar boys can lie all over us and rub themselves into us and feel we're special. No body hair and lots of lotion. Let's begin." I felt very strange. As I stood up again, I could still hear from downstairs, where Jim was still the kind of man I once was, or thought I was, that some stupendous play had just been completed. Not my kind of thing any more. It vaguely crossed my mind that in order to find out if Amy was being unfaithful to me, treating me as less than a man, I had to be no man at all. Also, that I was about to go into Jessica's bedroom and bathroom, just the two of us, and we'd soon be undressing together and who knows what else, and the whole time her husband will be watching television in the basement unawares. Maybe I'll be the adulterer, not Amy, and he'll be the cuckold? No such luck. Jessica was all business, and two hours later we were ready. I was wearing a stuffed black lace bra and matching panties and a garter belt holding up sheer black stockings. I asked Jessica why not pantyhose, they were so much less fussy. She merely smiled and said that they were also less convenient. I decided not to question what that meant. I was also wearing the beaded black jersey dress, which didn't quite cover my knees nor most of my shoulders, but did give my whole body the pert, ready-for-anything look Jessica wanted for me, sporty but dressy. My hair was loosely curled -- "We'll let Edie do it up right," she said -- and though I was wearing lipstick only my eyes were heavily made up, Edie would do my face properly too. My skin was hairless and lotioned and moisturized and faintly scented, incredibly smooth, it excited me to stroke myself. She'd had me walk back and forth for nearly an hour until I got accustomed to my heels. I could now make my skirt swirl with a slight turn of a hip, and that added a certain feminine allure whenever I turned or paused. "The more girly the better," Jessica kept reminding me. "Eyes wide open in perfect innocence, always, especially when you're twisting your hips, waving your pussy in the air like a flag." Under instruction, I'd ooohed and aaahed and smiled knowingly as she handed me each article of clothing, as if I knew exactly how feminine they would make me look and feel, how sexy, and was exulting in that knowledge. The overall effect when I was dressed and moving about was decent but inviting, feminine but not slutty. Jessica wanted me to feel a little like a sexual animal who was unaware of it and holding herself back. I'd wanted to be a somewhat forward but properly virtuous woman, the kind I'd thought Amy was. "No, a hint of indecency makes for a much better disguise," she said. "You want to be as far removed from your masculinity or your propriety as you can get." When she finished with me in her bedroom, I felt I was. My appointment at Edie's was for 3:30, so when Amy came in at four I'd be there already in process, already one more of the ladies lying under mud packs and pastel sheets and sitting under dryer hoods, unlikely to attract attention and unrecognizable even if I did. When the time came to leave her house, we went downstairs and Jessica handed me a purse. I looked inside. Make-up, my wallet and car keys, and a tampon. "What's this for?" I asked her, pulling out the tampon. "You never know," she replied. "A girl is always prepared." "I don't have periods," I said. "I don't leak." She smiled as if with secret knowledge. "You never know," she repeated. That tampon brought me back to reality. I might look like a woman, sort of, and feel like one, a little, but I was not a woman. I grew very edgy. Go out into the real world as if I were also real? It'll never happen. I'll be instantly recognized as a fraud. I suddenly realized how vulnerable I was to exposure. What if Jim came up from his game room and television and saw me? How humiliated can a man feel? Though I'd bounced and flowed gracefully indoors under Jessica's tutelage, I tightened and became stiff as we approached Jessica's front door. Frightened, I tried to master my fright by sheer force of will, and became ... rigid. "Oh dear," Jessica said finally, when she found she couldn't push me through the door and onto the front steps. "You need to relax more." She went off and returned. "Here. This will surely do it!" She handed me a large white pill and a half-glass of water. "What?" I asked half-incoherently. "A special tranquilizer. Time delay, it'll help get you through the night. You'll worry a lot less and feel a lot more free to be more girly." I swallowed it gratefully. After a moment I felt relaxed enough to be able to explain. "It isn't only that I'm afraid of being found out. I believe you when you say there's no way that can happen without a panty check, and that after Edie works her magic on me no one will believe it even after a panty check. It's that I know despite everything that I'm not a woman. I feel like such a phony dressed like this. It doesn't seem natural because it isn't." Obviously she hadn't considered that I'd have such scruples. She thought a moment. "Why not now?" she said half to herself, half to the air. "Why wait?" Then to me intently, "Once more, say it. You want to do this whatever the