Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like Lemony Snickett

I was enjoying coffee and a roll in the courtyard of the Brasserie de Arenas, off the Place Voltaire in Arles. Buster was lying at my feet. It was late March in Provence, and the grey sky and light rain formed a perfect counterpoint to my mood.

The rain picked up, and I started to get wet. So, I scooched my chair back under the two towering plane trees, pulling the table with me. The noise woke up Buster. He raised his head and looked around. Seeing nothing, he settled back, chin on his paws, muttering, “it’s raining,” like I didn’t know that.

I could tell it was going to be one of those days. So, I dropped a couple of two Euro coins on the table and strolled up the Rue de l’ Amphitheatre toward my rented flat. “Up” is the operative word in Arles. The streets climb from the river toward an old Roman Colosseum, plopped on the higher ground as if it fell out of a time warp.

The cobblestones were getting slippery, and the gutters in the middle of the narrow medieval street were gurgling as I arrived at my building on the Rue Ursulines. I struggled to open the door. The old-fashioned skeleton key was tricky because the lock must’ve dated back to La Belle Epoque.

Buster sat there with the rain dripping off his battle-scarred ears. My old pal looked miserable. Still, he was as calm and patient as ever. He is mostly Dogue de Bordeaux. If you don’t know what that is, think “Turner and Hooch.” Heís huge and scary. But he has a sweet and gentle soul.

We’d met a couple of months earlier in the outdoor cafÈ at Le Criquete over on the Rue Porte de Laure. Buster was working the tables in the alley beside the building. I love dogs. So, I tossed him a morsel of my cheese go˚ter. He caught it in midair, displaying an impressive array of jowls and fangs.

Then he said, “Merci Monsieur ... Perhaps you have something else for a poor, hungry old dog?”

Some of you don’t know that dogs talk, and I pity you. But like most people, I do. So, I ordered my new friend a plate of assorted charcuterie.

The old fellow had been living rough after his owner died. Hence, it was incumbent on me to provide the hospitality of my humble abode - a one-bedroom flat above a wine store on a narrow cobblestone street. It was a tight fit, and my buddy was a tad smelly. Even so, isolation is always a problem for someone like me, and anybody with a dog is never alone.

Buster was a friend. I mean, seriously!! He gave me loyalty and companionship, which more than compensated for whatever minor inconvenience he might cause. We spent each day in the languid pace of the extended Provencal summer, hanging out at the outdoor cafes, dissecting life as we’d lived it.

Well honestly, I did all the talking. But Buster was an excellent and totally non-judgmental listener. He would lie there in the warm peaceful evenings, pant-pant-drool-drool, while I philosophized. It’s incredible how much deep thinking a bottle of Pernod-Pastis can inspire. I could almost hear him saying, “I agree, mon ami. A man’s life is difficult, but the only choice is to march or die. And I choose to march.”

Those were my thoughts, exactly. I was the master of my fate now. My mother might give a shit. But I’m too old to crawl back into the womb. And my friends probably felt pity - or schadenfreude as the case might be just as long as nothing affected them. Even so, life is like crossing a busy highway blindfolded. You trudge along heedlessly until the Peterbilt hits you.

It was a lovely warm fall evening, bugs chirping in the lush shrubs and just the hint of burning leaves. I was full of myself as I strolled through the Yard, heading toward the tunnel at Wigglesworth and the 1889 gate.

College teaching is hard to beat. You get paid to do things you would do for free: reading and thinking about exciting stuff. The tenure system gives you job security; all you have to do is meet your classes, research, and publish.

The publishing part is cutthroat since it’s the coin of the realm in academia. But you can get your name out if you have a few good ideas, and name recognition generates interest. It’s a self-sustaining system. People know you and read you, which causes more interest and hence more publication.

On the other hand, I’m not exactly normal - at least if you use a conventional yardstick. Most guys get their kicks out of screwing their fellow man - money and power are exhilarating. Me? I’m different. I don’t keep score using worldly things. That’s because I’m a nerd, and nerds live in their heads.

You muggles might view me as an anti-social geek, I know that I would if I were you. But thinking the unthinkable takes bandwidth. And buying the folks who can do that costs money, plenty of it. Honestly, I’d never tell my employer I’d do it for free. Because, I’ve got expensive tastes.

