The Anarchists (3 page)

It had been three months since she had openly undressed in front of him and six since they had touched one another in a loving fashion. It had been so long that Madison closed herself off to all of his indecent proposals. A massive financial project at work involving the federal government occupied his mind for the most part, but lately, even that did not help. Neither did practice at the gun range or the gym. Two months ago, he found out how she had managed her loneliness and found himself fighting similar temptations.  

After he received his order and authorized payment with his fingerprint, a soft hand rested on his forearm. “Hi,” she said with a foreign accent, European from its lilt. “I saw you across the room and I wanted to tell you that I love your locks.”

“Thanks,” he shrugged, heartbeat racing. “I. . .” 

“Scotch neat, huh? That bad of a party?”

Absolutely.
“I kind of hate New Year's parties.”

“Me, too. Partiers are much more entertaining to watch from a distance.” She viewed the two very different drinks in his hands. “You're here with someone.”

He glanced over at Madison, who waved him over. He held up an impatient finger and mouthed
wait a minute.
“Over there, in the silver dress with the black heels. That‘s my wife.”

She giggled at his morose tone. “It figures you would be taken. I’m Kareza Noor, and I’m terrible at flirting. It’s like I haven’t had a decent date in 20 years.”

“Damario Coley,” he said with aplomb, as they shook hands. “Flirting's easy, especially for women. Anyone could walk you through it.”

“So you’ll do it? I’m game for a lesson. But you better take that to her first. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Damario slowed his pace back to the loveseat, but his unsteady hand spilled a little of the drink onto the floor. “He had pomegranate juice after all.”

“Half of which you spilled on the floor. What’s wrong with you? Forget it! Just sit down.”

“Look, I get it: I screwed up. The bartender’s busy. But just give me a bit. I’ll bring you another one and I won’t spill it. I’ll even have him throw on an extra olive.”

“Alright,” she assented. “But after that, we talk. No convenient disappearances.” 

He wondered what the “emergency situation” could be. She’d never tell him the truth, but always found the time to bother him with minutiae.

Damario returned to his post and drank from his glass. Another man had engaged Kareza in small talk directly in Madison’s sight line. He positioned himself close, tapped the small of her exposed back, and then excused himself to the back edge of the bar. Kareza ended the conversation and met Damario.

“Thank you for saving me. One ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’ and a drink and he thinks he owns me dead to rights. Maybe he’s the one who needs the flirt lesson, and not me?” She jiggled the dissolving ice in her glass. “I hoped you’d make it back. What’s first?”

“We exchange names,” he lazily said.
I wonder what Madison wants to say?
he wondered, while letting a swallow of scotch settle in his mouth.
A confession perhaps?

“Did that, remember? Me, Kareza. . .you, Damario. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Oh. . .no, I’m fine. Right, we did exchange names. Now, I say something like, ‘Kareza? That’s a lovely name.’ Then, you tell me. . .”

“. . .what it means? It’s Italian. I’m half-Arabic, so that’s where my last name comes from, but your opinion of me might change if I tell you what Kareza means.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s world-class flirtation right there, but I consider myself pretty open-minded. Give me a shot.”

Kareza edged close, leaned into his ear, and explained her name’s origins in a few sordid phrases. The sensation of her breath against his ear, the percussion of her sultry accent on certain syllables, and the aroma of her perfume warmed the length of his body.

She drew back and smiled at the red flush washing over his face. “It’s the name of an Italian city, too. My mother heard it and thought it was pretty, but swears she didn’t know its meaning when she named me. So, I don’t tell many men. They usually say all types of freaky things to me.” 

“‘Freaky’? Definitely not a word you want to use in the first conversation. . .unless that’s the kind of company you want. Keep it simple.”

She parted her purple-glossed lips with a devilish grin. “Who says I don’t want it? I need a good match, and I can’t remember the last time I had good sex. Maybe that’s who I need to attract.”

“Suit yourself.” He placed the empty whisky glass onto the bar and ordered another. “But why tell me all this?”