cost." Look how far I'd gone already! "Of course," I said. "Yes." She nodded, then disappeared for a moment and returned with an unlabeled bottle of pills. "Here," she said. "Take two." I swallowed them with the rest of the water. "And two more at bed time. Be sure to take the second pair or you'll feel so hideously nauseous you'll regret your life." "OK," I said. That sounded easy. But why? "Then I'm afraid you'll have to keep taking them, mornings and evenings, or else. You'll feel just fine as long as you keep up the dosage without fail -- the 'or else' can be awful. You'll get night sweats and terrible nausea and hot flashes and fierce cramps and lots of the other miseries women feel at menopause. Though by the time the bottle's empty you won't need pills any more, your body will be making them on its own." "What for, Jessica? What do these things do?" "They'll help you feel natural enough starting right now. By the time you've taken the last one they'll have made you the real thing, believe me." "Why, what are they?" I asked her. "A female hormone cocktail," she replied. "Estrogen and Progestin and other girl stuff, and some catalysts for fast absorption, things like that. The strongest doses a man's body can take. We use them for crash transsexual conversions, for when a transsexual is suicidally depressed because she's a woman in a man's body and can't stand it one moment longer. Just those two pills alone have put more genuine girl juice into your veins than I have in mine. You're now as hot and authentic as any pre-pubescent girl, and you're well on your way to post-pubescence. By the time you take the last of these pills, maybe a month from now, you'll be there. You'll have breasts like a young girl's, and your body fat will have redistributed like a young girl's. You'll be thinking like a girl too, with a girl's emotional engagement in things -- that should be helpful in your new life." I got frightened. "Jessica, I don't want a young girl's body! Or a new life. Is it reversible?" "We have to work with what's available, Randy. Those pills are what I have. But lots of women who are really transsexual men can reverse their hormonal development with testosterone. You can too if you feel you must." "If I feel I must? Another thing, what will Amy think when these changes start happening to me?" "She'll have time to get used to it. If she's out after other men she won't care. If she isn't, she'll marvel. She'll think what I think, that you're an incredibly heroic husband whose love for his wife is so unbounded that he'll go to any lengths to try to keep her. Maybe a little impetuous, but that can be a good thing in a woman's eyes. Anyhow, you yourself said it, you can't be a convincing woman when you aren't yourself convinced that you're a woman at all. Now you really are one, it's in your blood. This is fairly fast-working stuff -- I'll bet your nipples are already perking up, getting ready to charm your whole body as soon as anyone touches them." I touched then myself. Maybe a little. They felt ... delicate. As if they were yearning for more but felt too modest to ask. Strange. Had they always felt like this? What had I let myself in for? But did it matter? I had to know about Amy. Whether she was betraying me. This was how to find out. "You look so much more relaxed now, Miranda. Let's see. Walk toward the door with one foot in front of the other. Think about what a darling girl you're becoming. How pretty you are and how this first trip to a salon will make you even more so. Try to flow as you walk. Oh, those hips have such a delectable sway!" I did as she said. I walked out the door and into the afternoon sun, then delicately started down her front steps. She stared at my rear admiringly. "That's such a cute tush, Miranda. It's been so wasted, hidden away in men's pants. It should never be covered by anything other than clinging skirts and tight slacks. Now tell yourself you're the real thing. If you believe, no one will disbelieve." 'I'm the real thing,' I told myself. 'I'm a darling girl with a cute tush.' I nearly did persuade myself, not quite. So I asked myself again, 'How would Amy feel?' I tried to be Amy, tried to imagine her with one of her lovers, and instantly I felt desiring and desirable! Did I want Amy to feel this way? Did I want to feel this way? A pang shot through my belly -- if I'm Amy I'm cuckolding myself right now, Good God! I had to remind myself that Amy's infidelities were still only suspected, that thus far they'd happened only in my imagination. Maybe. I may now be only partially feminine, I said to myself. But dressed the way I am, thinking what I'm thinking, I'm altogether emasculated. That's certain. That's already half way toward where I need to be. I paused alongside Jessica's car and turned back toward her with a flirty flare of my skirt. And smiled. I felt so ... different! No longer a man! It was kind of ... exhilarating! "Not bad," Jessica said with an amused gleam in her eyes. "You do have a talent. If I were a man I'd leap your bones right now. Maybe a little less hip wiggle, honey, so we can both get where we're going without being mobbed?" As we got into the car she asked, "Has your