The Affair

(Content Warning: Strong Language)

Part I

Without a farewell or so much as a glance back, Mr. Reed rings for the elevator at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon. The ping and sliding of the doors go unnoticed by the rest of the office as they cheer “Happy Birthday!” to Ruth Anethal, a woman nearly one hundred years old (she is now 97), who manages accounts payable. Mr. Reed rolls his eyes, wishes she’d die already, and presses L for the lobby. It isn’t that he particularly despises the old woman, no, he just simply doesn’t care anymore. The doors close, and the sight of Ruth spitting on the glowing candles, surrounded by the rest of the office coworkers armed with paper plates, disappears.

Mr. Reed checks his watch and taps his foot, willing the elevator to move faster. His phone buzzes.

“Hurry up.” The incoming text reads from Emma.

“I’m waiting…” Emma texts again.

She sends a third text, this one is a photo. In the thumbnail, he sees the frame of a bathroom mirror and the backside of a woman wearing black lingerie. Now he thanks God for Ruth and optional birthday parties. There was a time when it had been he who orchestrated them. What had happened? Jesus, time flies by.

And then he receives a text from someone else, a name that makes all his happiness evaporate: his wife.

“Still on for dinner at eight?”

Her name across the screen, Emily plus two red heart emojis, always dampens his evil spirits while on the hunt and causes a remorseful glitch in his computation. He supposes that name would have evoked heated, collar-loosening excitement five years ago, a thrill that has all but vanished. There is a certain tingle, isn’t there, in chasing the forbidden? Mr. Reed nervously runs his hand through his short brown hair, feeling the stiffness of the gel he applied this morning. In the polished gold panel of elevator buttons, he finds his reflection and re-fixes his hair back into formation.

The elevator door opens, and he steps out. Email vibrations, shorter bursts than the incoming text vibrations, rain one by one as he makes his way through the lobby. Apparently, the skippies in the Melbourne offices have clocked in. It’s the only reason they added ‘Global’ to their firm's name. Outside, real rain pounds the sidewalk, which is littered with city-goers and their umbrella shields. Mr. Reed sees this, mumbles a curse, and steps to the side to let others come and go through the entrance. Those entering shake droplets of rain off their umbrellas, while those leaving prepare their own before stepping out. The shiny marble floor squeaks under everyone’s shoes; it sounds like a Knicks game in the lobby. At the top of his mess of notifications, his Uber driver notifies him that he is two minutes out.

A rainy day in October. He should have known the chances. The Yankees are in town and its the division series, and he, by god, has to sit through dinner with his wife. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Mr. Reed looks down at his oxfords standing in a soft puddle and the rest of his cashmere ensemble and mutters more curse words. He should be running home, grabbing a change of clothes, and taking a hot date to the baseball game. Preferably, the one sending him scandalous photos. But anyone would do, really. Taking little note of those coming and going, other than to ensure they can’t see his screen, Mr. Reed backs away from the lobby’s bustle to take a closer look at the photo he received. Don’t get too excited now, he tells himself.

Mr. Reed lowers his phone, checks his surroundings once more, and then brings the phone back up to his face. He feels something devilishly wrong. A giddy sensation like when he was a teenager. Forbidden, pre-marital love. Secret sins, like a nudie-mag under the blankets with a flashlight.

“Whoops, sorry,” a stranger’s shoulder bumps into the back of him.

He should buy his own building one day, and when he does, he’d have his own God damn entrance and his own God damn driver that arrives on time. There are too many texts, emails, and notifications. The economy is propped up by government spending and the latest AI boom, and job growth has flattened. Can today’s grads find the jobs that schools promised them? Click to find out more. First seven days free, subscribe today! Bitcoin is down five percent. And a sneak peek at the calendar reminds him that tomorrow’s sales meeting starts at nine, not nine-thirty.

Yes, he is coming to dinner. Yes, he is hurrying to pounce on her ass. He verifies who gets which text. Can’t be too cautious these days when eyesight can’t be trusted. Damn the glasses and damn the ophthalmologists. Mr. Reed doesn’t need them and never will. The timing of his secret hookup and dinner date is also of crucial consideration. Kudos again to Ruth and her party, giving him enough cover to sneak out an hour early. He should be able to check each box on his agenda. Had they not all been checkable, he certainly knew which ones were fuckable.

Ugh, ‘checking boxes.’ That’s Emily’s thing. He hates how her terms, her sayings, her thoughts pop into his head. Maybe that’s why a little escape to O’Malley’s feels so good, and lord knows there will be pina coladas.

The Uber driver is here. Black sedan. Of course it’s black. They’re all black. He remembers when they were all yellow. Made them easier to see. The Uber is a Hyundai Elantra. These electric cars are popping up more and more nowadays. You can hardly hear them, they’re so quiet. Now the streets hum, like a constant light dog whistle. Mr. Reed’s mind is filled with complaints, overflowing with hate. But he would soon release it, his crotch already twitching with that anticipatory feeling. Mr. Reed shakes his head, resuming the task at hand.