“Because you’re off-the-market and it’s easy to talk to strangers,” she smiled, while readjusting the falling strap of her dress. “Every attractive person at this party is taken. And you volunteered to show me the ropes – which I appreciate, by the way. Who knows – I might meet someone after all.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “So you think I’m attractive?”

“Does it matter?” her voice trailed off. “You’re married. Some married men have actually tried regardless of that. For some reason, I think I can trust you.”

The label of “trustworthy” disappointed him. “You think you can trust me, but you don’t even know me? I could be like every other person you’ve met.” 

“No, you can’t be. It’s just your personality, and it’s nothing to get all riled up about. Believe me, I’m not great at flirting, but I am a great judge of character. I never miss.”

Thankfully, a former client-turned-friend – the talkative, southern divorcée named “Sloan” – had engaged Madison in a lively conversation. After ordering his wife another drink, he decided to call Kareza‘s bluff. “Prove it.”

“You’re the type who allows the woman to make the decisions, not because you want her to, but because you want to keep the peace. Your wife probably finds you too passive and when you exert yourself, too aggressive. If you can’t find a balance, you drift to whichever fits the situation.”

Damario nursed his drink, taking in a little to avoid making direct eye contact. Kareza’s assessment had stripped him naked and highlighted his vulnerable points. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“I do high level work for the Genesis Institute, but I’m a psychiatrist by trade. I start out by reading into whatever my clients aren’t telling me. Most communication happens on a nonverbal level. It looks like you are the aggressor when she wants you to be.”

“Genesis Institute,” he mused. “That a non-profit?”

“For profit. I’m overseeing an advertising campaign that kicks off in the next week or so. What do you do?”

“Financial analysis for G.R. Cooper, a little trading here and there.”

“Aren’t you involved in the congressional push for the new currency?”

“Yeah.” His enthusiasm pushed his voice up an octave. “But if you ask me, the mark will never pass the House, or in the other nine countries where they’re pushing it. Too much opposition.”

She smiled, her top lip mischievously curled. “I don't know. You might be surprised.”  

The passionate charge behind her question forced him to safer conversation. “And you’re a psychiatrist…you counsel married couples?”

“Nope. Don’t believe in marriage. Lifetime monogamy is a ridiculous, contrived concept. I counsel singles, do a little grief, and I sometimes advise the newly-divorced on how to rebound.”

“Be honest,” he joked. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Think about it, Damario.” She licked her lips and grabbed his right hand with her left. She traced his wrist veins with the pads of her index and middle fingers. “We're two, able-bodied human beings – an attractive man and woman. There’s something between us that’s electric, and you know it. But you’re willing to give up what could be for what shouldn’t be.”

“Who’s making the freaky proposals now?” Kareza had lied. She knew how to flirt well. Damario thrust his hands into his slack’s pockets. How many other people in this room has she offered the same thing? “This cannot happen.”

“Yes, it can. You could have me,” she said with allure. “Your devotion to an antique concept stands in the way of something beautiful and passionate. Think of kings, David and Solomon. They knew this and were considered to be great leaders.”

Damario jerked back. “Why bring up the Bible?”

Kareza touched a spot just below her throat where the emblem of his platinum chain fell. “I assumed that you aren’t wearing that for decoration’s sake?”

He dropped the object beneath his undershirt. “I love my wife and respect her.” He paid once more and cradled the nearly-full glass. “Pleasure meeting you, Kareza.”

Damario disappeared into the throng of people surrounding the HTV’s three-dimensional images. By the time he reached Madison, her eyes had glazed over with boredom. This time, he softly walked until reaching them.

“Why, hello, Damario!” The audacious southern twang assaulted his eardrums. “Beginnin’ to think you were gonna leave Shenk here all alone, while you chatted up that pretty Hispanic gal. Gosh, I just loved her dress, but I’d never be able to pull off something cut that low in the front without a lotta help, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

Madison cocked her head. “That’s what you were doing over there?”

“She’s not Hispanic,” he argued. “She’s European and Middle Eastern.”

“Whatever.”

“Well,” said the southern belle. “Ya’ll g’head and talk. Shenk, you and I. . .we’ll conference first thing Monday.”

Please go away.
“Will do, Yvette.”

