Chapter 1: Buzz and Rumors

I married Elizabeth Barton when she was twenty-two.

I was a year older. We married with the self-assured arrogance of young people in love. You see - no one could possibly be as deeply in love as we were then. And of course no one had ever felt so much love before us. It was our own personal invention. So indeed no one would ever be this crazily in love again.

Betty - as her parents and siblings call her — was also the most beautiful creature on earth. (She still is, by the way. Hate can't change everything overnight. Please be p atient.) I, on the other hand, preferred to call her Libby. At first she did not like that, until I said it over and over while licking her clit. Try it; you'll see why it would work. And while you're at it, try Bubble too. Or Bibbly-bibbly, though that m ay make you sound a bit silly.

Our state of bliss started with a bang when we first met on a New Year's Eve's party, now five years ago. Things went fast from there. We were already half naked when the last of the twelve strokes echoed in our ears.

What always amazed me the most about us, even after all this time, was the ease. The natural, easy way we had around each other. The way we made each other float. It was almost a state of grace, whatever that is. Her calm hazel eyes poured confidence into my sk ull. We never had to prove anything. It was an incredibly rare, yet so very ordinary closeness. There was a relaxed humor. Our eyes always seemed to see the same silly little things.

I never suspected how vulnerable that would make me.

You see, it is jus t as the drunk sod told Paul, his best friend: "Wha' weally hujts is the bethwayl."

Does it matter how I found out?

Maybe for you sick, voyeuristic slobs it does. With all the cliché circumstance s, all the savory sex-dripping details. So you can shudder with delight about her blatant brazenness, her careless cruelty, her humiliating remarks. Ah, damn, you are just impotent lil gloaters anyway, aren't you?

Disaster-tourists, the lot of you.

Even worse are these awful so called friends. They can tell you in hindsight how they always suspected it. And how easy I could have known, had I only looked. But they did not want to interfere.

I would not mind demolishing their nosy noses. For a start.

A nd of course there are those who mildly patronize you. They look very smug and nod wisely while you tell them. In their case I could not help wondering if they shouldn't watch their own spouses.

And then there was Paul.

The only thing he did was telling me that he had seen Betty at the local Hilton, kissing her boss over dinner. Close kissing of the third kind, he said. Then they'd had coffee and hit the elevators, his hand on her ass.

Paul had left the Hilton two hours later. They had not yet returned by then.

I remember I had this primal urge to cave in Paul's nose. And a few teeth. And his eyes. Maybe his balls too. But he was Paul. We go back a century. He never lied to me. Not even about disliking Betty, which he did. He had all the right in the w orld to gloat and tell me "I told you so". But he was maybe the only one in the world who'd never do that.

Paul is my friend. And he lived to regret that.

Those first years Betty and I were too deep ly in love with our perfect lives to want children. She certainly liked her career as much as I did. But of course, looking back from where we are now, she may have had other things on her mind. Anyway, the subject never came up.

We were the typical self ish yuppie couple, I suppose.

We wined and dined and went to far away islands where the sun always does what the brochures promise. We traveled to Europe's old cities. We lived in a roomy loft on Manhattan Island. We collected beautiful things, exotic exp eriences. We went to concerts and parties, when we had the time.

Time was precious, though. Betty worked hard and long hours. I guess I did the same. We were very busy chasing perfection and trying to get there.

Friends liked us and we liked them whenev er we could find the time to meet them. Or they to see us. Sometimes our agenda's matched. It didn't take long until we ourselves had to use our pretty palm tops to see each other, Betty and I. Don't laugh or I'll call you an old fashioned laggard and scra tch you from my electronic agenda.

The only one I could never impress with my time management was Paul. You have to know that he is a painter. One of the kind that could become famous after he dies. His children may get very rich if he ever thinks of mar rying and having some. Then again, if he would do that, it might spoil his art and his dedication to it.

I am into a different art form; the bland and modern art of money management. I make the rich richer and don't make myself poorer in the process. Bett y is into P.R. She is P.R., really; in her life the sun never sets. And to be honest, up to now it never saw a reason to do so.

One infamous night Paul called me.

He was in his favorite bar. Our bar, to be precise. Well, our one-time bar, as I hadn't been there with any regularity this last year.

He sounded slightly tipsy. It was about eight thirty. He also sounded concerned. Paul is a loud person. Put him in any voice-filled room and you'll have n o problem hearing him. But that night he sounded quiet on the phone. Somehow it convinced me at once of the urgency of his call.

The bar was busy. Paul raised his paint-stained hand and waved when I got in. He sat way in the back. By the time I had reache d him, there was a scotch and ice for me on the table.

"Drink up," he said.

"What is the matter, Paul? Why call me?"

"Drink first. Talk later."

There were no little lights in his eyes.

I took a sip.

"Drink, I said," he insisted.

I emptied the glass. The stuff burnt down my throat. Miraculously there was a freshly filled glass where I put down the empty one.

"I have to get up early in the morning," I said, pushing the glass away.

He shoved it back.

"This one too. Drink."

I shrugged and swallowed.

"Betty is fucking around on you."

I must admit that I did not believe him.

As anyone blinded by love knows: all people lie when they tell you anything about your lover that isn't the 100% essence o f red roses. Paul was my best friend since kindergarten. Paul never ever lied to me. And now there was no way I could believe him.

I got mad.

I told him that I was very disappointed with him. That I felt like beating him up. (He is 6 ft 4 and more than h alf as wide.) That it was a fucking shame he had sunk so low to let his fucking jealousy take over. That he was a skunk (or some other unsavory animal; I don't exactly remember). That I never would have thought he'd find satisfaction in destroying the happ iness of his best friend.

"This is me, dammit Paul! Me!"

He only waved to the waitress and told me to drink up.

"I understand," he said. His voice sounded sad. "I might have reacted the same way. But it is true. I saw it, Jules."

One can only rage th is long. Words have a tendency to get scarce after, let's say, triple repetition. The only exception is the word fuck, I guess.

I drank. Then I cried.