At that particular moment, I was walking to meet my wife at Tatte. Sally, or as I call her, Sal, works in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, which is across Mass Avenue. She puts in longer hours than me, and Tatte is right around the corner from her office. It has coffee and mouthwatering pastries. So, it was a logical place to meet and walk to the MBTA.

I was finishing off a latte when Sal breezed in. We’ve been married for a dozen years. But she still appears thrilled to see me. Our marriage is what sociologists call “binary.” We’re so tightly bonded to each other emotionally that we don’t need, or even want, other people’s company. We’d hang out with friends sometimes. But honestly, the rest of the world can go fuck itself as long as we have each other.

How we met and married is immaterial. Sal is a brilliant woman. Like most intelligent people, she has a strong personality. And she quickly loses patience with people who can’t keep up. I can, and that’s where we connect.

Before we met, Sal’s interactions with men had left her cynical. Her cynicism was mainly attributable to the fact that every guy she went out with was primarily interested in lifting up her dress. Of course, that’s understandable since Sally’s off the end of the chart on the hotness factor.

My wife is maybe five-two with the thickest dark brown hair tumbling in wavy cascades to just below her shoulders. She has a huge pair of dark brown bedroom eyes that make her look like an erotic lemur. And like most extremely intelligent women, Sally is a true artiste behind closed doors - passionate, imaginative, and ravenous. We’ve been together for a long time, and she still takes my breath away.

Today, she was wearing her uniform of choice; a plaid wrap-around skirt with a gorgeous pair of bare legs sticking out of the bottom and a blue cashmere V-neck over a button-down oxford shirt. My wife might be a classy academic woman. But she can’t drape enough loose-fitting gear on herself to disguise her elemental sexuality.

Sally is dark and sensually beautiful. But there are plenty of women who meet that criterion. The way she carries herself is the key to her attraction. My wife walks with a special something that simply radiates, seductive!! As a result, she had every guy’s attention as she bustled over and lightly kissed me on the forehead.

She said happily, “I’ve made it to the big time, Baby!!” I said, standing up, “Marvelous ... I’ll get you a latte, and you can tell me how you did it.”

Sally was sitting at the little table playing with her phone when I returned. She said excitedly, “You wouldn’t believe what just happened!!”

I said, “Enlighten me.”

Sal said, “You know, the annual retreat at Wyndhurst.”

I vaguely knew about it. It was where the high mucky-mucks in the Central Administration got together to plan lofty things going forward. In reality, though it’s a la-de-dah wine and cheese weekend in the Berkshires where the big donors try to persuade the University to do whatever they want it to do.

There’s much mingling amongst the Great and Good, with a few “information sessions” held by the various academic units. Those meetings were mainly PR show-and-tells to pitch the donors for more funding. Sally’s graduate school must have been sitting in the on-deck circle.

I said, “What’s the story? Are you going to be one of the Dean’s Office representatives?” My wife has an MBA from MIT. She does the long-range capital planning for the School of Arts and Sciences.

Sal said casually, Millie and I are going to support Dean Fuller in the pitch to roll out our Classical Studies research center. Millie was her bestie. Lawton Fuller was Sal’s boss. He wasn’t the actual Dean of the College. Technically he was the Associate Dean for Planning and Finance.

I said, “Well, good for you. When’s the big event?” I knew it wouldn’t happen right away. The Wyndhurst was a place you’d visit at the peak of the color season, which was still a couple of weeks off. The people who contribute at least six figures to the endowment like to do their leaf-peeping in style.

She said hurriedly, “Oh, it won’t be for a while. Lawton has assured me I’ll get a lot of visibility with the right people. We’re not hobnobbing with the President or the donors, of course. But we’re the only ones who are doing a presentation.” Her tone of voice was odd.

I never liked Lawton Fuller. But of course, we’re two different species. I’m a laid-back wiseass whose only aim is to make it look effortless. It’s the duck analogy ... I want to seem like I’m floating serenely on the pond, even if my little webbed feet are paddling frantically to make it happen.

Fuller, on the other hand, was the self-proclaimed king of hardball. You’re asking me, really??! Who’d make the conscious effort to style himself as a professional asshole?! Lawton Fuller would ... no doubt because the man was an utterly insecure and narcissistic bully. Those kinds of folks use personal aggression as a weapon to protect their fragile ego. But, I digress.

