Next Door Neighbors

However, how could she possibly mention those things to Robert? He had asked her, in the past, to roleplay, to try new things in bed, to experiment... and she had always refused him, claiming she liked sex just the way they did it and that there was absolutely no need for spicing things up; and yet, as soon as she met someone diametrically opposite to Robert—who, instead of asking, simply did—she complied to his every wish, even accepting the quickie in the hallway in the dead of the night.

She was not herself anymore, or, so at least she felt deep within, and it horrified her; could it be possible that Jenna's moving away had had such an impactful effect on her mindset? Could it be that, as soon as her beloved child left home in search for her own life and dreams, she became a dissatisfied with life housewife, suddenly finding herself wishing to live everything she didn't experience, due to the early pregnancy?

Lana would not accept it, despite sensing a harsh truth hidden underneath these horrendous thoughts; she was turning into the kind of woman she always mocked, the mothers she talked to in the playground, some 17 years prior. The 30-something-year old mothers, who talked freely about the lack of sexual activity in their marriage, their fantasizing of young studs, their desires to go back to their college years of wild partying and nameless fucking... things Lana never did experience, but never had longed for, up until very recently.

And it was this very recently that was eating her up from within, not allowing her a single moment of true inner peace; that very recently of her down on her knees for a stranger, being bent over in the hall right outside her home's front door, getting banged away roughly by a young stud she hardly knew.

She jumped up in sheer horror, when the bell rang; she stared at the front door for a very long minute petrified. In the end, she got up and reluctantly answered the door; it could have been anyone—perhaps, the superintendent was collecting money for the oil they'd have to buy, to make sure they stayed warm during the winter.

"Have you missed me?" Stan was leaning against the doorway relaxed, with a wide smile.

Chapter 4

"I don't have a lot of time," she said sternly, as they sat in Stan's kitchen, opposite one another. "Robert'll be home in a hour, or so."

"That leaves us an hour to..." he winked at her, purposefully leaving the sentence unfinished.

"No," she said sternly, "don't even think about it!"

He laughed, warmly. "I actually wasn't. It's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Go on," she gestured with her finger, allowing a sigh of relief to escape her mouth.

"Well, it's like this," he explained, his smile growing wider and brighter, "I'm having a little party this coming Saturday. And I'd love to have you there."

"A party, huh?" She nodded.

"Well, it's more of a... gathering, to be honest," he shrugged his shoulders. "You know, inviting a few friends over, to show off my new home; I think it's nice to debut a new home with a friendly gathering.

"Don't you?"

"Sure," she agreed, finally able to crack up a smile. "It's just... should I tell Robert?"

"Right, Robert," he scoffed the name out. "Well, I'm not sure it'd be... you know, all things considering; besides, I don't even know him, I've never even seen the man!"

"Be that as it may," she raised her index finger like a teacher scolding an unruly pupil, "he's my husband and, if I'm to come, he'll probably want to join; otherwise, he might get suspicious over why you only invited me."

"You don't have to tell him where you're going, you know," he said. "Just tell him you're going out with friends, or something."

"Why would I do that?" She raised her eyebrow. "Is there something I ought to know about this... gathering of yours?"

"No, no..." he shook his head quickly; his smile instantly turned into a frown. "I just think... it'd be better if... I don't know," he gave up, desperate over his sudden loss of words.

"You believed I'd say yes immediately," she snapped her fingers with a wicked grin, "and now, you're struggling, because I'm onto you. You do plan something different than just a gathering."

"I told you, no," he said, frustrated. "It's just a gathering. I simply don't think your husband would fit in with the company, alright? That's all; he's much older than me and my friends, he's... he won't be able to be a part of any conversations. It'd be too boring for him; why would you subject him into something like this?

"Force him to come to a gathering of people half his age?"

"What makes you think I'll fare any better than he?"

"I've talked to you," he said, his agony visible in his eyes, "I know you won't have any problem mingling with the crowd; Hell, I think you'll be a total pleasure to have around, my friends are going to love you."

