TITLE: The Affair AUTHOR: ARCHAYNE1 E-MAIL: ARCHAYNE1@AOL.COM RATING: R CATEGORY: Red Shoe Diaries/Kung Fu: The Legend Continues/Crossover Story AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Red Shoe Diaries is an anthology series on Showtime. The narrator, Jake, is a man who lost his fiancee to suicide. He discovered, upon reading her diary, that she had had an affair because she felt trapped, and that it had gotten wildly out of control. Jake published a personal ads to locate other women, to try and understand how this could have happened. The series is romantic, sexy and always different. (and by the way, Jake is played by David Duchovny!!) Send your comments to Archayne1@aol.com. This story belongs to Archayne1. THE AFFAIR (complete) "Ladies, do you keep a diary? Have you been betrayed? Have you betrayed another? Man, 35, wounded and alone, trying to recover from loss of once in a lifetime love, trying to understand why. All replies confidential.." Jake walked into the familiar coffee shop, golden and thick with morning sunshine, smiled at his usual waitress and opened his post office drop box from the wall of them in back. Thick stack of letters, as always, one in a distinctive pale stationary, with beautiful black handwriting. He left it on top, took his cardboard cup of coffee and went outside again, to where his dog, his former fiancee's pet, waited. She heeled without a leash, following the handsome man as he talked to her, sitting at his feet when he went down to the pier and perched on a convenient piling. Jake set his coffee beside him on the rough boards and opened the pale envelope, smiling as a whiff of expensive, delicious scent hit his nose. "This ought to be a good one, Stella." The shaggy black and white thumped her tail in agreement and Jake began to read: *Dear Red Shoes: Betrayal...ugly word, isn't it? Dramatic too, if you say "someone hurt me", or even "cheated on me", it sounds so much better than "betrayed me". What is it anyway? What constitutes a betrayal? I was afraid to find out, afraid to explore any further, but was it because I'd be hurt? Or because I might find out that passion is worth any number of lies, and betrayal is a small price to pay for a fantasy come true... My life was not an exciting one, I worked in a cubicle, typing accident reports and scribbled notes in a Chinatown police precinct. I knew all the officers and detectives by name, I heard their problems by the coffee machine as I made fresh coffee, as they waited impatiently for me to fill the copier with paper, and replace the toner. I had a high tolerance for backlash snappishness, and a good thing, I came in for more than my fair share, just lucky enough to be in the right place, I guess. And that's about the only time I got noticed, when some hotshot needed a whipping girl. Granted, I didn't encourage interest, or second glances the way some of the girls do. I wore my hair in a functional French braid, and stuck to a very simple work wardrobe, cotton dresses in the summer, and wool or flannel for winter, in plain colours. Maybe they think I am Amish!! :) That's a joke, Red. When I saw him, you would have thought I was dressed to kill, in some fancy Saks 5th Ave ensemble, with a limo out front and a reservation at Lutece waiting. I couldn't help it. Do you believe in love at first sight? How about lust? He had been shot, the much fabled flesh wound, and you can guess that our detectives are too macho, even the female ones, to go the hospital over a flesh wound. I could see the blood seeping through his white shirt, making a wet patch on the dark suit sleeve, and for once I acted before I thought. First aid kit from my desk in hand, ( I was once a Campfire Girl, and I am still prepared, all these years later. I can make a one match fire, too, in case you are interested.) I gingerly knocked on his half open door, ignoring the do not disturb sign like one possessed. He looked up, his trademark sunglasses off for once, and scowled. "Can I help you?" he, well frankly, he sneered. Yesterday I would have scattered like a flock of bunnies. Today.. "Your arm, Detective Griffin. Can I give you a hand? You're still bleeding." He glanced down at it and shrugged, dismissively, turning back to his computer. "It'll stop." "And it will get infected too." I replied, surprised at my own boldness, "Now, don't be stubborn, Detective. This will just take a minute." I put down the kit, opening it, and waited, arms crossed over my chest ( to hide my shaking hands!). He looked back at me, and sighed, then stood and peeled off his jacket with a wince. The shirt beneath had a rapidly growing red stain, and I moved without thinking to help him ease it off his shoulder. His skin was warm and silky beneath my fingertips and I tried not to hurt him as I gently pulled the soaked fabric free. It wasn't bad, really, a graze in the hard flesh of his bicep, but it was in an