Chapter 37, Tiff, Tat, Lovers Spats
Enrico, being married, could only see me on the sly, which suited me.
Enrico worked all over Silicon Valley fixing equipment. He told me who was hiring and paying more. I left Nortec and flipped companies with raises.
Before cell phones, we tried CB radio communication but that broadcast to a crowd. Setting up a meeting by CB at Lyon’s coffee shop, more than Enrico showed up. If at a motel it would be a crowd. Our arrangement settled into he called home during the day and I only at his work number. Both paranoid, we briefly mention an alignment machine number 314 needing repair and when he could fix it, the number being the room at the Holiday Inn. Our relationship devolved into a weekly noontime tryst and on occasion after my swing shift, our rendezvouses not much different than "F & F". Enrico once suggested sex in his car. My reply.
"No hotel, no honey".
After a few motel meetings, Enrico wanted sex sans condom.
“Why aren’t you on the pill like other women? My wife’s, on the pill. What makes you special? I don’t like rubbers.”
"Let's screw without. I 'm sure your wife will be pleased you’re going to have another bambino."
"Why don't you just take the pill?"
"Why don't you just get fixed, like my husband? You need to be snipped. Perhaps I should suggest it to your wife so she doesn’t need to take the pill."
Thereafter, he complained but rolled it on.
We went to the Holiday Inn in separate cars. To enhance daytime trysts above “F & F” I typically brought food to eat after sex. Occasionally we met for lunch at a Lyons restaurant but his nervousness made it unpleasant. In public, he lost his alpha veneer, nervous someone might see us, think we were having an affair and tell his wife. My original suspicion he had been caught before was verified when I asked him.
He didn’t drift randomly into my mind even though Vixen enjoyed his company. I did tell my husband an engineer was flirting. With tryst times limited and my routine normal, he only worried an engineer was interested in me, not I in him.
I also told him the engineer was reported to have an 8-inch penis. When he asked how I knew, I told him the girls at work told me and had nicked named him "Super 8". If we passed a Super 8 Motel I would say.
"Look another Super 8!"
I figured the best camouflage was having an open joke.
He pestered about who Enrico was, evidence he hadn’t forgotten the confessed two words I regretted saying.
I told him he was Italian, true, his name was, Enrico Supini, true in a way and he lacked polish, also true. He checked every phone book in Silicon Valley looking for a "Mr. Supini", even pestering me about its spelling. I told him I didn’t know the spelling and he was married with kids to ease his suspicions.
Enrico was smug with wife and three kids safely tucked away on his home turf while he raided another’s. He took his wife as guaranteed safe from invasion and was the type who would fall apart if a male invaded his domestic domain.
I never talked about family with him. He, in contrast, bragged about his, especially the kids. From what he said his wife was a good mother but a messy housekeeper and lousy cook who thought the grocery food aisles were frozen, canned, dairy and cereal. She never cooked from scratch. His requests for Italian food were met with microwaved, frozen ravioli and boiled spaghetti with canned sauce.
His expensive clothes weren’t poorly ironed, they weren’t ironed and he looked scruffy unless he had them dry cleaned. She was, however, blond, attractive and thin from the picture in his wallet I stole a glance at while he showered. What was most important, she worshiped him.
The banter on which our affair began eventually turned into personality spats. Enrico was a cheapskate, never left a tip for the hotel maid, bought his wife nothing, tipped the minimum at restaurants and grumbled about how much our affair cost.
After our third hotel encounter, I upped the maid tip to two dollars. He thought leaving a tip for the maid crazy. I never told him about my mother. He, of course, could not bring home the left-over soap or shampoo and snickered about a maid's fate when I opened the unused ones for the maid to take home.
While loving food I prepared and complaining about his wife's cooking, food was a source of conflict between us. I love cooking, the strongest bond with my father. In 30 minutes, I can make Asian dishes others marvel at. In Mountain View, a childless, elderly, Italian woman across the street adopted me when I was an 18-year old pregnant bride. She taught me Italian cooking. The Mexican women next door grew corn, ground it and made tortillas. From her, I learned to cook the "real enchilada". I befriended older women and learned their recipes and got good advice about men.
Food and drink influence happiness, health and appearance. Unfortunately, many in America have surrendered their palate to "heat and serve", "shake and bake" or microwave. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," is trite but true. A rendezvous while centered on sex preferably includes food and drink either at a restaurant or a meal I prepare.
Enrico never took me to an upscale restaurant, gulped down food I prepared and failed to see food and drink as art in life. While educated with a degree in engineering his deportment suggested a lack of “proper” education. Once I brought lasagna to room 314 with a small bottle of ice wine and a bottle of his favorite, cheap beer. Deflated after our quickie, he got up naked, piled the lasagna, still warm from my oven, on a plate and was back in bed gobbling it down with his beer chaser instead of waiting for me while I re-dressed.
I had the little table set up with plates, glasses, and napkins for eating with a loaf of ciabatta bread. As I was bent over strapping my shoes on, he said with mouth full.
"This is great! You'd make a good wife."
I'd never be the doormat his wife was. I wouldn't put up with his put down slurs. Staring at him sitting in bed, irate fire in my almond dark eyes, I said.
"I’m a good wife! Better than what you got!"
I grabbed my purse and walked out leaving everything and was out of the parking lot before he could dress and chase after me, if he did. The next day I didn't answer the phone to ensure not taking his call. I knew he was calling as the phone would ring and ring and then repeat itself.
A day later I answered but was still smarting over his attempt to put me down like he did his wife. He kept wooing and apologizing. His ego couldn’t take the jab of being walked out on. If the relationship was going to end it had to be by him. After sweet-talking me, I agreed to meet him, if he stopped acting stupid. Once in the hotel room, I let him assuage my anger with sweet words and courteous deportment, great efforts for him.
When the romp was over he exclaimed.
"I am so happy you are no longer angry with me."
I acted indifferent. When pressed if I was happy I replied.
"You think too highly of yourself. You’re just a misanthropic man who cheats on his wife, what else is there to say?"
I wanted my guppy to chase me, not I, him. I knew Enrico would put me in his safe category next to his wife if he felt I was enraptured with his ego and Mr. Supini. He would then make another conquest to replace me.
In the parking lot, he took the dishes out of his trunk I’d left from my walkout, relieved he no longer had to hide them. He had left the bottle of wine in the room. I told him to replace it the next time we met and drove off.
Instead of worshiping him as he expected, I destabilized his ego. Even though he was older, I was the teacher, like Edward was to me. I stopped his swearing-in my presence and improved his manners. Despite my efforts, he remained a cheap, beer drinker and uncouth. I told him he was unsophisticated but did upgrade him to drink his beer out of a glass. I even had to show him how to pour it down the side of the glass to keep down the foam. I made sure he always wore fresh clothes when meeting me and even once took him shopping to upgrade his style.
In public, with me, he was a Beta but in the motel room, he switched to Alpha. I asked him once if he was going to get a hair transplant when he got too Alpha cocky. To keep him off guard I would occasionally get upset and leave before sex. I never told him what was wrong and acted like he was an idiot if he didn't get it.
It was as if we were married which of course we were but not to each other.
Author Notes: An illicit relationship becomes too familiar with heat turning cold.