“Do I have a curfew?”
He smirks. We both know the question is a mere formality. I must ask. I’m his wife.
“Go, have a good time, make sure you’re home at a decent hour.” Peck on the cheek. Quick hug. Double check my pockets for I.D. and some cash. One last wave, and the night begins.
I turn the key in the ignition and as my car hums to life, so do I. I wiggle out of my skirt. Replace my flats with sexy heels. Quickly reapply darker eye shadow and hot pink lipstick. All while driving. Three honks. Baila joins me in the car .
“Don’t ask,” she mutters. “My son would not fall asleep! I had to bribe him with a Bisli.” She stops herself. “Okay, no Mommy talk tonight. Let’s party!”
Same routine. Skirt and blouse replaced by tight jeans and a shimmering tank. Wig laid neatly in the back, three spritzes of perfume, and a quick brush through her long brown hair.
“How do I look?”
“Sexy as hell.”
We kiss. Her wet tongue melts in my mouth.
“Stop! You’re messing up my lipstick !” I wink.
Still driving. Two more honks. Last pickup.
“Finally!” says Goldie. “I thought I’ll never get done with that endless laundry pile. When I get back, hopefully, someone will have the put the mounds of towels back in the closet—” Goldie stops abruptly. “What did I miss?”
Lady Gaga sings “Papa-Razzi” on the radio. Driving an hour and a half away to some club may have its disadvantages, but the risk of seeing someone we may know isn’t worth our sterling reputations.
Music. Flash of a driver‘s license and a stamp on the hand . Note to self: wipe the stamp off before you get home .
“Let’s do shots!” As the designated driver, no shots for me. Goldie downs her Patron, then grins at me. “And I so don’t feel sorry for you. That was me last time, remember?”
I don’t need to drink to have a good time.
Dancing. Grinding. Hips thrusting. Strange men I’ll never see again.
“Come home with me tonight, baby.”
“Sorry, dude, I’m married!”
“But you’re dancing with me. And you’re so sexy. And he’ll never know.”
“Dancing isn’t fucking,” I say. “I am sexy, and if I want a dick so badly, I can ask him for his. Or use my fingers. I’m here to party, not fuck.” Although dancing and drunken kisses never hurt anyone.
I love girls. The small of their backs, the smoothness of their necks. Tipsy touching, teasing, giggling. Singing at the top of my lunges. Feet aching. The good kind of ache. I glance at my watch. A quarter to two.
Of course they protest. Eventually, they stumble to the car.
“Best time ever!” Baila crows. “Did you see that guy hitting on me?” Giggling. “He was kinda cute! Greeeaaat dancer! I love a guy who knows how to dance well. My husband has two left feet.”
“Sleep it off,” I tell them. “In forty five minutes I’ll wake you so you can change out of those prusteh jeans.” Everyone has responsibilities tomorrow. Lunches to pack, homework sheets to sign, bosses to answer to.
3:45 A.M. Ignition off. Flats on. Wig in place. Makeup long gone.
I nudge him awake.
“Hey. I’m home”
He turns and smiles, still half asleep.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Baila got a little tipsy. She’s wild.”
“Glad you had fun,” he whispers. Kisses my forehead. “Hmm. Now you woke me up. How am I ever gonna fall back to sleep?”
I slip under the covers and remove his underwear, lick his thighs, his stomach. Eventually I help him fall asleep.
Love his confidence. Love that he lets me be independent. Love that we can give each other the occasional space for a night out with friends.
“Have a great day, shefele!” I smile at my six-year-old the next morning as he leaves with my husband. My four-year-old just left for cheder, and my two-year-old is about to get dropped off at the babysitter.
Turning the key in the ignition, I notice the ink on my hand. Quickly wiping it off with my sleeve, I laugh to myself. Would’ve had to come up with a good excuse for my chumash students as to why I have a big red stamp on my hand.