It Happened on Maple Street

But I wanted to talk to him. So badly. I wanted to hear his voice—to know if these past three days had any basis in reality at all.

I was in too deep. Already.

Truth was, I’d been in too deep from the very first post. I just couldn’t do casual, or confident and mature, with Tim Barney.

I knew his number. I could call him.

And I started to shake, just thinking about doing so.

Tim didn’t even have his coat off before he was at the computer in his home office on Thursday, signing on to see if Tara had sent him a picture. He was embarking on the rest of his life—finally starting his life—and all of the emotions of the eighteen-year-old who’d needed her so badly were comingling with the very mature needs and desires of a forty-seven-year-old man and burning him alive.

The extent to which he was losing it was evident by the sudden jerk of his heart when he saw her name in his inbox. He opened the attachment first—and was instantly hard. He couldn’t stop staring.

Tara was sitting at a slot machine. Her hair was a little longer, a bit more expensive looking, but those eyes were the same. So was the smile.

Eventually he made it to her words.

Tim,

This was taken in Las Vegas in September during an all-girl getaway. I’d just won a jackpot. And I was freezing in the casino, which explains the cape. TTQ is very TTQish. She wears tight jeans, tank tops, and lots of fur, black leather, and fringe. Unless she’s making public appearances; then it’s always suits. But always, even on days when she’s slumming, she wears gorgeous jewelry. Please note the purse that she got from an art gallery in New Orleans after coveting it for three days. She’s a bag lady on the side and this is one of her prized possessions. She usually only carries it when it matches her outfit, but this was an extreme circumstance.

Tara

He looked at the picture again, typed a quick message, and left the room. He had to do something, to stay busy. And remind himself that he was forty-seven, not eighteen. He was not going to embarrass himself.

Taking off his coat, he threw it over a chair and went into the kitchen to see about dinner. To feed at least one of his appetites.

I looked at the clock. He’d be home from work. Probably making dinner. I already knew his schedule. His habits. I should always have known them.

He was in my blood. In my soul. And I was a stranger to his life.

I picked up my phone. Looked at the keypad, visually punching out his number. I could hardly breathe just doing that much. I’d never be able to talk if I actually got up the guts to call.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked aloud, just to hear a voice outside my head.

I wish I had an answer to give me. I wasn’t afraid of Tim. I wasn’t afraid of the call going bad—that would free me from this craziness, right? Put me out of my sweet torture.

So was I afraid of the call going well? Because, in the end, it would be as empty as my marriage?

Tim was already frustrated with TTQ. I loved and needed her.

In the end, I pushed the numbers—in a text box. And quickly typed my message.

Can you get txt?

I put my phone down. Tried to focus on the cursor in front of me. A woman had just been raped on the page of my current work in progress. I couldn’t think about her.

Jumping up, I paced to the other side of my office. Halfway there, I heard my phone announce an incoming txt.

I hit my hip on the corner of my desk as I raced to get the phone. And then I fumbled that, dropping a very expensive PDA on the floor. The text message survived.

Yes. Who’s this?

Who’s this? Come on, I thought. He has to know. The number had a New Mexico exchange.

And now he had my number.

Would he call?