Name of the Game - a short story

I penned Name of the Game years before I wrote my first novel. Like many of my short stories written during this period, it was autobiographical. I was a freshly divorced geologist working for myself in Oklahoma City and making more money than I'd ever thought possible. When I wasn't in the geologic library creating a new prospect, I was likely in a dark bar getting drunk. My friend Dave (also a geologist) and I were in a downtown bar called Over the Counter because the owner had begun his professional life as a stock broker. Two young women entered the bar. Kathy, one of the women, was my former neighbor. She was a geologic secretary for an oil company. Marsha, the woman with her, was her best friend. I invited them to join Dave and me, and they did.

Marsha was married; my first clue was the big diamond ring on her finger. We had several drinks. Before the night ended, I asked her to come to my apartment the following Saturday and make love. I know! Times were different in the late 70s, and downtown Oklahoma City was the hub of all things crazy. The start of our affair began when she knocked on my apartment door.

Our affair lasted less than a month, ending as abruptly as it had begun. More than once, Marsha asked me, "What's the name of the game?" I'd missed much of the early seventies trying to keep from getting killed in a dirty little war in Southeast Asia and then immersing myself in academia at the University of Arkansas while I completed my geology degree. Years later, I realized The Name of the Game was the title of a hit song by the Swedish rock group ABBA.

Oh, and Dave and Kathy hooked up that night, their relationship lasting several years.

 Name of the Game

 

Rita used to wait for me at the building door where she worked. I would park close to the curb and linger until she came outside. Until that day, our routine was always the same. When I drove up, I noticed a powder-blue Mercedes had taken my usual parking spot. The car's nervous driver, a prepped-out lawyer with gelled hair, turned halfway around in his bucket seat to watch Rita leave the office complex.

“Who was that?” I asked.

Rita leaned across the seat and planted a sultry kiss on my lips. “I didn't see anyone.”

The man in the Mercedes watched us with interest and continued staring at us as we pulled away from the curb.

“Today, I want it hot and fast,” she said, turning the rearview mirror and using it to touch up her lipstick.

“Whatever. How have you been?”

Rita crossed her legs, revealing more than a momentary glance at her shapely thighs.

“Beyond irritation,” she said. “Russell came home late after leaving me alone with Jessica. Try communicating with a good-looking teenage cheerleader with tits bigger than her mom's.”

My smile was all the answer she needed. “What happened when Russell got home?”

“Absolutely nothing. I even paraded around in my stretch-lace teddy to show him what he was missing.”

Talk of Rita's husband always made me uncomfortable. Sensing my discomfort, she leaned across the console and squeezed my leg. It was a beautiful clear-blue day in late autumn, and Rita’s grin was wicked when I braked hard to avoid a squirrel scurrying across the road.

We barely spoke during the short distance to my apartment. The parking lot was empty, everyone at work, and we soon found a spot near the stairs. Fast and discrete. Just the way Rita liked it. She had her arms around me almost before I could lock the apartment door behind us.

“Miss me?” she asked.

“You know I did.”

“And these?”

She unbuttoned her frock blouse to the waist and cupped her breasts. With my fingers, I traced a narrow path up her flat stomach, but Rita had none of it. Grabbing my wrist, she pulled me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom in the back.

Recently divorced, my apartment was small, one bedroom. The apartment was dark, with only hazy sunlight shining through an open window. Rita liked the dark, and I didn’t bother turning on the lights.

“Let's not waste it.” Releasing my hand beside the bed, she dropped her dress, slip, and bra in one practiced motion and fell onto the covers. “Now, I want it hard and fast.”

I’d left the air conditioner on high before leaving for work that morning, and the room was cold as it was dark. Rita was neither, her eyes flashing. She was already hot after having all the foreplay she’d needed during our lustful stroll from the front door. For the next five minutes, she clawed painful Xs in my back, yanked handfuls of hair from my head, moaned loudly, and squirmed like a woman possessed. When we finished, she rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. She returned shortly, still totally naked and carrying a can of hair spray.

“Hurry,” she said. I have a prospective employee to interview at one. Can’t be late.”

“But we just got here.”

“And did what we came for. Now, be a sweetie. You know my job is vital to me.”

As I exited the bed and pulled on my pants, Rita returned to the bathroom to brush her hair. This time, she emerged, looking ready for an urgent business meeting. Seeing I wasn’t prepared, she tapped her shoe, waiting as I knotted my tie. Grasping my hand when I finished, she squeezed it and hurried me to the car.

Because of lunch-hour traffic, we found the return trip to her job much slower. Rita remained silent most of the way, although she was miffed. She didn’t talk until we were almost there.

“I have a question, and I need an answer.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Does there have to be?”

“It's your voice. You sound. . .”

Rita ignored my psychoanalysis, folded her arms, and turned her knees toward the door.

“Tell me. What's the name of the game?”

“Game? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“The one we're playing.”

I didn’t understand the issue and paused before answering.

“Infidelity, maybe?”

Rita closed her eyes. “This isn't a joke. I need a serious answer.”

A blaring horn distracted me from the unexpected course our conversation had taken. “Have I done something wrong?”

“You've done everything right, and I've enjoyed every minute. Cool drinks in smoky bars, peanut butter picnics in vacant lots, and steamy sex in all the ways I love. That’s what our relationship has meant to me. I just want to know what it means to you. Anything?”

“Something exciting and truly memorable. I can't remember having so much fun since I went skinny dipping with the homecoming queen in the principal's pool on graduation night.”

Rita's strained smile flickered briefly. “Now what? It's almost winter. The pool is empty.”

“You're shooting over my head. Is this about Russell? Are you thinking of divorce?”

“Russell's not the problem.”

“But isn't Russell part of the equation? And Jessica?”

“That's not what we're discussing here,” Rita said, her voice rising.

“Then please tell me what we are discussing.”

By now, her demeanor had diminished from silent composure to barely suppressed rage, and I still was unsure why.

“Just let me off in front of the building,” she said.

I coasted into the slow lane and allowed some angry motorists to surge past on the left. “First, explain why you're angry with me.”

She had neither a frown nor a smile, only an empty expression of quiet frustration as she pointed at the curb in front of her building.

“Pull in and let me out. I never play the game with someone who doesn't follow the rules. You don't even know we're playing.”

She hurried across the busy street without a backward glance. When I phoned to apologize, she didn’t take my call.

Three days passed, then a week, without a word from Rita. Finally, unable to control my curiosity and hurt feelings, I parked at the curb at our old meeting place by her office. From there, I watched, aware of a sudden rush of déjà vu as she walked out the door at exactly our usual time. I quickly realized why.

Even though she recognized my car as she hurried across the sidewalk, she didn’t look my way or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she focused her smiling attention on a young man in a black BMW as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Once inside, she wrapped herself around him and kissed him. She knew I was looking, and I wondered if her lustful actions had been for my benefit. I never found out.

As the car disappeared down the street, I watched the young man cast a curious glance in his rear-view mirror.

 ####

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.