tranquilizer kicked in?" I set my purse in my lap and settled back comfortably, my lips prim. "Yes, Jessica. I'd like to get this over with, one way or another. But it doesn't seem to matter much now. That's very strange, because it does matter." "That's also your hormones, honey. They've reached your brain. You're thinking more like one of us, now. You're beginning to think that a tumble or two with a ripped hunk can be a lot of fun and hurts no one as long as hubby doesn't hear about it." "Is that how your hormones think, Jessica?" I was thinking about Jim now. Could Jim also be a cuckold? "Jim and I have no secrets from each other," Jessica replied, her voice level. "But this is about you and Amy, remember? You're the one who was worried. Fix your face one last time now and we'll be off. Remember, hormonally you're now even more feminine than I am. You're the real thing. Feel it." I opened my purse and looked in my compact mirror. A rather pretty girl looked back at me. Miranda. That's who I am. Maybe just smooth my eyebrows, Jessica plucked them so thin! How will I ever...? No, that's not at issue now! I wet a fingertip and smoothed them back, then clicked the compact shut and replaced it. "Very good, honey!" Jessica had been watching, admiring the ease with which I performed that womanly grooming ritual. "With your little finger! That's really dainty!" "Thank you," I said to her in a lilting voice, genuinely pleased, flashing her an understanding, grateful smile, the intimate kind I'd often seen Amy deliver to friends in the midst of their girl talk. Never to men. Well, maybe to some men, never to me. 'Oh, God!' I thought to myself. Again, jealous! But with only slight annoyance, not with that steep jealous pang that had sent me on this mad mission to begin with, this quest for certainty. The tranquilizer was now fully in control. And I guess so were my hormones. I could trust them both to keep me calm. We arrived, and together we got out of the car. Jessica was looking along a line of storefronts for the salon, for the first time not bothering to watch me. She now trusted my womanliness. I did too. "There it is at the far end," she said. I looked down toward the end of the row and saw an ornate script announcing "Edie's Cut and Curl -- a Full Service Spa." It suddenly occurred to me. "How did this get to be Amy's hairdresser?" I asked. Not that I was suspicious. But I was curious. I myself didn't know exactly where she went, all those times, though the name now sounded familiar. 'Edie.' Yes." She threw me an incredulous look. "Oh, Miranda, duh!" she said. Then explained. "I recommended Edie to her just last year, when she was looking to make herself over completely, 'begin again,' is what she said, you must have noticed the change in her! Of course you did, that's why we're here. Well, this is where I go too. I began here way back, in fact when Edie was still Eddie, 'Miss Eddie' he called himself, he was one of my patients, a man then but struggling to become her true self. Now wait till you see her. She's gorgeous!" "You converted her?" A faint suspicion loitered in the outskirts of my mind, then vanished. "She converted herself," Jessica said abruptly. "I only helped. With advice and pills, just as I'm helping you. That's what I do." She paused and looked at me. "Are we here now because of me or because of you? Who's the one with a question she needs to have answered? Who's only trying to help her?" "Me," I replied, chastened. She was now calling me 'her.' I'd better remember that, I thought. That's what I am. A girl. 'A darling girl,' I'd said so myself. We walked in side by side. It was a much larger establishment than it seemed on the outside. A large waiting room and six or eight chairs, stations I remembered they were called, and three or four women sitting in them being serviced by neatly coiffed attendants. Against a far wall I saw a lineup of hair drying helmets with several women in them, two of them chatting away with each other, their hair drying while they were having their nails done. Was one of any of these Amy? Further back still was a long corridor. "Hi, Jessica," the receptionist said brightly. Her name tag told me that she was 'Carly.' "Edie will be right with you. And this is your friend ...." It was apparent that Jessica wasn't going to reply, so I did. "Miranda," I said in my higher tone with a wide swing of notes between the syllables." "It's lovely to meet you, Miranda," she said, entering that name in the large book in front of her. "You're lucky, we'd just had a cancellation this morning when Jessica called. I hope you'll like what we're going to do to you. I'm sure you will." "I'm sure I will," I replied. "This morning?" Before I'd even gone over to talk to Jessica? What was going on? "That's when we had the cancellation. I understand you'll need to be out by 5:00. Don't worry, you will be." "Isn't this Amy's usual day for touch ups?" Jessica asked as if innocently. "Will we see her here?" "Yes, she has her regular weekly appointment today, 4:00 to 5:00 I see. Then she always scurries off who knows where looking positively devastating. We tease her sometimes that her husband won't be able to