He can be quick – had to be quick. But outside, he doesn’t see the black Elantra. It must be on the other side of the stagnant traffic. Mr. Reed tucks his phone in his breast pocket, merges into the flow of pedestrians, and braves the rain. And no, he does not like getting caught in it.

The sound of the city: Cars honking, bikes jing-jingling, and steam blowing up through the grates on the sidewalk. At least the streets aren’t filled with carbon monoxide - look at Mr. Reed finding a positive for once - but they still smell like shit.

“Umbrellas! Get your Umbrellas!” The vendors who usually sold rip-off Michael Khor purses have covered their inventory with a tarp and have switched to selling umbrellas and clear unisex rainflies, the kind baseball stadiums will pass around tonight.

A gas generator hums fifty feet away, supplying power to a hotdog stand. People around him are on phones, listening to phones, and hoisting phones for camera angles. A tin can rattles in the hand of a dusty old man tucked against the side of the building in the narrow strip of dryness.

There it is, the black Elantra across the street. Mr. Reed’s breast pocket vibrates. A text. A second text. Then an email. If he can just get into the backseat, he’ll finally be able to take his time drooling over the dirty photo he received from Emma.

He steps on the street, walks around the front of a dumpster truck, and, while peaking his head around it to look for oncoming traffic, is nearly sideswiped by a cyclist. Water sprays Mr. Reed.

“Hey, I’m walkin' here!” he shouts, watching as the biker pays no mind. With no traffic coming from the right, he steps out onto the street, having not seen nor heard the oncoming grey electric car from the left who wasn’t far behind the cyclist. In the rain and with less than decent vision, Mr. Reed confidently takes two steps toward the black Elantra parked across the street. It is the last thing a bitter and sex-deprived Mr. Reed sees before he is hit by a silent electric car blasting Britany Spears.

Part II

Upon awakening, Max is aware of two things. One – he is in a hospital, or so he thinks. Second – his wife is there with him. What is her name?

“Baby?”

“Oh my God!” Emily jumps up from her chair and steps to the bedside, grabbing his hand.

“Max, Max… are you okay?” She can’t help herself from crying. Why is she crying at the foot of this asshole? If her best friend Emma knew she was here coddling at his bedside, she'd slap her. 'Have some backbone why don't you?' she would say.

Max smiles, tries to sit up, and then the pain hits him.

“Ohh, owe...” He grimaces, perfect white teeth showing. All of them.

All there, thank God. Emily thinks, still not used to his new implants, but if there was one thing she did once love about Max.

“Shit, sorry,” Emily says, helping him lean back down on his pillow. She moves a piece of his brown hair to the side.

“Wow, I think…I think I got hit by something.”

Emily giggles, and that forces Max to giggle. He immediately winces in pain, instinctively holding his ribs.

“No laughing,” Emily chides. Forgetting the divorce papers in her purse, it seems all her anger has suddenly washed away.

“Where’s Blakely?” Max asks.

Emily’s heart swells. When's the last time Max said those words? From the day she was born, it was almost as if he had checked out of their lives. He never fed her, never changed her. And as she grew into a toddler, never taken to day care. Then kindergarten came and went, and Max didn't care to take a celebratory photo. He had a business deal to close. All this work, for what? To earn a fancy corner office where he'd get brick slapped by an electric car eight years later?

“She’s with Raquel, I didn’t have time to run and get her.”

“Who’s Raquel?”

Emily stutters in confusion, but before she can answer, a voice booms in the doorway.

“That boy awake?”

“Big Patricia!” Max calls, like she was an old friend from drama club. He tries to smile, but the pain is still there.

“Boy remembers my name, mhm, I knew it, I knew it. He be out in a coma, dead and they still hear ya alright."

“Coma?” Emily asks.

"Dead?" Max asks.

“No, he 'wake, now.” Patricia points the tip of her pen at Max as if Emily wouldn't know the difference between someone awake or in a coma. Emily shakes her head, confused by the train wreck of Patricia’s thought process. Meanwhile, Patricia checks his vitals.

“You in pain, baby?” She combs Max's hair to the side as she asks, the opposite way Emily had moved it.

Attention from women. The lady's man who had baristas, waitresses, and now nurses wrapped around his finger. How typical of Max, Emily notes, feeling that familiar tingle of hatred and cynicism. She remembers the divorce papers in her bag. She takes a breath. Today was supposed to be the day. Her friend Emma would kill her if she backed out now.

“She is baby,” Max nods to Emily. Emily raises a brow. Maybe she doesn't need him to sign them after all.

Oh?

Normal Max would have taken all the spotlight. Would have spread his arms and opened his mouth wide like a baby bird, chirping, ‘Feed me! Feed me!’

“That she is,” Patricia acknowledges with a jealous eye, “I’ll take that as a good sign then.” Patricia scribbles something on her clipboard and then mumbles to Emily that the Doctor will be by in a moment. They both know that's a lie.

“Max…” Emily smirks, “Why are you acting cute?”

“Cute?” Max gives Emily a look of I-am-the-victim-here.

