My husband of 20 years suggested I get a life and stop putting him under a microscope.  Taking his advice, I decide to join a gym.  The exercise studio I chose welcomes a colorful assortment of Venice Beach locals. I am definitely out of my cloistered, private-school soccer-mom element. That’s exactly the point.

            In spinning class, I vigorously ride a stationery bike to rhythm and blues blaring from speakers hanging on heavy silver chains. Brilliantly painted purple, yellow and lime green pipes run overhead, energizing even the gray ceiling.

            And there are so many fascinating people at my gym.  One in particular.  Every morning her brownish blonde hair is gathered in a worn red band at the very crown of her head, rough and wild dreadlocks spilling down to frame her angular face.  As usual, while I sit and stretch on my front row bike, she approaches, emerald green eyes captivating me “Hello”.   She passes, taking a seat on her bike across the room.     

            The 45 minute workout ends.  Like clockwork, while sitting on the floor changing shoes, I notice her black cleats and red/green chili pepper socks pass in front of me.  My eyes sweep over her smoothly shaven, toned calves. 

            Don’t look there. 

            My eyes move to her face, she’s watching me again.  We smile “Bye”. 

            Steadying myself, I scan the room.

            Did anyone see that? 

            I regain my bearings by staring at the predictable patterning of the brick wall behind me.  People are socializing and leaving the studio. 

            I don’t think so.  

            Go home.  Sweaty.  Dripping. 

            Many more spinning classes.  Months of hellos and goodbyes, hellos goodbyes.  Looking for something new.  Seeking something different.  Legs circling furiously.  Not moving an inch. 

            Feeling this woman’s presence in the room becomes as invigorating as the exercise.  Without specifically acknowledging one another, we gradually shift to side by side bikes.  While keeping myself occupied with class related preparations, I listen intently to her conversations.  Her melodic German accent flows into me; I exercise it out of me.  Her velvet skin contradicts the rough dreads, and her long dark eyelashes highlight the intensity in her eyes.  She has a broad, inquisitive forehead, dominant cheekbones, and statuesque neck; reminiscent of European royalty.  I suppose I can’t stop staring because I’m Jewish and have always wanted to know someone German.  Nothing more.  Nothing at all.

            ~~~~~

            “So! You look great.” 

            I say that to my female friends all the time.      

            We sit across the table from one another in the Mexican Restaurant decorated with colorful flags, arched doorways, and gray stalactites hanging from the ceiling.  She’s brought me here because it’s one of her favorite small restaurants, and it resembles the inside of a cave.  Our margaritas are placed on the red and white checkered tablecloth.  Mine is blended, no salt; hers is on the rocks.  I don’t understand what I’m feeling except that it’s something other than my customary nothing. 

            She’s hip; dressed in orange, brown and tan striped velvet pants with tan Ugg boots, before they were the height of fashion.  Her black cotton shirt is open just enough to reveal the beginnings of a black tank top.  A far cry from my new cowboy boots, high waisted levis and black cashmere cardigan.  On her neck hangs a delicate gold chain, tangled with a thin black ribbon.  Tied to the side, not the center, of the ribbon is a silver rimmed piece of abalone.  A heavy silver link bracelet and a fraying braid of orange and yellow thread adorn her left wrist.   I’m really glad I decided not to wear the string of pearls I got for my Sweet 16.

            “So, Verena.  How long have you been spinning?” 

Who cares.  Tell me why can’t I get you out of my head.

            “I’ve been spinning since I bought my loft about a year ago.  My girlfriend, Sam, and I live in that industrial-looking building across the alley from the studio.

            Sam? Girlfriend? I’m struck with an unfamiliar feeling; akin to an errant dagger to the chest.  No.  She can’t be.  A few months ago, I’d seen her at the Venice Art Festival walking arm in arm with a tall dark haired man, no doubt her handsome boyfriend.  Now what? I don’t know any lesbians, never have.  I’ve somehow managed to keep a safe distance pursuant to parental mandate during my formative years.  “See that woman over there?  See how she shakes hands like a man?  She’s a lez-bian. Be careful.” 

            “Judging by the look on your face, I gather you didn’t know I was gay.”       

            “Oh.  What?  Gay?  Sure.  Whatever.  I don’t think I ever gave it any thought.  Sipping, rather gulping, my first margarita, I learn that she owns her own successful production company, as well as a number of local beach properties and a town home in the mountains.  She has done extremely well after arriving from Germany a decade ago with only $1,000 in her pocket and a (literal) sack of potatoes.

“I just rent the properties out for extra income; they actually pay for themselves. I’d rather not talk about these things, though.  They’re just the fruits of my labours,” she says.  “Tell me more about you.”  

I am fascinated and alarmed.  Me?

            “Well, my life certainly isn’t as interesting and colorful as yours.  I’m just your garden variety wife and mother living in Brentwood.  I drive an SUV, and I’ve got a 9 year old girl and a 11 year old boy who both go to private school in Santa Monica.  When the kids are off at school, I’m either doing errands or doing time at the promotional products manufacturing business my husband and I own.  We seem to be steadily running it into the ground, though.  He hasn’t been feeling too well lately. ” 

I’m not feeling too well right now.

