One of the girls behind the counter calls Julia’s name, and she leaves to collect her salad. They call my name a few minutes later and I go collect the BLT club I ordered. I’ve just picked up the plate and I’m turning away from the counter when a woman steps directly in front of me, barely an inch of space between us.

“Whoa, excuse me.” I make a move to step around her but she steps with me. I look more closely at her face; she’s no one I recognize. “Is there a problem?”

We’re about the same height, so when she steps right up to me, closing the gap between us, her steely eyes are at the same level as mine. “There is a problem,” she says. “I know who you are.”

Over her shoulder, I see Julia looking at us, worried. A few people at nearby tables have also stopped their conversations and are watching.

“Um. Awesome? I’m sorry, but I—.”

“My name is Ellen Campbell.”

I stare at her. “That’s not ringing any bells.”

She sneers. “Let’s try it this way then: I’m Mrs. Matthew Campbell.”

It takes a few seconds, but then it clicks. Ah. Matt Campbell. We’ve slept together a few times. He’s an investment guy at the bank across the street from the law offices. It was strictly sex—he said his wife just wasn’t interested in doing it anymore. He also told me that he and his wife were separated because of that fact.

“Sometimes, I just want to get laid,” he told me. “A good old-fashioned fucking. But for my wife to get in the mood, it was a week-long preparation. Take her out for dinner. Buy her something nice. Go see a movie or a play or go hear someone do a reading. It couldn’t just be sex. It’s like it was my reward for enduring all that other shit. But sometimes I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Sometimes, I just wanted to fuck. She didn’t understand that. She just didn’t get it, so I left. Was it wrong of me to just want to be spontaneous every once in a while?”

“Of course not,” I’d said. “Spontaneous sex is the the only kind I have.”

We’d had a few marathon sessions at his place. He’d even managed to make me come a couple of times, which was saying something. It was fun, but nothing more. Or at least for me, it wasn’t. “My wife never made me feel even half as good as you do,” he’d said the last time. “When can I see you again?”

There was something different in his tone then, and I knew a line had been crossed. I get it—when someone makes you feel good, it’s difficult not to associate those feelings with that person, and to think they’re now responsible for making you feel that way. I could’ve been anyone, though. Or rather, anyone could have made him feel that way. His wife could have. She just had certain criteria that needed to be met first, criteria that he was unwilling to meet, and therefore they’d gone their separate ways.

 I stopped returning his texts, his calls, ignored the emails, didn’t go into the bank. That was a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard from him in at least three weeks. I figured he’d got the message. But now, with his wife staring me down, I’m not so sure. It’s clear he’s lied to me. No ex-wife would be this mad about her ex getting laid. No, this is current wife territory. I don’t know what to say. I may be a crazy person who wants to ruin a man, but I’m not a monster. I’ve always drawn the line at screwing married men.

“He told me you’d left him,” I say, keeping my voice level. “He told me you weren’t together anymore.”

Matt’s wife blinks at me, her face a mask of hardened emotion. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to believe me. Women are always ready to castrate their husbands when they discover they’ve been cheating on them, but if they find out who the woman is? That’s even better. That’s another person to scream and yell at. Occasionally, a woman will choose to believe their husbands were seduced by some slutty temptress, and that the whole thing is the other woman’s fault. That way they can flip out, slash all of his shirts with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, go key the woman’s car, and then let their man move back into the house after he solemnly promises never to do it again.

Yeah, right. 

Either way, I have no idea what the hell I’m meant to do. She’s caught me completely off guard. Do I apologize for what I’ve done and assure her she’s the one her husband loves? How did she find out it was me, anyway? And Matt, that lying motherfucker…

“It was just sex,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? How many times was it, anyway?”

“A few.”

“Where? Where did you do it?”

“Does it matter?”

Her eyes flash in anger. “You’re goddamn right it matters. Did you do it in my home? In my bed?”

We didn’t actually do it in the bed. Just everywhere else. I shake my head.

“You’re a bitch,” she says. “He’s a married man. He has a family. You’re a home wrecker, d’you know that? You probably prey on married men. You’re one of those women who can’t be happy unless they’re sabotaging someone else’s happiness. I don’t even have to know you to be able to see that. Well, it’s all over. D’you hear me? It’s over. If you ever try to get in touch with my husband again…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, as though the implied threat is so bad it’s better left unsaid. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch,” I say flatly. “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you.”

Mrs. Ellen Campbell is shaking her head. “I don’t care about your lunch,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you at all. But I knew that something was going on with him. I just knew it.”

“So you were right. Does that make you feel better or worse?”

“Being able to find you and look you in the eye and tell you what a cunt you are actually does make me feel better. I’m sure my husband isn’t the first married man you’ve slept with. I bet none of the other women have had the nerve to tell you what a piece of shit you are. If you had any respect for yourself—or anyone else—you wouldn’t do this kind of thing. You obviously think you’re worthless. And you know what? You’re right. Women like you never find someone to be with long term. I feel sorry for you.”

She shoots me one last venomous glare and then turns on her heel and leaves. Most of the people in the café are looking at me. I feel strangely devoid of anything—I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed, or humiliated. In a way, I feel as though Ellen Campbell has just spoken some fundamental truth about myself that I didn’t want to see. I am a piece of shit, and I am worthless. Maybe that’s why I feel completely unaffected by what she just told me—because I know it’s true.

******

The Callahan Corporation’s located in an intimidating glass-and-steel skyscraper that literally does seem to touch the sky. When I was a teenager, I always thought the building looked pretty cool. So shiny and new, reflecting great panels of sunlight over the city.

Now, I think it’s the most obvious phallic object ever constructed by the hands of man. Hey, Chicago, check it out. My name’s Aidan Callahan and I have the biggest dick in this entire state. Don’t stare at it too long or it’ll take your damn eye out. 

I’ve never actually had to step inside the place until now. For some reason, I feel nervous. I’ve played this out down to the most minute details, but now that it’s actually happening it suddenly feels surreal. What if it doesn’t go as planned? What if he somehow knows exactly what I’m up to? I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. It’s very likely I could walk in there and he’ll tell me the only reason he agreed to meet so readily is because he knows what I’m going to say and he wants to confront me.

He’s a powerful man, it’s true. I’m sure he has many friends in high places. Who knows what he’d do if he thought his company is in jeopardy. Is it possible that I’m putting myself in some sort of danger?