keep his hands off her when he sees her, and she always replies, 'Maybe, but he's not who this is for,' and she winks. I suppose she means it's for her own satisfaction. But it does always seem so naughty." It may in fact be naughty, I was thinking. Friday is supposed to be Amy's late day for cleaning up her work. She always arrives home exhausted, frazzled and ready for nothing but sleep. I'm usually in bed by then -- she'll kiss my cheek and be out less than a minute after she lies down. She gets herself dolled up just for that? To improve her morale for the long evening of work ahead of her? I guess some women do that. Maybe. But maybe not. Well, at 5:00 I'll follow her and then I'll know, I concluded. No problem. I realized that "no problem" was the tranquilizer talking, not my own anxious suspicions. It was just as well. "We're ready for you, Miranda," Carly said in her cheery voice. "Just follow me." I looked suddenly frightened at Jessica. "You aren't going to do anything especially ..." "Oh we're going to do everything specially. Brighten and frost your hair just for starters. With your blue eyes you'll make a marvelous blonde." She started down toward the furthest of the stations. "I only want to be here when Amy comes in, so I can follow her when she leaves," I reminded Jessica in a low voice. "But dye my hair?" "What more perfect disguise?" Jessica asked in an equally low voice. "Here you'll be just one more woman in curlers and so on, and when you return to the outer world you'll be ... different. No way resembling Randy. So you can follow her anywhere. Trust me on that!" A tall, thin woman with sparkling eyes and a wide smile came up. Rather beautiful, and a little intimidating. "Hi, Miranda! I'm Edie, I'll be taking care of you. Jessica here has told me everything I need to know. You are going to look just gorgeous!" "Nothing too permanent I hope," I said. I was still a little worried. "Oh, everything permanent honey! We've done Jessica's patients before. They're always overjoyed by the time they leave here. A start on beard removal by laser, but meanwhile a beard cover, hair styling, maybe extensions, eye and lip liner, collagen-plumping, pierced lobes, and the most fabulous coloring and streaking -- you'll be this year's trendiest, a kind of ash blonde. No time for liposuction this time I'm afraid, but maybe next week. We're a full service establishment. Men in, women out, when you leave here you're ready for any kind of night on the town. Any at all. Just put your purse over there and settle in." She sat me in the chair and spread a sheet over me. "Jessica says you aren't sure where you'll be going when you leave here, that you have to look appropriate for anywhere, from an art gallery opening or a supper club all the way down to a house of ill repute -- well, that isn't exactly what she said, what she said was 'a ten dollar whore house.' Joking of course. So I'm giving you a complete no-fuss makeover. Tomorrow morning, a brush through your hair and a dash of fresh lipstick and you'll be good to go anywhere yet again! That's the advantage of having everything permanent. Be right back." She winked and disappeared. "Well, I'll leave you -- my hairdo isn't due for another half-hour," Jessica's voice said behind me. "Jessica," I called back to her. "Why does this need to be permanent?" I was strangely unconcerned, though I knew I should be. It was no worse than what the hormones were doing to my body, but a lot more visible. I knew I should be frightened. Wondering what people would think about my thinned down, high-arched eyebrows was nothing compared to what was about to happen. "Miranda, this is what Edie knows how to do with men, it's what all men get when I send them here. You need long-lasting make-up because you don't know how to take care of your own face and hair and there's no time for you to learn. Also, because just saying 'do the usual' to Edie saves all sorts of explanations. Should I have told her the real reason you're here? She'd gossip to everybody in town! Then your reputation and Amy's would both be permanently ruined!" "But what will Amy think when she sees me with a woman's face? She'll have to, sooner or later. And what will others think?" "We've discussed this. If she's been unfaithful, she won't care and neither will you. If she's innocent I'll tell her it was my idea, all my fault, all a mistake, and she'll admire you for your self-sacrificing concern for her, for the demonstrated strength of your love, and so on, I've told you all that already. Maybe you can tell her you wanted to share her life more fully, and I persuaded you this was the best way. As for 'others' as you put it? Just spread the word that Randy was called out of town for a month or so, and enjoy being Miranda. Then eventually you can go back to a semblance of your former self, sort of. And that's when you can decide what else to do. So not to worry. OK?" "OK." I supposed I had to trust her. "Think of it this way," she went on. "Maybe Amy'll prefer you as a woman. Maybe she's been roaming lately because you haven't seemed ... venturesome enough for her. Not enough of a good friend, a girlfriend. Or maybe it isn't men but women