 “Tell my assistant if she don’t put you through right then, I’ll have her on the unemployment line.”

“Right.”

“I’ll do it! Tout de suite! Happy New Year’s, ya’ll.”

“Happy New Year,” they said in droll unison. Damario reclaimed his seat and downed his scotch at once, while his wife continued to silently stare him down. How dare he! “So, you were talking to another woman, but you won’t talk to me?”

“What if I did? You talk at me, Madison, not to me. You yell, nag, complain. But, if you want to talk, then let’s talk. Why's Sloan calling you Shenk and not Coley anyway?”

“Stop being so loud,” she admonished. “Her name is Yvette, by the way. Sloan‘s her last name. Get our coats. We’ll talk more in the Cougar.”

“Fine.” After two glasses of scotch on an empty stomach, he probably was too boisterous.

Since Madison had no intention of doing so, Damario left her for the bedroom designated as a coat room. It would be rude to leave without first announcing so to her guests, but doing so to the throng of revelers on the bottom level meant delaying the inevitable.

Madison never audibly mentioned the word “divorce.” It resided in her thoughts; his, too. Six years ago, both swore before God they would not be “that couple”; upper class blacks whose busyness broke the cords of matrimony. His parents were 33-year marriage veterans, but the Shenks and each of their four children – except Madison – had divorced, remarried, and divorced again. If Gene and Hilary had stayed together, Damario figured she and her sisters would be slower to pull the separation trigger.

He wandered through the elaborate home’s lengthy hallway, found a bedroom on the right with an open door, and entered.

“Lights dim,” commanded a female voice.

Under the faint glow, Damario recognized Kareza, who had shed her dress to the floor. In a revealing coral bra and matching panties, she closed the door and thrust herself onto him.

“What're you doing?” The scotch placed a time delay on Damario’s responses. He knew he should have pried Kareza’s body from his and left the room. However, he had yet to move as her body slithered across his.     

“This was meant to be,” she said, smooching the exposed part of his chest above his cashmere v-neck sweater. “And yet, you continue to fight it. Don’t you believe in destiny?”

“Madison,” he said, attempting to move his leaden limbs.

“Ever think she wasn’t ‘the one‘? What if there’s someone else and you settled for second best?” Kareza stopped short of kissing Damario’s lips and planted his hand on her breast. “You tried to make your marriage work,” she said, breathing onto his lips. “You failed. Find glory in that attempt. Let the moment be the moment.” 

Damario succumbed to temptation and kissed Kareza. He released all the pent-up excitement and fervor upon her mouth and at his hands, which roamed across her body. The pair breathlessly paused. Kareza reached behind her back to unhook her brassiere and backed towards the coat-covered bed. Damario stopped moving, sensing a presence behind him. He turned to see Madison trembling in the open doorway.

Unsure of how much she had witnessed, but certain she saw the topless vixen lying on the bed, he opened his mouth to explain. In one motion, she approached and slapped him. Kareza moved to the opposite side of the bed and gathered her clothes.

“Don’t!” She pointed a finger in his face and cursed him. “It’s exactly what I think, exactly what it looks like, and don’t tell me it doesn’t mean anything!”

Damario wiped the eggplant-colored lipstick from his mouth. Madison slapped him again and again until he gathered enough coordination to block her next attempt. At that, the couple stormed out, one after the other, into the chilly night air. By the time she had composed herself enough to authorize her entry to the Cougar, Damario positioned himself behind her.

“Were you going to sleep with her to get back at me?” She turned to him, her eyes bulging with rage. Kareza slinked unnoticed past the fighting couple. “That’s the plan – embarrass me in front of my subordinates?”  

“There’s no plan. It just. . .happened. And you, I know that you. . .”

“You do things for reasons.” She huffed and cursed him again. “They don’t just happen. There’s planning, thought, logic. What were you thinking?”

“You haven’t touched me since June,” he exploded. “You get a period a week at a time. What about the other 20 weeks I’ve been waiting?”

“So, it’s the lack of sex. It’s my fault you can’t control yourself? That’s lame, Damario.”

The partygoers inside the house started counting down from sixty.

“Oh, so, I’m lame? And I can’t control myself?”