awkward place for him to reach. Feeling a little more confident, I swabbed at the cut with a Bactine soaked gauze pad, then put another one down, with a dry bandage above to apply pressure and finish off the bleeding before wrapping it. "Strong fingers." He commented, his warm breath brushing my cheek. I managed not to jump. "Excuse me?" I stammered and he gestured to where I held his arm, and the gauze in place. "Strong fingers" he said again, and smiled at me. "Pretty too, not filed to points and painted blood red." My pulse fluttered, and I glanced at my hands. They weren't that bad, not terribly lady like, but small and capable looking. My nails are short and clean and that's about all you can say for them, but apparently tough guy detectives like the look. He reached down and casually picked up one of my hands as I finished cleaning and wrapping his arm. "To what do I owe this kind of service?" he asked, in a deep rich voice that echoed from my ears to points south. "If I didn't, your report would be even more illegible than usual, dot do that Detective, you'll get.." Too late, he had kissed the back of my hand, trailing his warm (scalding, branding, sensually inferno like!) lips down to the fingers, and received a mouth full of Bactine. He grimaced and I couldn't help laughing which turned the grimace to a glower. "Here, I'll get you something to wash the taste away, a Sprite or.." "Never mind." he said curtly and pulled me against him, his mouth landing hard against mine. Little explosions along my spine, soft lips and hard teeth and thrusting tongue.. and I pulled back for air. Briefly. A gulp of air, and I was kissing him back. I think he locked the door while I kicked off my shoes, but I'm sure that his hands were unbuttoning my dress while his shirt was coming completely off. So I must have been doing that, and I'll take responsibility for his belt too. I honestly don't remember if he wore boxers or briefs or anything at all, but he had a condom at the crucial desktop moment, and that was all I cared about. Warm, firm male body, musky skin and slippery fingers clutching at me, dark velvet voice in my ear. Giving and taking and urgent touches, yielding to unspoken demands and hidden pleas...it was transcendent, somehow avoiding the usual back seat fumbling and awkwardness, and then it was over, and I was dressing, and he was putting his shades back on. And then I left, to go home to my husband. Oh, that sounds bad, right Red Shoes? Adulteress in the first degree, definition of the word betrayal right here. But it isn't as bad as you're thinking. I promise:) Now, would a cold blooded adulteress use smilies? I let the brisk wind blow me through the front door of our home. Tossing my keys on the hall table, I checked through the mail before going in search of "Stephan!" My husband of ten years came into the foyer to meet me. He was fifty two then, a handsome man, tall and dignified, and gently indulgent toward his child bride. I'd been seventeen when I married him, after the death of my father, and in many ways, I was a child still in his eyes. He approved both my work and evening clothes, my charity functions, even my hairstyles. "Hello, darling" he bent to kiss my cheek, and I smiled up at him. "You're a bit late tonight. Was traffic bad?" "Not really, dear, but I had to stop off at the gym this evening." I did, too. I had to take a LONG shower. "Ah, did you have fun? Well, of course, you must have. Your colour is so good." He patted my cheek and smiled fondly down at me. "Better hurry and change, little one. Supper is at six, you know." I murmured an appropriate reply, obediently headed up the stairs, and found a dinner dress, with shoes and jewelry, already laid out by my too efficient maid. Stephen's maid, really. He insists on paying for everything in our home, including personal servants, as unnecessary as they may be. I never had a maid growing up, but he assured me, when we married, that "people in our circle do, darling." I sat still while Bernadette brushed out my hair and pinned it up, helped me into my dinner gown and fastened the clasp of the pearls she had selected. The shadowy figure in the mirror still had glowing cheeks and almost swollen lips, and her eyes were fever bright. I traced a hand over my lips in wonder, remembering, then hurried downstairs to supper. My husband was waiting, rising with a half bow to greet me, then motioning the butler to begin serving. As we ate, I studied the distinguished face across from me, thinking back to when we had first met. He was my father's attorney, and had often dined with us at home, treating me with charmingly old fashioned courtesy that made me blush. When Father died, and I was so alone, he had come then and explained that my father had left a trust for me. I could attend any number of good boarding schools, and he would see that my bills were paid, until I was twenty five and the