she's been turning to, have you thought of that? Maybe she'd prefer for you to remain a woman all the days of your lives together, and to have sex together as women from now on. Any which way, she'll be impressed. Because it IS impressive, what you're doing, you do know that I hope! I mean, think of it! Becoming a woman for the sake of the woman you love! Greater love hath no man!" There was something wrong with her reasoning, but I didn't care enough to worry about it. More of that time-delay tranquilizer kicking in I supposed. I felt zonked out. I closed my eyes. When I woke I was momentarily baffled about where I was. Under a dryer with a magazine open in my lap. I was reading about fall fashions. I looked around, a woman was next to me. Good heavens, it was Amy! I looked again! Amy! My wife Amy sitting calmly alongside me, also under a dryer! She was looking down at the magazine in my lap. I looked away quickly. "What a coincidence," she said. "Just this afternoon I bought myself a Vera Wang just like the one pictured there. Only in eggshell, not taupe. It's simply gorgeous. I can't wait to wear it." "Mmmmmm!" I said in a high inflection, as if to say "Really!" I didn't dare risk saying anything else. I closed my eyes. "I love your nails," she said. I looked down. They were a deep rose red, and elongated. Little glistening jewels to delight the eye. Where have I been? For how long? "I've been thinking of doing mine that way myself. Are they much bother?" She didn't seem to know it was me! I'd better open my mouth. "Oh no," I said. That was all right, nothing like Randy's voice. Flute like. So I risked it again. "Not when you get used to them." A small flute. Small but fetching. "They can be handy I imagine, say for dealing with men when they get out of line." I sensed she was grinning, plunging into such racy girl talk, so I decided to take a big chance and follow suit. I turned my head toward her. She was still looking down at my new nails. I held them up and spread my fingers to admire them myself, also to distract her. "Oh no," I said. "I'd never scratch a man." Try to provoke a confession from her? "But there are times when you have to be careful with them, not dig them into your man's shoulders. If you know what I mean." She'd never scratched or bitten me in her passion. She'd never been that passionate with me ever. I threw a furtive glance toward her face. She was smiling. Reminiscing? "I'm sure you do," she replied. No score, either way. Indecisive. I didn't dare try again. "Will you be going directly home from here, Amy?" suddenly came Jessica's voice from Amy's other side. Great heavens, here were the three of us all lined up under the dryers! All together! How long had I been out? I glanced at my wrist. No watch. Thank goodness, it was a men's watch, I must have left it off after my shower and all that lotioning. I looked at a clock on the salon wall. Quarter to five! Over an hour! "No, I have a little more work to do at the office, and then a 6:30 reception at Edmund's, there's a special client who happens to be staying there, and he's asked me to have dinner with him afterward. There'll be dancing after that I imagine, and so on. I've already taken off too much time today shopping for the occasion, but my Vera Wang is a real treasure, and I did want to look nice for him. You know." "I certainly do," Jessica replied. "What a good idea! I've been asked to that reception. Maybe Miranda and I'll go, and see you there, and maybe stay on afterward too. Will Randy be with you?" "Randy?" Amy replied slowly, as if suddenly reminded that she once knew someone by that name. "No, not so anyone will notice. I doubt he knows anything about my various special clients, and I'm sure he wouldn't want to know about them, the poor dear. He never asks me where I've been or what I've been doing even when I arrive back home quite late -- he probably thinks that would show lack of trust. Or something. It's just as well. He does enjoy doing whatever it is he does when I'm not home, I'm sure of that, and I never ask him either." She turned her face back toward me, her wide eyes innocent. I was carefully studying the four cocktail dresses pictured on the page open in my lap. "Whatever it is he does when he's home alone, it's fine with me," she added. Then, including me in the conversation, "Oh, aren't those dresses just scrumptious? Wouldn't you love to wear any one of them? Wouldn't your husband like to see you wearing one? I know mine would." As odd statement, me being her husband. I wasn't sure what it meant. Her husband, me, might like to see me, her husband, wearing one? "I don't have a husband," I said in a strained voice. I worried that she knew who I was, but apparently she didn't. Thankfully. "Not right now." "No? A pity," she said thoughtfully. "Well, cheer up, dear. Maybe soon. Someone's husband, anyhow." I was wondering what she meant by that too, when we were all three of us approached by our beauticians. They released us from our metal helmets and helped us stand up. "Time for your comb out, little lady," Edie said to me. "Then we'll have you on your way looking ravishing!" "Thank you," I said mindlessly, as I settled into