My point was that the two of us were polar opposites. The contrast was apparent when you looked at us. I’m tall, with a long face, grey eyes, and an unruly shock of brown hair. While Fuller is short and muscular, extremely handsome, perfectly coiffed, and stylishly dressed. I’m a sweater and jeans kind of guy. Fuller looks like he just stepped away from a Polo ad shoot.

The d-bag was six years older than Sal and me, with two kids. His wife Betsy was a blue-blooded preppy princess from a proper Back-Bay family, petite, ethereally pretty, and a real asset in any assembly of the right sort. Sal and I were mid-thirties DINKS and decidedly not Boston Brahmins.

At least Sal had preppy bloodlines. But she was first-generation rich, not born into the manor. I was far too obviously raised on the wrong side of the tracks. I had grants and scholarships all the way to the doctorate, and dishpan hands from working in the kitchens of the nobility. But I can see the world differently, have a gift for words, and I’m a natural actor. That will always put you in good standing in academia.

Once in a while, we’d have to socialize with Fuller. Of course, we did, he’s Sal’s boss. During those times, Sal kept a tight grip on my choke chain. Because Fuller couldn’t hide his disdain for me, and I tend to get cantankerous around self-important dicks. Still, I didn’t want to hurt my wife’s career. So, I kept it civil. Meaning, I didn’t punch him in the throat like I wanted to.

That was all beside the point, however. Sal looked like a Labrador who’d just returned to the blind with a duck in its mouth. I knew I’d better scratch her behind her ears because our designer couch is an uncomfortable place to spend the night. I said hopefully, “If you’re going to spend three days in the lap of luxury, do any stray husbands get invited?”

My wife said tartly, “It’s a working weekend. I can’t be distracted keeping you out of trouble.” It was like she’d scripted that response odd...

Sal added in a loving tone, “I’m going to be mingling with the folks we both know you can’t stand. And I don’t want to spend the weekend tugging on your leash. This is an important opportunity, and I need to keep my head in the game.”

She had a point. Academic freedom protects emotional misfits like me. That might be why you find so many confrontational fruitcakes in a college faculty. And I was legendary for not suffering fools, starting with her boss.

So, I said, “In that case, what do you want for dinner?” She laughed at the rapid change in direction. But I needed her to know that I supported her one hundred percent. What better way to do that than by feeding her?

The Abby is right around the corner from where we live and has a great selection of gourmet sandwiches. Sal was sitting across from me, holding a glass of Cabernet, looking darkly sensual and beautiful. I have no idea how she does it, but she oozes sexuality, even after a full day in the salt mines.

Seriously! My wife dresses like the Mount Holyoke and Sloan School graduate that she is - not a slut. But she has a subliminal “it” factor that gets the hormones bubbling in any male, including me. Some of it is her amazing body, tight hips, and incredible dancer’s legs. But her dusky complexion and huge, wide-set, heavy-lidded, dark eyes radiate hot and sultry. It’s like she’s always thinking about it,

Still, the problem for any guy who might hit on Sal is that she is anything but easy. She’s an intelligent and sincere woman who demands that people treat her respectfully. And, I have seen her shoot down any stray chancer with extreme prejudice. So, I had no concerns about my wife’s sense of values. She was a woman who cherished her personal honor.

As for me ... I found myself on the receiving end of the exclusive sexual favors of a woman who happens to be one of the hottest females on two legs. Better yet, she gave me that dreamy look she uses when she wants it badly. Something had fired her up.

We quickly finished up the meal and raced back to our place. We hadn’t gotten three feet inside the door when Sal grabbed my face between her delicate little hands and devoured my mouth.

There is a considerable difference in our heights. So, I lifted Sal off her feet and crushed her to my chest. She is very light and slim. But she has been a dancer her whole life, which has produced a firm, solid body. And Sal likes being manhandled. She moaned enthusiastically and wrapped her long legs around my hips.

We did the two-backed-beast-walk all that way into the bedroom, kissing passionately. I had to keep one eye open as we did to ensure we didn’t run into walls or furniture. When we got to the bed, I just kinda fell forward. She clung to me like a spider monkey, whining and moaning with need. I landed on top of her, and she went, “Oof!!”