trust came into my hands completely. Or, I could have it all now, if I preferred, by getting married. I remember laughing at the very idea, until Stephen handed me a small velvet box containing a truly amazing antique diamond ring. It was then that I realized that he meant, if I married him, and that he was proposing. I was overwhelmed, and flattered, and grieving for the stern, kindly man I had lost. Stephen stepped in and took his place, and we married three months later. Knowing him, as I do know, I know why he married me. He has a kind heart, my husband, and a shrewd mind, and a well concealing liking for young girls. Not children, of course, but fresh young women, and I fit the bill admirably. He would be praised and lauded for caring for his old friend's daughter, and would have what he craved so intently waiting for him at home. He no longer comes near me, he hasn't in years, but we are friends, Stephan and I. We have been quite content with the status quo, he with his outside activities, and I being left in peace. I never cared enough about marital intimacies to miss them, until HE walked into my life. I could still taste the salt of his skin on my lips.."all right with you, dear?" I jolted back to reality and supper, licking my lips unknowingly as I spoke, "I'm sorry, darling, I was wool gathering. You asked?" "If things are well with you, pet. You seem quite distracted. Is that job you insist on keeping too much for you?" Stephen hated that I worked, at least he hated me working such an thankless job. I could never have explained to him why I loved it so, even the ungrateful complaining detectives. "No, of course not, Stephen. I'm just a little tired. I think I'll go to bed early this evening." He nodded sagely, and signaled Michael to clear, and bring coffee. "That might be wise, then." I asked him about his day then, as a good wife should, and he told a few funny stories as he drank his coffee and I sipped the tea Michael had brought with a raised eyebrow. We always drank coffee after dinner, with a selection of French pastries that Juliet, our cook, delighted in baking fresh each day. I was in a dangerous mood, a rebellious mood, and I was suddenly bored with Stephan's well bred charm, his suitable anecdotes, and even the thin, exquisite bone china cup I drank from. Abruptly, I stood, sloshing tea over the rim of my cup into the saucer as I tossed my napkin to the tabletop. "Goodnight, Stephen." I said quietly, and headed for the stairs. "Darling?" I heard the question in his voice, and the subtle command. Obediently, I turned and crossed back to kiss him goodnight. "Forgive me, dear. I'm not quite myself." and then I was free. I lay in my bath, scented steam in clouds around me, and imagined my detective there. And then I laughed, seeing him ,so out of place in my cream and gilt bathroom, my dressing room, my maiden's sanctuary of a bedroom. If my rooms reflected my inner self, my self when I was with him on the desk, they'd be draped in scarlet satin, black velvet, huge mirrors and...reality hit. I wasn't going to redecorate my rooms. He was never going to see them. If I were smart, he would never see me again either. I was a married woman, and owed Stephen loyalty and fidelity. "He hasn't given it to you" that scarlet woman within whispered and I ordered her to silence. Not that it worked. I never shut up when I should, and my subconscious is no different. When I finally emerged, wrapped in a huge bath sheet, I went straight to bed, only to be awakened a little while later by Stephen. Could he sense that I had been unfaithful to him? If not, why would he have chosen this night, of all nights, to make an unexpected visit to my bed? He hadn't touched me in months, maybe years, but that night he was avid and demanding. I let him have his way, and only afterwards did I cry, turning my head aside as he fell asleep beside me. Only afterwards, after my husband's lovemaking, did I feel like a whore. I looked no different in the mirror as I dressed for work, but it seemed as if it must show, somehow. My braid was as tight, my dress as plain, I didn't use any makeup, but my cheeks felt feverish and my eyes were very bright. I blushed when I saw him come in, carefully not watching him go to his office as I entered details from a robbery on the third shift into the computer. It was almost noon before I saw him again, and even then he spoke first. "Are you free? I need help with some paperwork in my office." Dark velvet voice, wrapping around me, and I couldn't believe I managed to say, "Certainly, Detective" without trembling. I did, I sounded quite cool and distant as I followed him to the office. Inside, I backed against the door, staring at him, tasting his mouth again in my mind. I hadn't understood the phrase "hungering" for another person, until that moment. Without a word, it happened again. And again. Weekends were too long, I went "shopping" while