I’m embarrassed by my admission of ordinariness, so much so that I want to let her know that I recognize how predictable and boring my life is.  “There.  See? Is my life dull enough?  Tell me how you got from potatoes to production.”

 “Another time.  You’re not dull at all.  I’m interested in everything you have to say.”  She leans back in her chair, drapes her right arm over the top, stretches her legs out under the table, and continues studying me.  She is relaxing into the evening, and I’m becoming more and more anxious.  She listens intently, eyes never wavering from mine.  She remembers, comments, and asks insightful questions.  She doesn’t look the part of an accomplished, intelligent, eloquent woman.  Rather, more like a colorful free spirit named Madame Viktoria who sells incense and does psychic readings on the Boardwalk. 

I notice the outline of her body through her tank top.  She smells so good, it’s Jil Sander, I think.  I’ve never looked at myself through another person’s lenses before.  How did I get here?  Who have I become? I need to buy a Jeep.  Wrangler.  Red.

            Then, she does it. “You seem to have everything most people dream of.  The perfect life: house in a good neighborhood, great husband, healthy boy, girl, dog, cat, even a gym, Jacuzzi and a swimming pool. You live the American Dream, no?”

“No.  I mean yes.  Huh?”

“Forgive me, don’t take this the wrong way, but ... are you happy?” 

            “Excuse me, waiter?” I wave my arms wildly, as if the bus is leaving without me.  “I’ll have another. Blended, no salt. ” 

            “Are you nervous?” she asks, flashing a mischievous smile. 

            “Don’t be ridiculous, not in the least.  Do you think he heard me about that drink?  I was just thinking about your hair, it’s so interesting. Can I touch it?”

            She looks up from her drink swiftly. 

            “Not many people you know have dreadlocks?” she condescends, bowing her head towards me for the examination.  “I’ll be cutting them off next week and leopard spotting the spikes.”

            I look around.  Directly to the right of our tiny table is the coarse, gray ‘cave’ wall dotted with candles and red/green twinkle lights.  A large stalactite hangs to our immediate left effectively concealing our seats from public view. The coast is clear.

            I lay my hand on the knotty roughness gathered on top of her head.  Studying the separate dreads, I take hold of their tether. “May I?”

            She grins, slyly.          

            Down they tumble.  As my fingers explore the prickly ropes, her eyes close, head gently tipping back.  She intimately responds to my touch, leaning her head into my hand wherever it travels. 

            Don‘t!! Touch. Her. You’re married! Parents from your kids’ school might be watching you right NOW.            

            In one fluid motion, she takes my hand off of her hair and slowly kisses it.  Her penetrating eyes dissolve my barriers as quickly as I erect them.  I stare back, holding my breath. 

            Stop.  Don‘t Stop.

            “Lighten up.  Kiss me.” she drunkenly suggests.  

            “Ladies...Excuse me... sorry to interrupt.  Would you like anything more?” 

            Is he talking to me?  Us?

            “Oh.  Thank you.  What??  What time is it? I’ll have another margarita, blended no salt. And you Verena?”

            The narrow tunnel excluding the outside world, connecting the well worn pathway between our eyes abruptly disappears, opening into a jarring throng of restaurant voices.  Tables are full.  Glasses are clinking.  The spell is broken. 

            “No thanks.”

            But her emerald green eyes.  They haven’t left mine.  What is she thinking?  Could she really be attracted to me?  To Me?  Maybe one tiny kiss. What’s the harm?  She’s European, they do things differently over there.  I just need to lighten up. 

           I am a devoted wife and mother.  He knows I’m out for dinner with her, and I’ve told him I fear I’m physically attracted to her.  In response, he said, “You need to explore those feelings”. 

           Permission granted. 

`          To my surprise, my hand confidently grasps the back of her head, covering the stream of her unbound dreads.  I pull her towards me with more authority than I thought myself capable.  Her eyes gently close, lips barely open.

            I feel her hot sweet tequila breath on my face. 

BUT WAIT….

            If you kiss her, you are committing the sin of adultery and will burn in the fiery pits of hell.  

            I’m Jewish and there are no fiery pits. 

You’re a good girl and you always do the right thing. 

            Oh yeah, right for whom?

No one, other than your husband, has kissed your lips in over 19 years. 

            He hasn’t kissed them in over 3; that‘s reason enough right there.

There’s one appalling detail; she’s a WOMAN. 

            It’s not technically adultery if it’s a woman, is it?

           I’m a conservative, middle aged married woman planning on having a puppy party for my daughter‘s 10th birthday; she is a wild, 35 year old German lesbian planning on shaving off her dreadlocks and replacing them with leopard spots. This can never work. I knock over my chair when I stand up to leave.

            A blast of unseasonably cold air slaps my face as I open the door of the restaurant.

~~~~~

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