"How do you know Robert isn't even better at it than me? Sure, Robert won't have sex with you, but, you haven't even met him. How can you be so sure he's a bore?"

"I..." he rubbed his eyebrows hard; Lana leaned back on the chair with a wide satisfactory smile. "Look," Stan exhaled heavily and stared straight into her eyes, "I don't know, per se, that your husband is a bore; it's just that I know, from experience, that guys his age, and with his life experiences, do not mingle well with my friends, and in general with younger crowds.

"It's just... they have a completely different point of view; they think people my age to be irresponsible, immature, everything bad, in a way... they think they know everything, just because they've lived a few years more than me... In gatherings like mine, where almost everybody is in their mid-20's, your husband will have nothing to talk about; either he'll get angry at my friends for their carefree way of dealing with life and start scolding everyone, or, he'll simply sit in a corner, sip on his drink, and count the minutes till it's all over, so he can go home and relax.

"Granted, maybe your husband is the exception to the rule; but, so far, I haven't met anyone his age that could mingle with people my age for more than a few minutes."

"Again, what makes you think I won't be like that? That I am not like the person you've just described, like all 30- and 40-year olds you've so far encountered?"

"I told you, because we've talked, because we've..."

"Fucked," she added. "Look, Stan," she said, after drawing a deep breath, "you're obviously hiding something from me; maybe, because you fear I won't show up, if you tell me the nature of this gathering.

"Perhaps," she offered him a smile, "you're right; maybe, I won't like what you'll say and I won't show up. On the other hand, you may just as well tell me, because, as long as you keep up with this story of the gathering and the bullshit excuses for why you don't want Robert to come, I most certainly won't show up.

"And, who knows," she shrugged her shoulders and winked at him suggestively, "I may even like your real idea."

"Jesus, you're suspicious!" He protested, albeit in jest. "What happened to the whole 'trust your neighbor' concept?"

"With us," she retorted, half-joking half-dead-serious, "it was abolished, the moment you blackmailed me."

"Blackmail?" He laughed, harshly. "I never did such thing! I simply... gave you two options," he shrugged his shoulders, attempting with his smile to turn the conversation into a joke. "It's not my fault, if either of the options didn't really suit you... or, if you regretted the option you took."

"Right," she frowned. "I guess, it's all about perspective, huh? I see it as blackmail¸ you see it as option-giving; hell, it doesn't even matter now, does it? What happened, happened... for better or for worse," she added in a cold tone, and inwardly she rejoiced, when she noticed confusion and disappointment in his gaze.

"All right," he sighed in defeat, "you want the truth? Here's the truth: I am having a small home warming; I've invited about ten of my friends, who live in the city. It's going to be a cozy gathering, with some fingerfood, cold beer, and wine; nothing extraordinary, nothing bizarre.

"Just a way to show my apartment—now that I've concluded all the renovations and tasks that had to be done—to my friends; and, I've invited you, because I consider you a friend, in some form or meaning of the word. And I want you to see my apartment, too."

"I'm right here," she opened her arms wide open, "you can give me the tour right now. I don't have to come Saturday to see it along everyone else; you're done with setting it up, right? You just said so.

"So, why not just give me the tour now?"

"I simply thought," he said, with a faint tone of anger arising in his voice, "you'd want to come to the gathering, that's all; I simply thought, wrongly apparently, that you considered me a friend, in some shape or form, too. I believed you'd want to come to my gathering; obviously, I was wrong."

"Nice try," she nodded approvingly and with a sarcastic chuckle escaping her lips, "to make me doubt your true intentions. It almost worked, too... then, I remembered our first meeting and... well, I still don't buy your story. There's something amiss, something you're scared to tell me."

"I can't help it, if you so adamantly refuse to believe me... if you really think I'm such a scum, that I invite you to my gathering, because I have a secret agenda... fine!" He spat out the last word, in exasperation. "Don't come. Stay home, with your husband. Do whatever you want! I'm not going to beg you; is that it? Do you want me to beg and grovel and get down on my knees? You want me to humiliate myself, in order for you to come?"

