Allure of the Vixen by C. C. Morian

everyone
had stopped to look at us, instantly realizing what was going on, a husband
catching his cheating wife with her lover.
    The blood rushed in my ears, deafening. I’m sure my
mouth was open, but my senses were numb, I wasn’t sure at all what I looked
like. Guilty, certainly.
    Which was what I’d expect Joanne to look, guilty.
Peter must be able to tell, just from the tone of her voice, about me, and about
what his wife had been doing with me.
    Yet Joanne looked anything but guilty, she was
totally relaxed, standing tall, that subtle amused look now suffusing her entire
face, a hint of a smile, her eyes moving from me to Peter and back.
    My hands were sweaty, or so I thought, but it was
only my drink, I had spilled it in shock. Slowly my senses returned, the buzz
in the room resumed, it had never stopped.
    I looked around, everything was as it was before,
people milling around, what eyes that were turned our way were on Joanne only,
not on me. On her because of her beauty, not because her nearness to me had
screamed some hidden secret.
    I was shaking, in surprise, and then, in anger.
Joanne had lied to me. She was married.
    I glanced over at Peter, who was frozen, staring at
his wife, in anguish, and now I understood what he had been talking about, or
so I thought, blessed yet cursed with this stunning woman. He didn’t have to
look around the room to know that every man was leering at her, some trying to
hide it as they sipped drinks, or looked over the shoulder of the person they
were chatting with, others openly ogling her.
    When Peter had told me about his wife, about how he
felt about men staring at her, and likely fantasizing about her, I never for a
minute thought about Joanne as I tried to picture who Peter was talking about,
which married woman in the office might be Peter’s wife. Joanne wasn’t one of
the married ones.
    It seemed I was wrong.
    Now Peter looked over at me, and his eyes widened.
My first reaction was that he had seen me staring at his wife, I had done
exactly what he said affected him so much. Even though I was separated from
Joanne by the back of the couch I shifted a little, subconsciously putting a
little more distance between us.
    Peter’s eyes returned to Joanne, and instinctively I
turned toward her. She was still a statue, not cold and frozen, but other than
the tiny smile, gave no indication of what she was thinking. Peter’s eyes
flicked back to me, and I met his gaze, trying to keep a poker face, but today,
or maybe because of something I was giving off, his face flushed, his pupils
dilated, his shoulders sagged.
    He knew.
    Nothing I could say or do would salvage this
situation, not that it was even mine to salvage. This was Joanne’s problem now,
hers and her husband’s. She had made her bed and now had to sleep in it.
    Actually, she had made her bed and I had slept in
it.
    I picked up a cocktail napkin and dried my drink,
washing my hands of everything that had happened, the conversation with Peter,
learning the truth. Washing my hands of Joanne.
    I felt like telling her to go fuck herself, but I
wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her deceit had affected
me. Instead I turned a cold eye on her, making it clear how I felt.
    Her reaction was not at all what I had expected.
Defensiveness, evasion, shame, all those responses might have been expected.
Instead, her normally cool demeanor dropped away, replaced by a sadness,
something I’d never seen in her, but I was certain of it. Her eyes melted, she
suddenly seemed lost, uncomprehending of the turn of events, not what she
expected.
    Not because of her husband’s witnessing of our
affair, but because of my cold reaction.
    Joanne shook her head slightly, not believing. From
her, this small gesture was like a shout, a cry for me to forgive her, to stay.
    My face was hard as I walked out the door, no longer
giving a shit who was watching.
    In the lobby I stopped at a kiosk and
bought a package of