Scenes from the flesh

A few weeks after he got back from Pittsburgh, Roger took his family to the Beach and Tennis Club in Rye. They belonged because it had a pool. (All three were competent tennis players as well.) He hated the place but knew that once the warm weather hit, he’d be spending most of his weekends there. It was May, and the first good weather weekend of the season, so the club would be mobbed. Every asshole had the same idea.

He was sitting in the den watching television, waiting for them to get ready. He’d called out moments earlier to see how close they were to leaving. He wondered what was taking so long, especially for his wife. She’d been wearing the same outfit to the club the past ten years or so (ever since acknowledging the baby weight as a permanent fixture), the same solid, purple one-piece with sweat shorts and a tee-shirt covering her at all times she wasn’t in the water. But when she came into the den, she was wearing something new, still a one-piece but pink, almost neon, bound to attract more attention than usual. She was wearing shorts but no shirt. Sunglasses covered her eyes.

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