She giggled. "Although I'd enjoy the sight, no, it's not what I'm after; not by a long shot. I told you, I'm simply after the truth; you're so horrified of telling me, yet, if you did, you could even convince me to come to your little so-called gathering."

"The truth, huh? Alright," he scratched the top of his head, wiped the sweat off his forehead, "here's the truth: I might have told my friends I have a sexy next-door neighbor; you know, the whole milf-next-door concept? Good; so, I may have told them that.

"And, I may have also mentioned what happened between us... the... right. So, they're coming to my home warming gathering—because that's what it really is—expecting to see a hot piece of housewife ass; they aren't coming with any physical intentions, if that's what you thought.

"They may simply be aware of my hot-ass neighbor and highly curious to meet her; that's all there is to it."

"I appreciate the compliments—I guess we could call your characterizations that," she responded, after a few moments of confused silence, "but, I'm not sure I follow; the reason you want me to your gathering, is because you told your friends we fucked? And, suddenly, they expect me to be there? Otherwise, they'll be disappointed, or something?

"Do you even realize how insipid it sounds?"

"Well," he cleared his throat, "don't they say that truth is stranger than fiction?"

"What does that..."

"It means," he pointed his finger at her, a sense of victory overwhelming him, "that, sometimes, the truth is so damn simple, and yet, we make it complicated in our heads, because we refuse to accept it. We always want to find hidden motives, messages between the lines; we've been molded in such a way through fiction that, when we encounter the truth, we consider it to be a lie, simply because we refuse to accept that, sometimes, there are no underlying motives."

"Be that as it may," Lana said, having grown tired of the ongoing beating of a dead horse, "I still don't buy it; but, I'll tell you this: come Saturday, I may drop by. If for nothing else, to give you a chance to prove me wrong," she smiled at him warmly and playfully.

"I guess, I'll have to learn to live with the may, huh?" He nodded, approvingly.

"Yup," she got up, giggling. "Well, I ought to go home; Robert may return any minute now."

"And we don't want him to see you coming out of my apartment, huh?" Stan followed her to the front door, his expression suddenly brightening up. "Otherwise, he might suspect something, right?"

"I thought we were over this," she looked at him inquiringly, her heart abruptly beginning to race.

"We are," he agreed, "I think; it depends."

"On what?" She demanded, her hand on the doorknob, but not daring to push it down.

"Maybe, on your behavior," he shrugged his shoulders. "You know, whether you embarrass me in front of my friends, or not..."

"Right..." she frowned, drew a deep breath. "As I said, I may drop by Saturday; just, don't take it for a certainty."

"Oh, no," he shook his head, laughing, "I'm not; as you said, maybe you'll drop by."

"Right," she gave him a last inquiring glance, then opened the door and hurried back home.

* * * *

"Well, how was your day?" Lana asked, wishfully, holding her coffee mug firmly.

"Same old shit..." Robert spat out, after a good snort of gin out of the bottle. "Sorry, honey, I..." he took a deep breath and, with vicious inner struggle, raised his gaze to meet hers.

"What's gotten over you?" She pursued, worrisomely.

"I don't know..." he admitted, hanging his head down. "I really don't..." he glared at the bottle, then, almost without thinking, raised it and took a long hit.

"Robert, honey," she reached out and took his hand (the one not hanging on to the bottle as if his life depended on it) into hers, "why don't you speak to me? Tell me what's really been going on?"

"There's... nothing to tell... Lana... baby... honestly..." the words came out of his mouth with extreme difficulty, as he tried, desperately, to articulate each word clearly, yet ultimately without managing to utter a coherent sentence.

"There's obviously something wrong," she pointed out, yet, her mind abruptly got busy with thinking about her conversation with Stan and his real plans for Saturday. "You can tell me, Robert; you can tell me anything, you know that."

"I know," he said, his eyes staring at the ceiling shamefully. "You've always been honest to me, honey, and I've..." he drew a deep breath, paused long.

