It is the end of a long day at the weeklong festival. My wife and I are in desperate need of a shower to wash off the copious amount of gritty dust, sweat, mosquito repellent, and sunscreen we had accumulated through the day.
The showers are a unisex communal type of affair, built from beautiful redwood. They are a highlight of the day for everyone. With a huge firepit to dry off around, this is as much a social occasion as a duty of hygiene, and the place is packed.
I’m soaping up and chatting with Irene when a woman’s voice cuts through the hubbub of the crowd.
As I turn around, I see a beautiful, naked, half-soaped woman rushing directly at me. Oh, OK, I actually see a nice pair of breasts and the erotic curve of waist and hips, but let’s not be picky on this point. Before I can employ evasive maneuvers, she embraces me and squeals. “It <i>is</i> you!”
I’d heard the expression “married, not dead” before, but I had never actually had the occasion to put the truism to a real test. Feeling her wet skin on mine, two instincts immediately begin a sumo wrestling match in my skull.
You will enjoy this … You don’t want to die
I feel a mixture of relief and regret as she lets me go and takes a step back, looking me up and down and beaming broadly. Suddenly, I recognize her. My brain continues in emergency mode, the wrestlers still going at it.
You will remember things … You don’t want to die
The evil sumo gets the upper hand. There was that time with her in the closet. And that time with her in the auditorium. And that time with her in the park. And that time with her in the middle of the floor at that party. And that… STOP IT, MAN! You’re in deep shit here. Your wife is right behind you! The good sumo makes a surprise comeback.
“Ummm, hi!” I cleverly say. Thinking quickly, I add “I’d like you to meet my wife, Irene. Irene, this is Monica.”
I look at Irene, and gaze into the pit of hell itself. Her eyes shoot sparks and belch smoke as she spits out a “Hello, Monica.”
“Ahh, it’s good to meet you. And it’s really good to see you again, John” and then thankfully she retreats to the far end of the shower. Good old Monica, she was always quick with the cues. STOP THAT
We resume showering in silence, broken when Irene issues the cold, flat statement “You know her.”
I choose to treat her statement as a question. “Well, yes. I haven’t seen her for about fifteen years now, I guess. Well before we met,” I add, hoping to forestall any deeply mistaken assumptions.
“She sure knows you.”
“We used to be lovers.”
“I could tell,” Irene says and glances at my cock. I desperately try to remember if it had reacted when Monica hugged me. I can’t, but the odds certainly aren’t in my favor here and I know it.
We finish rinsing and head to the fire pit to dry. The sound and warmth of the fire have their effect and Irene begins to relax. She’s still not speaking to me, but I begin to think this is going to be OK. Maybe I’m not going to die after all.
Then Monica sits directly across from us, too far to talk, but close enough to see. She looks at me, smiles and… did she? Oh crap, she did. She wiggled. She’s every bit as hot as I remember her being. I smile politely and look away. I’m doomed.
Irene stiffens. “She wants to fuck you. Again.”
“I doubt it,” I lie. “And even if she does, she can’t. You have nothing to worry about. You know that.” That part is true. I would never hurt her like that.
“I know. But I’m mad at you anyway.”
“Because you want to fuck her, too.”
That’s the problem with temporal intrusions. You never see them coming.