“It’s just, oh never mind. What were you saying about Raquel?”

“Who? Wait! Baby. Baby, look.” Max moves his eyes down to his hand. “Where did it go?”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his ring finger.

“Where did what go?” Emily asks, feeling as though in a dream. Is he really asking about his ring? Confusing events, confusing things that Max is saying, doing, being! Max is all over the board. Where is his anger? Where is his contempt at the driver who hit him? Normal Max would be giving her the silent treatment, embarrassed to be emasculated here in a hospital bed. He would be on the phone with his lawyer, demanding the plates and name of the driver who ran him over. But here he is, happy as a clam, and acting like he’s infatuated with Emily.

“My ring. It’s gone! I think that’s why she was hitting on me,” Max whispers with a look of embarrassment as he glances at the doorway to be sure Patricia isn’t lurking.

Emily flushes red. Max’s ring is sitting on his dresser, right where he had left it months ago.

“Although…maybe I’m single now, and you’ll have to fight the nurse over me,” he wiggles his eyebrows playfully. But Emily doesn’t laugh. How much has he forgotten?

“I’m kidding baby!” he cries when he sees that she’s not laughing with him. “I love you! I’ll get another ring.”

And then, it dawns on Emily. The coo-coo birds have come home to roost. The small hairs on her skin raise at the idea that Max’s mind has been reset. Like a goddamn computer, an unsaved Microsoft document.

Knock, knock. It’s Max, version 1.0.

“Holy shit…” Emily says more to herself than to Max. Her head is spinning a million miles an hour. “Did you ask me who is Raquel? Our babysitter?”

“Babysitter?”

Holy shit.

Max has been knocked back in time. Emily smacks her forehead. Is this possible? Is this truly the original Max that she married? Not the money-hungry asshole he turned into? Is this a Hallmark movie where they could restart, where they could forget about the papers in her purse?

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Baby. That name again. Baby this, baby that. Emily grows suddenly suspicious… how much had he forgotten?

“What’s my name?” She narrows her eyes.

Max laughs nervously, avoiding eye contact. “What do you mean? What’s your name? It’s… you know… Baby, how could I forget?”

“Oh my fucking God.” Emily stands, her hand back on her forehead, this time in an effort not to hyperventilate. She brushes her glossy hair back, which is somewhat of a tangled mess, and takes audible breaths. He’s lost all his memory and has not the slightest clue they’re getting a divorce!

“Baby, calm down.”

“Don’t call me baby!” Emily snaps.

“Hey, I’m the one on the hospital bed. I remembered our daughter’s name, did I not? It’s me, Max. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Your birthday is February 11th, 1989. You majored in Art and then switched to an accounting degree at the last second. I’m sorry! The only names rolling through my head are fucken Patricia, Baby, and Brittany but I don’t think it’s Brittany.”

Emily spins around in a circle, looking up as though God or the fucking ceiling has an answer. She doesn’t know if she should be angry or embarrassed at the facts he remembers. She takes a breath with her eyes closed, and then slowly opens them, narrowing her gaze on her stupid, brain-dead husband.

“What year is it, MAX?”

“I sense tone.”

“Max…” Emily growls, walking back to his side, “What. Fucking. Year. Is it?”

“2018?”

“Jesus Christ,” she holds her mouth and walks toward the door, her back to Max.

“What? What?” Max’s gentle, teasing smile has all but evaporated. “Did I miss our daughter’s first words?”

“I mean… if you think it’s 2018 technically, yeah,” Emily says this off-handedly, like it matters no more than the color of the drapes on the wall. Which are beige. But it’s true regardless. Max did miss her first words. Blakely had said, “Blue.” Well, shouted it at the TV when the damn cartoon Jeffery Wiggle Moose asked what color the house was. The kid was a genius. Still is. Emily had run into the living room, asking – nay, demanding – her to say it again. “Blue! Say it again! Blue!”

“Blue!” She laughed an octave higher. The two had run around the house shouting "Blue!" while Max was at work, thinking about all the things that mattered to him. 'Trying to provide us with a living. To support Blakely.' But what was the point if he wasn't there with them?

The sound of sniffling pulls Emily away from her thoughts. She turns around to see Max, who is a snotty mess, tears streaming down his face. He clenches, balls up his fist, and then punches his head.

“Fucken dammit. Fucken dammit!” he hits himself again.

“Max! Stop it!” Emily shouts. There's a knock at the door, but they both ignore it.

"Mr. Reed?" The doctor calls.

But neither of them acknowledges the doctor. Max is on the verge of tears.

“What year is it, Emma? How much did I miss? Who’s Raquel? Her boyfriend? Is she dating already? Have I missed it all? Have I forgotten you and her forever?"

And there it is. Emma. That's who it was.

Emily pulls the papers from her purse and slaps them on the hospital bed.

"Yes, you did. But you forgot us long before today."

"What?" Max picks up the stack of papers.

Emily brushes shoulders with the doctor who's too shocked to say anything. She looks back one last time from the doorway. "And Max? One last thing. My name is Emily, dumbass."