Fully Functional

“Where the hell did you get the money Kate?” What does it matter it was the twenty thousand we need I thought, as I stared into the desperate brown eyes of my husband of ten years. “Why you are asking me, just transfer it into the home loan account,” I hissed with contempt. How dare he question me! I did what I needed to do and sorted it. Trying hard to hide the look of disgust and my deep, dark boredom that hid behind his every word.

Covid had hit us hard. Our small family business in a sleepy little beach community was decimated and my fly in fly out work was made nearly impossible with all the border restrictions. We were in a hole, a profound mortgage arrears hole and his lack of ability to take care of us made my skin crawl. Once again, it was going to be up to me to fix everything.

I used to stare into the mirror every morning for so long that the features on my face no longer seemed to make sense. I would wonder how many of us are out there, fully functional outcasts, walking around, living our lives. As far back as I can remember I knew I was different, special even. Never able to really empathise and feel joy or pain the same way as everyone else. Instead, my world was like a numbness or malaise, intermittently punctuated with small pockets of colour or feelings.

Still I manage to live an extraordinarily mundane life. I did what was required of a girl with my pretty but unassuming looks. The type of woman you might pass in the supermarket isle and think for a second, she’s all right, but then quickly forget. I married the safe husband and had my perfect 2.5 children. Even living behind a lovely, white picket fence. Actually, grey, the idea of a white picket fence is far to convoluted for a person like me.

You know that saying, you never really know anyone, only the parts they are willing to share? You will only ever get the parts I want you to see and the rest, well, I am that good at faking it you would never know. I am a social worker for Christ sake! Who has more empathy than a social worker? You see that’s it, I am so very good at compartmentalising my world. In fact, that is what makes me so damn good at my job. Intelligent enough to know what everyone wants to hear and detached enough not to be bogged down by the cluster fuck of emotion that goes along with it.

There is only one person in the world who knows the real me, the only person who could blow apart my completely carefully constructed life. Nevertheless, unfortunately, he was also the only person with the twenty thousand means to help and I would be lying to say I was not excited by the prospect of reaching out to him. As I took out the small black notebook from deep within my nightstand, tucked away like the hidden recess of my real life. The soft, black bound leather that contained all the dirty little secrets of my single self. As my fingers opened and flicked through the crisp but slightly discoloured pages, searching for his name. The memories of our many encounters came flooding back. The sensation and thrill of our entanglement sent a warmth to the centre of me I had never felt in ten years of marriage. If I was your run of the mill, classic narcissist personality, then this man was something else. Cold, calculating, dangerous and completely intoxicating.

Just like myself, Aiden was able to hide his duplicity in magnificent style. He was now a very successful artist, living a candescent existence in the States with his supermodel wife. Of course, over the years I had kept up with him, stalking in the shadows of social media, watching his fame and fortune grow. Every now and again, I would notice a “like” on one of my own photos that would elicit a tingle throughout my entire body. He did still think of me. He does remember who I am. Does he remember the terrible things we did together? Does he fantasise about it? Does he want to do it again?

My hand shook as I dialled his number, nerves or adrenalin mixed with anticipation. Breathing shallow breaths as it rang, once, twice, three times and then his voice, as soft and sexy as I remembered, now with a slight American twang. As we exchanged pleasantries and spent a short time catching up, the intonation in his voice told me, he too was very happy to hear from me.

As the pink and orange of the late afternoon sky melted away, replaced with the dark empty of night, we talked for what seemed like hours. Until his tone dropped and with a bluntness he asked “Why are you really calling me, what do you want?” I began to relay our tale of money woes with great detail but he abruptly cut me off. To anyone else the shift in his voice and syntax would go unnoticed. His soft sexy voice now replaced with something darker, colder, the same one he would use to whisper in my ear while we were making love after. “If I gave you the money, would you do it again?” It took all of three seconds to hear myself whisper, yes. Then click, the phone line went dead.

As I stumbled out from the cosy comfort of my lounge chair, legs heavy and disorientated like I had finished a whole bottle of pinot noir. I crept silently into my cold bedroom, undressed, and expertly climbed into the vacant place in my bed. Happy to see my husband was already fast asleep and that I would not need to perform my wifely duties tonight, of all nights. “Ding” my phone lit up, on the screen flashed, “$20000 has been deposited into your nominated account”. I didn’t know it then, but nothing was ever going to be the same again.