Sweet Filthy Boy

The busiest part of the day has come and gone but we’re still lucky to find seats together. We sit side by side on the crowded train, and I watch our reflection in the window opposite us. Even in the grimy glass and beneath the harsh, often flickering fluorescent lights, it’s impossible to miss how beautiful he is. It’s not an adjective I’ve ever used to describe a guy before, but as I look at him, taking in the angles of his jaw, the prominence of his cheekbones offset by his soft, nearly feminine mouth, it’s the only one that seems to fit.

He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt to offer up a triangle of smooth, tan skin. The open shirt frames his long neck, the tempting hint of collarbone peeking out just enough to make me wonder why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.

As if sensing my gaze, Ansel’s eyes shift from the passing blur of track on the other side of the window, and meet mine in the glass. Our reflections rock with the movement of the train and Ansel watches me too, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. How is it possible to sit here like this in calm, companionable silence, when only an hour ago I had him inside me, my hands slick with sweat as my fingers fought for purchase on the faucet?

More passengers board at the next stop and Ansel moves, giving his seat to an older gentleman with heavy bags in each hand. They share a few words in French I obviously don’t understand, and he takes the spot in front of me, his right arm raised to grip the handrail suspended from the ceiling.

It gives me an exceptional view of his torso and the front of his dress pants. Yum.

The sound of laughter draws my attention and I see a group of girls seated only a few rows away. They’re probably in university, I think, and just a few years younger than me. Too old for high school but clearly still students. They sit with their heads pressed together and if their hushed giggles and wide-eyed stares are any indication, I know exactly what they’re looking at. Or, rather, whom.

I blink up to find him looking down at the older man, listening and oblivious to the leering glances being cast in his direction.

I don’t blame them, of course. If I saw Ansel on a train I’m positive I’d practically break my neck in an attempt to get a better look, and now the night I saw him across the bar in Vegas feels like a lifetime ago. It’s in these moments I find myself wanting to congratulate past-me for doing or saying whatever it was that caught Ansel’s attention in the first place and—by some act of God or alcohol I still don’t understand—held it. Sometimes, I think, past-me is a genius.

He laughs a deep, masculine laugh at something the man has said, and heaven help me, the dimple is out in full force again. I immediately glance over like the jealous girlfriend—wife—I’ve become and sure enough, every head in that gaggle of girls is turned, eyes wide, mouths wider, swooning over him.

And although I’ve said absolutely nothing, I’m beginning to wonder if every thought I have is somehow projected onto a screen above my head. Because it’s this moment Ansel chooses to glance down at me, eyes soft and warm as he reaches to brush a single finger along my bottom lip. Possessiveness sparks like a flare in my chest and I turn into his hand, pressing my mouth to his palm.

Ansel is beaming when the train comes to a stop at our station. He takes my hand as I stand and pulls me out the door, fitting his arm around my waist as soon as we’re on the platform.

“You left work early,” I say.

He laughs. “Are you only now realizing this?”

“No. Well . . . yes. I didn’t think about it before.” What he told me about his boss and his job replays itself like an echo inside my head. “You won’t be in trouble, will you?”

He shrugs in that way he does, easy and loose. “I can work from home,” he says. “I went in before everyone else, and even leaving as early as I did, I still worked a full day. It just wasn’t a fourteen-hour one. They’re going to have to adjust.”

But clearly they won’t have to adjust yet. Ansel kisses me sweetly when we walk into the flat, and then moves to his desk, booting up his laptop. As if on cue, his phone rings and he shrugs at me apologetically before answering it with a clipped “llo?”

I hear a deep male voice on the other end, and then, instead of his weary work expression, see a happy smile spread over my husband’s face. “Hey, Olls,” he says. “Yeah, we’re home.”

I wave, tell him to say hi to Oliver for me, and then turn to the bedroom, grabbing my book from the couch before closing the door behind me to give them some privacy.

The bed is wide and perfect, and I lie the wrong way across it, spreading out like a starfish. I can hear sounds from the street filtering up, and let the smell of bread and roasting garlic filter through my senses while I stare at my book, idly thinking about what we might do for dinner. But of course I can’t focus on a single word on the page.

Partly it’s the way Ansel’s smile into the phone lingers in my vision, or the way his voice sounded—so deep, relieved, relaxed—so different from how I’ve heard him the past few weeks. Even though he’s never awkward, and we just spent the most amazing evening out together, he’s still the tiniest bit formal with me, and I only see it now with the intimacy of a best friend on the other end of the line. It’s exactly how I am with Lola or Harlow: unguarded, unfiltered.

I listen to his voice through the door, wanting to absorb the velvet smoothness of it, his deep belly laugh. But then I hear him clear his throat and his voice drops. “She’s good. I mean, of course she’s amazing.” He pauses, and then laughs quietly. “I know you think that. You’ll think that even when we’ve been married for thirty years.”