sex, lies, and handwriting--a cautionary tale in two parts (part one)

Marguerite and I went tonight for sushi at Roku in Caesar’s. We had planned on going to The Ranch for a movie, but when she called to tell me she’d be by at seven her voice was muffled and the usual hairpin turns of her Portuguese accent were round. She had been crying.

“Look. Look at this,” she said unfolding a piece of paper on the table, the hooks in her voice back. It appeared to be a list. “He’s such a bastard.”

The bastard to whom Marguerite was referring was her husband. She had met Michael when he was stationed in France three years ago with the Air Force. The American pilots had been regulars at the cabaret where Marguerite was ahem dancing for the summer. While her mother had strongly disapproved, the money she said had been puxa, especially for an elementary teacher who worked two months to make what she made in a weekend as a ahem dancer. (Don’t even get me started on the fact that I would make 357% more per hour taking my sensible cardigan off than I do putting it on every morning—not that I actually ran the numbers or anything).

At first Marguerite hadn’t noticed Michael as anyone special, but his tips were another story. One night he stayed behind and offered to buy a private ahem dance. Marguerite, of course refused such a blatant proposition, claiming he could never afford her. But Michael was relentless. After weeks of stalwart, Marguerite acquiesced and when they were through Michael left a grand on her nightstand. Later Michael confessed that he would have paid more and much later Marguerite confessed that she would have accepted less.

They married in Cannes in September and she returned with him to the States after he accepted a job offer working for Area 51, which is 90 miles outside of Vegas. Being Portuguese Marguerite had never heard of Area 51 and understandably she was horrified when she learned everything she did, which of course wasn’t much. The secrecy involved in Michael’s job created a rift, but one she explained they were able to cross with consistently amazing sex.

A month ago Marguerite and Michael had hosted a masquerade Christmas party at their Anthem home. There was a dark chocolate fountain and an assortment of berries in martini glasses rimmed with sugar that hired cocktail waitresses carried around on little black trays. The waitresses were topless and wore white bowties around their necks—a touch that would have been perceived as tres European if not for the fact that this was Vegas.

After a few hours of mingling with friends and people who may or may not have worked with her husband, Marguerite went upstairs to check on Asia. The Persian cat had been locked in one of the guestrooms for safekeeping. “It was the bastard’s f****** brilliant idea. We argued about it, but then the caterer showed up.” When Marguerite opened the guestroom door she found Michael in bed with one of the blonde cocktail waitresses. She immediately reverted to a long line of multisyllabic sounds, which guests could only surmise to be Portuguese curses as she kicked everyone out. She then called her mother in Lisbon who promptly boarded a plane and has been in the house with Marguerite and Michael now for over nearly a month.
“It is a special kind of hell for such a filthy bastard,” Marguerite hissed.
To be continued…promise—my phone doth ring…