"You've what?" She encouraged him, trying hard to masquerade her anxiety; besides, she suddenly felt a hypocrite, knowing too damn well she, too, was hiding something and was adamant on not admitting it, while pushing Robert hard to spill out his secret.

"I just..." Robert smiled pathetically and, finally, gathered up the courage to look straight into her eyes, "I've just concealed some gruesome details from you, love."

"What are you talking about?" Lana exclaimed, exasperated.

"My business is not going well, Lana," he said heavily. "The fact of the matter is, we're living on our meager savings right now; no one's paying me. None of my clients are in a position to pay me; which means, we can't serve our loan to the bank, we can't... when our savings dry out, we're royally fucked.

"Like pretty much everybody else," he said at last, with a heavy sigh of relief.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" She protested.

"I thought... it'd be temporary; I really did believe it wouldn't last, you know, the... draught. But, now," he smiled sorrowfully, "I honestly think it'll take years for things to get even slightly better.

"You ought to know; I should have told you from the beginning. I was just... afraid, you know? I didn't want you to worry without a reason."

"Is that why you took up drinking? When did it start?" She demanded.

"Oh, that..." he looked at the half-empty bottle and restrained himself, after a long inner battle, from taking another hit. "That's... just a few months now... thanks to a client of mine."

"Meaning?" She pursued, when he remained silent clearly unwilling to proceed with the details.

"I work for this author... he's written a couple of semi-successful novels. He came to me, wanting me to help him invest his earnings properly, so that he could live off his earnings.

"The point is, the man's an alcoholic; and a drug-fiend. Don't worry," he hastily added, when her expression turned grave, "I haven't done anything like that; it's just... a few times, he's taken me to this bar; we drank beer at noon. I had nothing else to do, no work that had to be done.

"We drank and he told me of his story; how he lived in the gutter for years, how he couldn't get anything published. He slept in shooting galleries—places where addicts go to take their dose—and spent his days in dive-bars, constantly drinking.

"At any rate," he concluded, "I've been meeting him in this bar close to my office for a couple of months now... I've tried to keep up with his drinking; I felt like a complete pussy, when he was ordering his fourth beer and I was still halfway through my first.

"I managed to hide it from you, because I always got to the office a couple of hours before I had to leave, so I could sober up; I drank coffee, washed my face vigorously, vomited.. did everything possible to ensure I was sober, when I came home.

"It's only in the last few days I..." he paused for the needful fix. "That I felt compelled to drink in the afternoons; I hoped I could ride it off, that I wouldn't have to tell you all this... but, apparently, I stand corrected.

"I do hope you'll forgive me, and..."

"Honey," she held his hand tenderly, talking in the mellowest of tones, "of course I'll help you; you should have told me from the start. We wouldn't have reached this point; but, I'll do anything to help you. I promise.

"However," she reached for the bottle and battled it out of his grip, "you'll have to quit; no excuses. I don't care if we're poor; we're together, we love each other. That's what truly matters; even if we have to sleep in a trailer for a few years, if we're together, it won't matter.

"Okay?" She leaned forward, over the metal kitchen table, and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Yes, I..." he nodded, flabbergasted. "I was so afraid... I was so damn stupid," he cursed himself vividly.

"Don't beat yourself up," she told him softly. "Although," she gave him a wide smile, "you shouldn't have doubted my loyalty and love, Robert."

"I know, I know," he agreed hastily. "I was just being stupid, I... you know how it is; I thought I'd lose you, if I couldn't provide you with a decent standard of living."

"Quit being so macho and what-not," she scolded him, jesting. "You know, I hope, that I care far more for you than any sort of riches, or luxuries."

"Yes, I know, I... I was just being stupid, that's all."

"So, you'll quit the drinking?"

"Yes, I promise," he nodded, with a frown. "May I, though, have the bottle? Just one last sip..."

"That's not the way to quit," she pulled the bottle closer to her, holding on to it tight.

"I know, I know..." he admitted, shamefully. "I just want..."

"Want, or need?" She demanded, her eyebrows raised.

"Want," he replied with determination. "I want one last sip; I don't need it."

"You sure?" She inquired.