And yet, it didn’t prevent her from frantically unzipping me, pulling her panties aside, and then jamming the object of her desire into her hot and highly lubricated passage. Her eyes flew open and then promptly rolled back in her head as she gasped a frantic, “Oh My!!” As I said, Sal thinks about it a lot.

This was obviously going to be a short and intense fuck. My wife elevated her legs, knee socks, penny loafers, and all so that her feet pointed straight at the slowly turning ceiling fan. The only sounds were squishy slapping noises and her “uh-uh-uhs!!” as she bucked violently beneath me. The smell of sex was intoxicating.

We went at it for fifteen intense minutes, with her clawing at my back and her head thrashing violently back and forth. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes were wide open, nothing but the whites showing.

I had reached a newfound inspiration when she began the high-pitched keening noise she makes when she’s about to come. It was quickly followed by a loud grunt and choking noises as she processed a monster orgasm.

I wasn’t close to being finished. So, I sped up, seeking satisfaction. As I did that, Sal started a low throaty chant, “That’s it, baby!! Give it to me! Give it all to me!!” Then she shrieked, “Oh Jesus!!” And began to writhe like a pinned snake. That did it for me. I could feel something monstrous coming from long ago and far away, and then all rationality and sense of self vanished.

What followed was a couple of lost minutes as the two of us wrestled, groaned, and whimpered, and then it all passed like a prairie tornado. We were left still fully clothed, sweating and panting.

Lying limply, with her hair erotically messy, Sal slowly opened her huge intelligent eyes and gave me a penetrating look. She said, voice brimming with passion, “I love you, Erik. I will always love you. My heart and soul are yours. Don’t ever forget that.”

She wasn’t overstating or lying. A person’s eyes are the windows into their soul. And I knew that she meant it. This gorgeous woman and I were committed to each other for the long haul. It was a truly wonderful moment.

Sal left for the Berkshires early that Friday. She was a ball of nervous energy as she packed. Naturally, she had brought more baggage than Napoleon’s army on the march. I’d asked her once about the overpacking. She’d patted me fondly on the cheek and said in a tone of voice, like she was talking to the mentally challenged, “You just don’t understand women, Dear.”

We mainly use public transport. But we have a Mini-Cooper for road trips. My wife was standing next to it as I loaded her roller bag into the back. She looked like Joan of Arc about to be tied to the stake. I held my arms open. She stepped into my embrace, and I said, “Don’t worry, my love, you’ll be the star.”

She gave me the same look Tom Brady must get on game day. Sal had chosen to live in the wild rather than in my ivory tower. Now it was down to one big weekend. She said, “I hope so. This could make or break my career.”

Sal’s very competitive, much more so than me. Second-best is never an option for her, and this weekend was clearly for all the marbles. If she succeeded, the next ten years would be nothing but advancement, maybe even a Deanship. But it was all on the line tomorrow.

She honked the mini’s horn twice as she headed west toward the Alewife Parkway. I always thought the horn on such a stylish little car was a joke. The beep-beep sounded like a yapping Chihuahua. The electric blue paint scheme helped me track her for some distance as she drove up Mass-23. Then I turned and walked back inside. The place seemed empty without her.

I spent all day researching whether Vincent Van Gogh actually killed himself. Hey!! I told you I was strange. I love historical murder mysteries and spending an afternoon analyzing the Ripper killings is just so on the nose these days.

Van Gogh - and I’m talking about the fellow himself, not his art - fascinated me because his story is just as improbable as mine. I mean, here’s a guy who spent most of his life experiencing psychotic episodes. Seriously, does that sound like a person who would become one of the most influential artists of the Nineteenth Century?

I’m not psychotic, mind you or at least not certifiably. But nobody would’ve predicted that I’d end up where I did, either. So, I felt a kinship with the man. Nevertheless, that wasn’t the part about Van Gogh that fascinated me. What intrigued me was that he died thinking he was a failure.

He didn’t sell many paintings in his day. Now they go for $15 million a pop. He probably wouldn’t have committed suicide if he’d known that. Vincent did his most iconic work in Arles. He liked the soft light and vibrant colors of Provence. I had been through that area in my youth and felt the same way. In fact, I’d occasionally thought about a vacation there. But you know how life happens.

