I can’t take it anymore. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t. My hand starts moving toward her—more like I’m pushing it—intending to touch her thigh, but I freeze halfway. And she’s wearing a short skirt. Her skin is tight, tanned, coconut-scented—practically an invitation. Just not for me. I’ve had enough after barely half a year.
By the third month I could already feel something shifting inside me. First, I started cutting back on how often we had sex. I’m pretty sure she never noticed—I covered it well. I even suggested she not hand her kid off to the father, but let the three of us spend time together. She was delighted. Thoughtful of me, she said. The little girl got on my nerves a bit—she never stopped talking—but at least it made time go faster. It was a risky move, though, because from then on she sighed about what a great dad I was. According to her, it’s because I’ve already raised two boys. I don’t know. My sons might see it differently.
She thinks I want to take the relationship more seriously. That I might even be considering moving in together. But raising another child is the last thing on my mind. I’m worn out. The age gap is far too wide—I could be that little girl’s grandfather, and her father’s peer at best.
She really is a gorgeous woman, no denying that. I love her freckles, and that endless collection of glasses. She always picks one that matches her outfit perfectly. The chunky purple frames suit her best: she looks like such a temptress in them. And her nails! Her manicurist has the wildest imagination. If I were ten years younger, maybe all that would be enough. Maybe I’d even feel like walking her kid to school. But now… poor girl, as useful as she is at night, she’s just a burden during the day.
And all the while I feel like a bastard. Should I tell her I don’t want her anymore? That I’m exhausted by all that overflowing energy of hers? That watching her constant, restless buzz actually grates on me? I really don’t need this shit anymore. I don’t even understand why she’s always running around. If I’d had that kind of money in my forties, I wouldn’t have moved off the couch. With that inheritance I’d have a chef and a driver. And she? She’s all over the place. This meeting, that negotiation.
Still, her car is a beast. You could practically live in it. She’ll never have to worry about being able to keep it. Not that I’ve told her the truth. Saying I’m eco-conscious works better. And that I like walking and cycling. Which is true, I suppose—just not when the weather turns bad.
By then, though, I’ll need to have ended things. In fact, I’ll have to say the words in the next few days. That way she’ll have time to pull herself together before autumn, and by the holidays she can land herself some guy her own age. After all, she’s obsessed with the idea that Christmas is only real if you’re in a relationship. From her point of view, I get it. She works like crazy all year, then finally unwinds in December. That’s when she enjoys the fruits of her labor—and her grandparents’ fortune, of course. She travels to dreamy places, eats at the best restaurants, and looks like a princess twenty-four hours a day. This year she booked a luxury villa on the Maldives, built right over the water, full staff included. While she’s strolling barefoot on powdered-sugar sand, I’ll be trudging through the city with frozen nostrils. She, of course, believes we’ll be clinking champagne glasses together in the jacuzzi before bed. And it wouldn’t even cost me a dime.
The car is what I’ll miss most. It suits me so much better than her. Everyone assumes it’s mine. Of course they do. Cars like that are bought by mature men, not restless young mothers. Damn, that car is everything to me. Forget the Maldives—this car is a wild animal. My wild animal. The steering wheel molds to my palm, and I melt into the soft leather seat as if we were made for each other.
I grab her thigh firmly. Almost cling to it, so my instincts don’t veer off again. She flinches at the pressure, then gently lays her hand over mine.
Freezing can wait till next year.