Stephen golfed and spent long hours at an uptown apartment, indulging my body and his. We met everyday, and somewhere in between the need, we became friends. His stern exterior hid a wickedly keen sense of humor, and a tenderness I had never known with anyone. I was myself again, I could feel him appreciate and admire me as a woman, as the woman I should have grown into, not Stephen's child wife, not Deering's orphaned daughter. He asked my opinion, listened to my thoughts, and loved my body with a thorough worship that left me breathless. I had never been happier, more content with my life, my complicated, exciting life. He never asked about my husband. I was too naive that first day to have removed my rings, and afterwards, I left them on deliberately, tempting fate. I'd read accounts of affairs before, where the heroine described her wedding ring as a fetter, a chain, a brand of guilt. They were just jewelry to me, Stephen was my fetter, but I was stretching the chain as far as I could. My detective never wanted to know about my marriage, seemingly accepting that I was his, the way I knew he was mine, when we were together. And Stephen didn't ask me about, anything, really, but then he never had done so in the past. He would nod as I came in, we would talk about the house, the weather, his day. So how was it that I was cheating him? What was being taken from him that he valued? He didn't want my mind, my new found maturity. He didn't want my body, with rare exceptions. I was there when he expected me, at functions and dinners, Stephen's pretty young wife doll, wind her up and she smiles and says all the right things. I was the perfect accessory, so much more valuable than his Patek watch and his solid gold money clip. I didn't think about what I was to my detective. I didn't think at all when I was with him, I lived. I was exactly whoever I happened to be at that moment, funny, frank, tender, wanton, wild and shy, he loved all of my moods and told me so. He wanted me as I was, he never expected me to be anyone else, to put up a front..even at work, his sanctuary, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. We did try, however, and must have succeeded for several months. There was no warning that my secret life was about to be hauled into harsh daylight from its' candlelit shadows. Then, it happened. We got careless, came back together from lunch, and Stephen was waiting out in front of the precinct. I didn't see him there, that was the worst part, drunk as I was on Kermit's kisses. We were laughing and teasing each other when I heard my name spoken in a terrible voice. He never yelled, just spoke, my name suddenly an epitaph, a synonym for all that was despoiled and vain and faithless. I turned, and shrank back against my lover to escape the anger on my husband's face. His arm was strong around me as together we walked toward Stephen. My husband's gray eyes were glacial as he raked us up and down, appraising and cold. "So, this is the reason behind the job you will not leave. At least you chose a detective, my dear, and not some common beat officer." He leaned back against the door of the Rolls and sighed. "I should have expected this, I've left you far too much on your own, but you seemed to be maturing. Obviously, you haven't." "I am maturing, as you put it, Stephen. I'm finally a woman, a grown woman, not your child bride, not my father's little girl." "Sleeping around doesn't make you a woman, pet, it just makes you a whore." He glanced again at Kermit, dismissing him. "Now, get in the car, and we will continue this discussion at home." I felt Kermit's arm tighten and his deep voice rumbled. "She isn't going anywhere, unless she chooses." He looked down at me, touched my faced tenderly with a gloved hand. "I cant promise you what you have, sweetheart. I'm not the marrying kind. All I can give you is what we have." but the look in his eyes was so loving, it belied his words. Then I looked at my husband, and saw something I never expected to see on his face. Pain. I had hurt him, and I had never intended to do that! I couldn't think, I couldn't decide, and then I stepped away from my detective, away from Stephen. I smiled through tears at each of them, and walked away, quickly. So, here I am, Red Shoes, here in my hotel room, trying to make a decision. Passion or duty? My nice comfortable life, or a chance at the kind of love of which I have always dreamed? Wife or whore, which am I? Is love always worth the price? Thanks for listening, wish me luck with the answers....* Jake folded the letter back into the scented envelope and patted the white and black dog leaning against his leg. "Which do you think she chose, Stella? If it really was love, that is, and not lust. I don't envy her the choice, but I wish her well, wherever she is. I wish her the kind of love she wants. Come on, girl, let's head home.." and man and dog walked away.