LITMIR.BIZ

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      Nine o’clock and still no Charles.

      What seemed like a good idea three hours ago seems utterly foolish right now. I’m lying on the sofa wearing that ridiculous maid’s uniform and the even more ridiculous wig, only half paying attention to some pathetic reality dating show. The meat loaf I prepared is lukewarm in the oven.

      Not even so much as a phone call to tell me he’d be late.

      I could have changed—in fact I almost did—but I want Charles to see what I’ve done to try to seduce him. And if I’m entirely honest, I guess a part of me still hopes that he’ll walk through the door, see me half-naked and perk right up—then ravish me until I can’t even blink.

      Like that’s gonna happen. Why the hell do I bother? Maybe my sister’s right. Maybe Charles is having some torrid affair.

      The cordless phone is at the foot of the sofa, nice and close to me, because I’d hoped Charles would call. Now I lift it and punch in the digits to one of my girlfriend’s. I desperately need to hear a friendly voice right now.

      “Hello?”

      Thank God, Lishelle is home. She’s a newscaster and sometimes works through the evening. I met her at Spelman, the same place I met my other best friend, Claudia Fisher. I think they took pity on me—one of the few white girls who had the guts to go to a predominantly black school. I didn’t care about any of that, of course. I wanted to experience life at an all-girl college, probably to please my mother who was worried about all the temptation I’d face on a regular college campus.

      “Hey, Lishelle,” I say, pulling the wig off. “It’s Annelise.”

      “What’s up, girl?”

      I sigh softly. “Nothing much. Just sitting here watching some TV and I thought I’d call.” I don’t want to talk about Charles. I’m depressed enough as it is. “Did you get a message from Claudia today?”

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      “So there is another fitting on Saturday?”

      “You know that girl’s tripping. The way she’s going through dresses and designers, I’m not sure anything will be good enough for her.”

      “She’s got to make up her mind soon. The wedding’s on May twenty-seventh.” I lift my head when I hear the doorknob turning. Charles. My heart slams against my chest. “Lishelle, I have to go.”

      “What?”

      “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her, then disconnect the call.

      My whole seduction scene has been ruined, and I’m now confused about what to do. Simply stand up and greet my husband, or lie provocatively on the sofa?

      The decision is made for me. I don’t have time to get up. I toss the wig across the room, then fluff my blond hair. Drawing in a deep breath, I bend one leg at the knee and ease up onto my elbows. As Charles comes into view, I whisper, “Hi.”

      Charles stops dead in his tracks, as though he is surprised to see me. I guess he is, because he’s got the stack of mail from the hall table in his hands and he must have been looking at that.

      “Hi,” I say again, this time adding a smile.

      “Hey.”

      Charles glances to the left, at the row of candles burning on the table. I wait for his reaction…

      He goes back to sifting through the mail.

      The mail! I’m dressed like a French slut and he’s concerned with the mail!

      I sit up, not sure if I should scream or cry. Really, I want to pummel him.

      “Charles,” I say, noting the hint of exasperation in my voice.

      He makes his way around the sofa and sits beside me. My heart lifts. Maybe there’s hope after all.

      I lean into him and kiss his cheek. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

      “It’s been a long day.” His eyes roam over me. “What are you wearing?”

      Yes! I think. He’s noticing me. He’s getting turned on. We’re going to have wild, passionate sex right here on the sofa.

      “Just a little something I picked up today.” Now I press my mouth to his. I open my lips and move them over his lips. Instantly I’m getting hot…until I realize I may as well be kissing a dead fish.

      My shoulders slump in defeat. “Charles…”

      “God, I’m sorry. But honestly, Ann, I’ve had a long day. My head is pounding.”

      I tune out the rest of his spiel. I can probably recite it by heart if I have to.

      I don’t want to give up, but how can I fight this? Before Charles even walks through the door he’s thinking of ways to reject me. What happened to the man who used to write me poetry, sing to me off-key? I miss that man.

      “There’s meat loaf in the oven.”

      Charles makes a sound of derision. “Meat loaf? You know I’m not big on red meat.”

      The nerve of this man! I embarrass myself at a sex shop, come home and slave over a meal for him, and he doesn’t even care? I want to smother him to death with the sofa cushion.

      “Sorry,” I say. “It was…” My voice trails off. I don’t want to tell him I made an easy meal because I was hoping he’d come home early and ravish me.

      “I already ate, anyway,” he tells me.

      Then, to add insult to injury, Charles reaches for the remote and starts channel surfing. This is poor, overworked Charles, so friggin’ tired that he can’t even give me a decent kiss, yet he’s up for watching TV. Why isn’t he taking two aspirin and heading straight to bed?

      Charles finds a soccer game. Since when does he like soccer?

      I can’t help wondering if it’s me he doesn’t like.

      It hurts being rejected. Like you’ve reached inside yourself and given your very soul to someone and they spit on it. That’s how I feel. And it sucks.

      Tears well up in my eyes, but my dear husband doesn’t notice. I’ve seen talk of this on Oprah, read about it in magazines, women wondering What happened to the passion? Never once in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would be one of those women.

      “Oh, you moron!” Charles shouts, as if he even knows what’s going on in the game. But at least with soccer, he’s willing to pick a team and play.

      Me—I’m left standing on the sidelines.

      Silently, I rise from the sofa and disappear from the room.

      Chapter Three

      Lishelle

      I am not in the mood for this.

      I pop the lid on my bottle of Motrin and drop two capsules into my mouth. I down the pills with water, then lean forward on my desk and groan.

      Believe me, I’ve had a stressful enough day at the television station. I certainly didn’t need a call from him.

      Him being my ex-husband. I have just gotten off the phone with the jerk, and I swear, he must be on a mission to make my life miserable. There’s a reason I divorced him, although he doesn’t seem to get it. And he should, considering his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep two and a half years ago carrying their child.

      Do you believe that my ex actually wants a second chance with me?

      But then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. David literally believes he’s God’s gift to women. I’m sure he’s deluded himself into thinking that without him, I’ve been utterly unhappy. Which is so far from reality, let me make that perfectly clear. There was the obvious sadness when we split, but mostly, I felt

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