Vincent purportedly killed himself with a shot in the stomach. That was the commonly accepted theory. But a controversy arose over the fact that there were no gunpowder burns on his shirt.

If it was murder, then there was an abundance of candidates. The gun that shot him belonged to a young man named Secretan. Vincent had a history with that dude involving a lady of the night who they’d both fancied.

The other prime suspect was his brother’s wife, Johanna. Vincent had scrounged off his younger brother Theo his entire life. Hence it was rumored that Johanna took the train up to Auvers-sur-Oise one fine day to relieve her husband of his costly burden.

There was even the theory that his own doctor did him in. Van Gogh was behaving crazier than he had when he cut off part of his left ear and gave it to a local prostitute. I bet she was thrilled by THAT gift. So, maybe the good doctor opted to treat Vincent’s increasing insanity with a 30-caliber pill.

Anyhow, I’m a nerd, and nerds love puzzles. I suppose it’s the mental exercise that we adore. More important, spending the day immersed in Van Gogh’s untimely demise kept my mind off my wife. She was playing in the Super Bowl of capitalism. So, she would be wrapped up in a whirlwind of gripping and grinning from the moment she arrived.

Sal was clearly there to enchant the rich geezers who underwrite our academic ventures. The fact that she was going to spend her time doing that with nobody but her bestie Millie and Douchebag as a backup was somewhat daunting. But I knew my girl, and I was sure she’d be on her game, captivating all those dirty old men and their overbred wives.

It was a gorgeous Saturday morning, as only a fall day in New England can be. The trees in that leafy part of the world were all in their extensive autumn finery. Temperatures were in the low seventies, and the sun was bright. So, I called Millie’s husband, Charlie, to see if he wanted to watch some Ivy League football.

Millie was off with Sal and Dickhead this weekend, and I figured her husband, Charlie, would like some company. Hence, I was shocked when Millie answered the phone. Millie said “hello” a couple of times. I finally sputtered, “I thought you were at Wyndhurst this weekend?!!”

Millie said with barely disguised anger, “So did I, but Lawton called just as I was leaving yesterday and told me not to come. He said that he and Sally would manage the whole thing.”

I smelled a giant preppie rat. I said, appalled, “Do you mean to tell me that Sally is up there all alone with Fuller??!!”

Millie said, “Yes ... It was frustrating to get yanked out of the game at the last second. But what can you do? I’m sure Sal can pull it off.”

I was feeling a little uneasy when she put Charlie on the phone. Maybe I was clueless.

Charlie and I agreed to meet at the Russel House Tavern by the Harvard stop on the Red Line. We could walk the fifteen minutes over to the stadium from there. I didn’t have a car, but the MBTA was better because I could drink as much as I wanted after the game.

Charlie’s a big man, my height but maybe fifty pounds heavier. The glittering dark eyes peering out of his full beard makes him look like a Grizzley bear. He’s also about as opposite of me as you can get, larger than life and always full of fun. He’s a great companion.

Even so, what I’d just heard from Millie troubled me enough that I was somewhat distracted while the Crimson dismembered the hapless Lafayette Leopards. He and I were having a beer at the Russell when I idly asked, “How did Millie feel about being pulled off the Wyndham project?”

Charlie is an odd duck. He looks like he could have suited up for Harvard at defensive tackle if they let their players sport thick red beards. But he’s actually a Presbyterian minister.

He said, “How do you think she’d feel?” A typical counselor ... answer a question with a question. I said, “Based on how Sal would react, I assume Millie was disappointed and probably a little bit pissed. Those retreats are excellent networking opportunities. Why do you think Fuller canceled her at the last minute?”

He looked at me blandly and said, “I don’t know. What do you think?” Again, with the non-answers.

I said, “The only thing I can imagine is that Fuller wants to be alone with Sally this weekend.”

Charlie said, encouraging me to speculate further, “And why do you think he’d want to do that?”

I thought for a second, and it hit me. I said, “The douchebag wants a shot at Sal.” I added, “She’s incredibly sexy, and Fuller’s always had a thing for her. It would make his life if he could turn me into a cuck.” Honestly, the idea didnít bother me in the slightest. I knew how steadfast my wife was.

