Zett Aguado

You see her step out of a common-looking car filled with vinyl suitcases and three scrubby kids. You hear she rents one of Ramsey Lane's cabins on the outskirts of town, near the heather. Her kids go to elementary school with your kids and you wonder how it is that three scrubby kids can look so unlike her and in fact, look nothing like each other.

She's on streets and boulevards selling weird-looking clay pots and 'sculptures' made of twigs and small branches. You buy one because you feel sorry for her. It is easy to pity a woman who depends on imaginary talent to survive.

Donna brings over cups of coffee in the morning after your husband leaves for work and says the woman is a gypsy. A vagabond. But more, she says, women like that are usually one kind of thing. What kind of women, you want to know. The kind that has been married three times and has a kid from each one, she says.

You don't listen. Pity the poor woman! Her pathetic little wares and her dirty knees and frayed clothing all scream pity. You think she must not have a friend in the world. You go into town and buy another useless sculpture and invite her to lunch.

She goes to your house for tuna fish sandwiches and potato salad. She walks around your living room and gushes over each photo. She likes the way you dress and the artwork in the bedroom. She complements the garden. You ignore the voice in your mind that tells you that anyone who has only compliments to give usually don't have the best intentions.

You offer her a second cup of coffee and decide to be her friend.

You take her shopping and buy her small articles of clothing and stock her refrigerator a few times a month. Your husband will never know. You are pretty well off and besides, friends help friends. She helps you, as well. You tell her things you don't tell other ladies in town. They'll judge you, she won't. You confide small secrets. She tells you hers.

Hers are more interesting than yours. She says she never liked sex, she just used it to get what she wanted when she was younger, but she learned that it didn't give her anything but stretch marks and three hungry mouths to feed. You admire her honesty.

You tell her so. She looks at you and blinks, then slowly kisses you on the lips. Her tongue is wet and her mouth is soft. Her small breasts rub up against yours and her crotch feels warm against your belly. You step back and tell her you love her as a friend. She grabs your shoulders and tells you she loves you, too.

I like men, not women and besides, you say, I'm married. She cries and asks if you are still friends. You tell her you need some space. Just a bit of time to put things in perspective but, yes of course, you are still friends. She leaves your house and you don't see her for a few months. You let your life occupy your space. PTA, luncheons, charity functions. You pass by the boulevard where she used to sit and don't see her anywhere. You are relieved.

She sits on your doorstep one afternoon and tells you she's sorry. She didn't know what came over her. You tell her it's okay but inside your mind, you really wish she had never shown up. She says she's found a job as a temp in the adjoining town, on the other side of the heather and her kids are at home with a babysitter. Would you mind, she asks, if we talked us over?

You agree. You don't know why, but you do.

You go inside and offer her chips. She asks for a drink. You offer Scotch; she asks if you have any tequila. You do. You drink shots laced with lime and a pinch of salt. By the time your husband comes home, you've sent your kids to the neighbors and are feeling drunk and warm. He seems pleased. He sits down in between both of you and gulps down a shot. Then, another. Then one more.

She takes off her jacket and flirts with your husband. You are too drunk to mind. It doesn't seem strange to you that he flirts back. You realize the tequila bottle is empty so you go to the basement where you keep cases of liquor and search for another. You don't remember passing out.

You come to and feel like vomiting. You walk up the stairs clumsily. You don't know how much time has passed but realize, as you walk into the living room and see your husband on top of her, his finger in her mouth and her legs surrounding him like a spider, that just enough time has passed for that to happen.

She sucks on your husband's finger. He pushes into her. You stand there and vomit on the carpet. Your husband comes at the same time.

You think it strange that everything is silent. Your husband pulls up his boxers and suit pants. She pulls down her skirt and grabs her purse. You stand there and say nothing.

Before she leaves, she whispers for only you to hear, I'm sorry, darling, but I did it for us. He's a pig. Call me in the morning.

PITY THE WOMAN

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