Indian Summer

She pulled into the rest area. Our minivan, in barn red, almost enough to camouflage her against the turning trees, but I saw her. I watched her pull into the front parking area and took the back. She didn’t see me. I’d borrowed the car and my face, my body, was a blind spot anyway. Through the scratched glass of the rest stop building, beyond the highway map and the vending machines that charged $1.50 for a can of Pepsi products, she swung open the door at the opposite entrance, her right leg stepping in first. It was a beautiful leg, long and supple like a frog’s on a plate, but it had been a while since I noticed it. Only now, when she was about to lend it out to someone else was when I could see it like someone else would. The other man’s eyes were the only things that could unblur mine, could take me far enough from my own experience and see her again. Pure sex on leave from monogamy.

He walked right past me, retucking his shirt in his jeans, a younger man than me, but just by a little bit, a handsomer man than me, but only in a completely different way. I was big, rough, all forearms and shins. He was slight, but clean-cut, more educated, no doubt. Probably a vegetarian. He had grey hairs at his temples and there only. Other than that, it appeared, as he lifted his glasses over his ears and arranged them, that my wife’s temporary suitor was her idea of Harry Potter in fifteen or twenty years. Down to the twitching grin when he saw her.

She smiled that smile I’d forgotten, and I noticed little wrinkles that were nothing but endearing in the corners of her eyes. She kissed him and stepped back quickly, as if she were a little girl ordered to kiss Santa. He didn’t accept that, however, and leaned into her hungrily, his left hand, slightly toward me, held her upper arm and pulled her into him, their necks bending to get closer. She opened her eyes to look at him before he was finished and let them flutter down again, unsure, then fully there in the moment, feeling him and that and whatever else she allowed herself to feel, alone, in her head, alone and trying to make out this shock of affection for her. His hand, brightly lit in the setting sun behind me, slid around her arm and clutched her breast, pushing it up. She stopped kissing him and watched and blushed.

He whispered something in her ear, and they turned as one my way. I dropped behind the bumper of my borrowed car and froze until they decided which way to go. I circled the car the opposite direction of them and only stood up when they were halfway up the fallow hill behind the rest stop, the dry grass rustling at their ankles. When they hit the crest and dropped slowly over, I followed, the grass tickling me, the wind hissing in it.

They were still standing when I got to the top of the hill. He was undressing her, dropping her sweater over her shoulders, her nipples emerging only to be covered by his lips. Her breasts, in silhouette against the orange-pink sunset, looked unnaturally full, more than I remembered ever dreaming them, but the proof was there, then, as he let her nipples slide out of his lips. He dropped to his knees and lifted her long pencil skirt, the one I’d absently thought frumpy, now suddenly stunningly graceful and stylish, her knees turned into each other under it, coyly preventing his face full entry to her cunt. He looked into her face and stroked her thighs gently until she caved and let them fall apart. She’d shaved. I would never have noticed without this, and I just caught a glint, red in the sunset, of the wet escaping the lips. My hand went under the waistband of my jeans, the swollen desperation I’d forgotten she had the ability to cause.

He admired her for a moment, then, with caution, split her lips in his thumbs and turned his head into her. Her face turned up and her neck, just a few feet above the brown grasses, echoed them, amber and fragile. She trembled for a few minutes under his ministrations, and my forced reaction, the only one possible, was to unzip and unbutton my pants, drop to my knees myself and spit saliva into my hand. My right knee fell on a small, smooth rock. I left it.

The wind swiped the side of the hill, crawled up the back of my shirt and swooped down to them, her hair flying, wild, in it. The whoosh and rattle of it must have sounded the same to her, and it was as if I’d personally passed it on to her, given it to her as a silencing gift. It made an enclosure of us, the three of us, a ceiling over the grass and wildflowers.

Her little girl act ended here, as if she’d remembered me, remembered the clock, remembered the world around her in the wind, she dropped to her knees, pushing his head away and then his shoulders down, and descended his front, the little slut that she was, descended him and took him in her mouth. I inched forward, completely secure that I could not be seen, on my knees and one elbow, to watch her better. His cock ascended her mouth and her hair stuck to the Indian Summer sweat on her cheeks. She worked him hard, her spit shining on him, her arms bulging at the triceps. His eyes closed and he moaned, under this squib bag of come, this spittoon, this worn fleshlight that my wife seemed to be, under her lips and her swinging breasts.

He jumped up and flipped her roughly, something like a smile, or perhaps the smirk of the Park Place owner buying Boardwalk, let him do it. He stood, full on his feet, bent her over so she was touching her toes, her heels flexed and held his cock down for a moment, looking at his prize. My prize, gathering dust on my trophy shelf. Her cunt was bright pink, twisted into itself like a complicated knot. In the orange light of the sunset her skin was brownish, flawless, ready, her cunt like a button that reads “Do Not Press.” He turned his head for a moment and entered her. My knees trembled. I stroked harder. He plunged deep and held her to him by the hips, then began to fuck, deep and twisting and groaning.

A smell came from the north as the wind turned, of burning leaves. The red and yellow and orange of the far-off trees turned to shadow and then black. It shifted again, roaring like an ocean wave to me and her words drifted into it, Shit. Shit. Shit. It matched the air. Shhhh. And then another slight shift and his now, Mmm, take it. Take it. ShhHHHHhhhhhhaawwww.

I didn’t want to fight for the parking lot, would rather retreat than flank, so I sped up my hand, spitting constantly into it, and the pleasure, mixed with the sting prickle of the friction, started its chain reaction in me. I saw, but did not hear, my wife’s groaning orgasm, her mouth an archery bow, her lips stretched tight. I knew for sure that she came when I saw the change in his face. Her cunt muscles were like vises. He still seemed surprised. I’d forgotten, really. And up from my balls and down my cock it came, my come, pumping into the grass and slipping down, falling into translucent islands and returning to the water cycle. I was sure it was her coughing yelp I heard, the one that made me crawl backward from the top of the hill, zip up and walk down to the car. When I blinked, I saw her leg come through the glass door, again and again.