Page 64 of Dirty Diana
“I believe you.”
“Some nights I pull over and fall asleep in my car. But yes, some nights it’s a strip club.” He sighs. “She thinks I’m sexy.”
“Youpayher to think you’re sexy.”
“Diana, if you’re going to turn this into a fight, let’s just fight. I’ll never go again. Okay?”
“How do you know she thinks you’re sexy? Does she tell you?”
Oliver stares up at the ceiling. “I can feel her get excited.”
At the thought of Oliver with another woman, I feel a quiver, part jealousy, part something else. “You’re allowed to touch her?” Oliver looks different in the flicker of the TV’s light, the outlines of his face sharper.
“I don’t know the rules. Maybe not. But she lets me.”
“I want to meet her.”
“What? No.” Oliver laughs nervously.
“Why not? What don’t you want me to see?” I grab my purse by the door, strangely excited. “Let’s go.”
“Seriously?” His voice is high and pinched. He clears his throat. “Now?”
—
The summer raindrops are fat, falling heavy against the windshield. Oliver is silent in the passenger seat except for offering the occasional driving direction. “This is a terrible idea,” he says.
I feel like screamingI’m just trying to fix us!over the sound of the pounding rain, over all his doubt, over the slow disease that is spreading through our marriage. But I stay silent and focused on the road. The buzz of arousal still tingles in my veins, giving me a sort of hope that I feel compelled to chase.
As I pull in to the parking lot of the strip club, Oliver’s knee bounces up and down. “We didn’t bring an umbrella.” We stare out into the dark rainy night together. “We don’t have to do this. Now you’ve seen the place.”
“Let’s go.” I open the car door and make a break for it, not turning around to make sure he is following.
Inside, it smells like sharp perfume and stale beer. I squint in the dim, pulsing light. I can’t make out the faces of any of the men. They seem to merge into the walls, the booths, the barstools. But my eyes travel to each of the women in the room, each seeming lit up by their very own spotlight. The sparkle of their makeup makes them flicker. “Which one is she?”
“We should sit down, not just stand here.”
We stop at the bar to order drinks and we take them to a velvet-covered half-circle booth with a sticky cocktail table in the center. The chill of the air-conditioning gives me goosebumps; my clothes and hair are damp from the rain outside, sticking to me. I shift in my wet jeans. I see one woman who looks different from the others, a little older and rounder, with less makeup on. Long blond hair. She wears short black shorts that hang low on her hips and a paper-thin tank top.
Oliver sees her too. “That’s her.”
“Invite her over.”
“Diana.” Oliver sounds petulant, like I’m asking him to get upand close the window even though I’m the one who is cold. “You invite her if you want to meet her so badly.” But even as he says it, he waves his hand in the air like he is ordering a drink. Amanda flashes a wide smile when she sees him.
“She’s pretty,” I say.
Oliver refuses to respond.
“Hey, you.” Amanda leans in so close to Oliver that she might be about to kiss him. But then she stops, just inches away.
“Amanda,” Oliver says, sounding so formal that Amanda might laugh if she wasn’t so frozen and confused, “this is my wife, Diana.”
“Oh,” she says, seeming to notice me for the first time. “Hi.” The light goes out of her eyes.
“It was her idea to come here.”
“Ooooh,” Amanda replies. “I love that.”