Charlie said, “That’s what I was thinking. Don’t worry, though. Sal has a good head on her shoulders.” I said firmly, “Yes, she does, and she is locked in on this opportunity. I’m just sorry that Millie couldn’t benefit from it too.”

Charlie said off-handedly, “She’ll get over it. Millie isn’t as competitive as Sally is.”

Sal’s over-developed need to achieve was what worried me. My wife was driven to succeed. So much so that she would do almost anything to accomplish a goal that she’d set for herself. The contrast between her career and mine was one of those paradoxes that make us a perfect fit.

Every last one of us has an idea about our destiny. That vision makes us who we are. It’s how we judge our progress in life. I didn’t EVER see myself competing in my wife’s world. It wasn’t that I was a wimp. I can be utterly ruthless when it involves things that I care about. It was just that I had a different idea about what I wanted from life.

I get paid to live in my head, not indulge in piracy on the high seas, which is how I view the business community. Hence, I can always be Sal’s rock. My wife’s a spitfire. She often tells me how much my calm presence means to her, to anchor her when she gets over-emotional. But people can lose track of priorities while chasing ambition. That left me room to ponder.

Sal called me late Saturday afternoon. It surprised me because I’d assumed she was too involved in the self-congratulation to take the time. She sounded a bit “sheepish,” if that’s the right word. She said casually, “I just wanted to let you know I’m staying in a different place tonight.”

I said, surprised, “Okay and where’s that?”

Sal said, “It’s the Marriott Courtyard in Lenox.” That was just up the road from the festivities.

I said, puzzled, “How did things go? Why did you move?”

She said, kinda matter of fact, “Everything went fine. I just wanted to get away from it all. I’ll sleep here tonight and be home early tomorrow afternoon. Maybe we can do something together. I just wanted to tell you that I loved you, Erik.”

That was a little disquieting. Typically, Sal is the first one to arrive at the party and the last to leave. What made her so drippy, and what caused her to stay elsewhere?

I said distractedly, “That’s great.” Then I added, as if it was an afterthought, “Did Millie come with you?

Sal said, her voice sounding a bit heated, “No, she didn’t show up on Friday. I don’t know what happened to her. Lawton said that she was sick. I’m not pleased. It left just Lawton and me.”

That was a test, of course, and Sal passed with flying colors. I would wait until she got home to fill her in on the reason why Millie didn’t come. I said blithely, “Well, I’ll see you when you get here. When are you getting back.”

She said guardedly, “I’m not sure. Lawton wanted to do a debrief tomorrow.”

I’d hoped she would be back bright and early and we could do something together. It’s just a two-hour drive from Lenox back to Cambridge. I said, disappointed, “That sucks ... Well, just let me know when you leave.”

She said, “I’m sorry.” There was something odd in the way she said that. Then she added, “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you’d better be ready for some good loving.”

Sal called around noon that Sunday and didn’t appear until closer to three. She looked glum when she walked in. My wife fussed and then rolled her bag into the bedroom. I followed and tossed it on the bench at the foot of the bed so she could unpack it.

Sally turned to me, and I could see in her eyes that she had something to say. Then it passed. Instead, she stepped into me, put her arms around my neck, and said, “Wouldn’t you rather throw something else on the bed? It’s been a long and difficult weekend.”

I looked into those deep, dark bedroom eyes, and there was a lot of hunger. As I said, she thinks about it a lot. Sal weighs maybe one-fifteen. So, I scooped her up and tossed her laughing in the middle of the bed.

She immediately skinned her panties off and had her legs spread wide in the way a woman’s hip structure permits. I would have given myself a double hernia if I had tried to get my legs that far apart.

As soon as I crawled up to position myself between her legs, Sal reached down and inserted tab A into slot B. This was clearly a case where there wouldn’t be any foreplay. She was ready. She emitted a loud grunt as I slid into her. Then she whispered fervently, “Fuck me!! Make me yours!!”

I was more than happy to try. For perhaps five minutes, the sound in the room was heavy breathing, wet squishy sounds, and the occasional whap-whap-whap as we established the ancient rhythm. Then Sal began to moan with an intensity I’d never heard from her before, and she came violently.