four...

She’s the fifth. I suppose I’m a serial adultery-enabler. I’m not proud of it but I don’t remember how many years it’s been like this. It’s not like I was looking to fuck married women. It just sorta happened once… and now…Well, now it’s an addiction that I can’t seem to kick.

I celebrated my thirty-third birthday with my current lover, Richard’s wife. I’ve met Richard but can’t say that I know him very well. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend…I met his wife at one of his famous parties. I barely remember what he looks like. I have seen pictures of him around her home but I try to ignore them. I’ve noticed, however, that he’s at least a foot taller than her. Maybe more. She’s petite, barely over five-feet, and very thin. The other thing I remember about him is that he’s Chinese or something like that. But I wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a crowd. I think he’s the CEO of some Silly Valley company. Or, maybe the President. Or, both. I’m not sure. I don’t particularly care. The important part is that he’s away from home quite often.

So, anyway, back to his wife. She was installed in my head minutes after I met her.

“Do you know the painting?” A girlish voice inquired in a foreign accent.

“Yes… it’s a Chagall. But I can’t remember the name.” I said without turning around to look at the source of the inquiry.

“The Birthday.” She was standing next to me now and looking up at the painting. (I would later find out that the “Chagall” painting was actually a commissioned imitation.) The first thing that I noticed was the empty martini glass, held in a brown hand, the wrists simmering with at least a dozen electric blue glass bangles.

“Are you an artist?” She asked in what I recognized now as an East-Indian accent.

I turned towards her to answer the question. She looked older than she had sounded. (She is twenty-eight as I found out later.) Her eyebrows were tensed together; she was looking up at the painting as if she was pondering some complex calculus problem or considering the intricacies of the Israel-Palestine conflict.

“I, uh, of sorts,” I said.

She turned towards me and her face opened up in a smile. It was at that moment, that I knew that I'll find a way to have sex with her.

“What sorts?”

“Film. I’m a filmmaker. Are you an artist?”

“Of sorts,” she said. Laughing. “Not really. But my husband donated some money to the SFMOMA so I’m an art patron.” She paused and added, “by association.”

I was briefly disappointed to hear that she was married. But, I recovered quickly.

I was in familiar territory.