My Lovely Wife(21)

I did find one place that listed height: dating websites. But a brief search through a few of them is uninspiring. The next day, I ask Millicent to meet me for a midday break. We grab a cup of coffee and sit in the park across the street. The day is a beautiful one, the sky an unbroken blue and not too much humidity in the air, and the park is close enough to use the coffee shop’s Internet.

I explain our new profile requirements and show her what I’ve found online. She pages through the women on the dating site and then looks at me.

“They all seem so …” She shakes her head as her voice trails off.

“Fake?”

“Yes. Like they’re trying to be who men want instead of who they are.”

I point to one, who says her hobbies are windsurfing and beach parties. “And they might have too many friends.”

“Some do, I’m sure.”

She continues to page through profiles, her brow furrowed. “We can’t pick from a dating site.”

I say nothing, and she looks up at me. I am smiling.

“What?” she says.

“I have another idea.”

She relaxes, no longer worried, and raises one eyebrow. “Do you now?”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

I glance across the park, my eyes finally settling on a woman sitting on another bench and reading a book. I point. “What about her?”

Millicent looks over, studies the woman, and smiles. “You want to look for someone in the real world.”

“To start, yes. So we find someone that fits the physical profile. Then we’ll research online to make sure she’ll work.”

Millicent’s eyes turn to me. They are so bright. She places her hand on mine. Her touch spreads throughout my whole body; it feels like I am being recharged. Even my brain hums.

She nods, and the corners of her mouth turn up as she starts to smile. All I can think about is kissing her. About throwing her down in the middle of the park and ripping off her clothes.

“I knew there was a reason I married you,” Millicent finally says.

“Because I’m unbelievably brilliant?”

“And humble.”

“Not too bad-looking, either,” I say.

“If we do this right,” she says, “the police will never even think to look for a couple. We’ll be free to do whatever we want.”

Something about that makes me even more excited. The world is filled with things I can’t do and can’t afford, from houses to cars to kitchen equipment, but this, this, is how we can be free. This is the one thing that is ours, that we control. Thanks to Millicent.

“Yes,” I say to her.

“Yes to what?”

“Yes to everything.”



* * *



? ? ?

I drive to the SunRail station and take the train to Altamonte Springs, the opposite direction from where Petra lives. Technically, the town is outside Woodview, but it was still part of Owen’s original hunting grounds.

Women are everywhere. Young, old, tall, short, thin, heavy. They are on every street, in every store, around every corner. I don’t see the men, only the women, and it has always been this way. When I was young, I couldn’t imagine choosing only one. Not with so many available.

Obviously, that was before Millicent.

I’m the one who is different. I still evaluate all women, just not the same way. I do not see them as possible partners, lovers, or conquests. I evaluate them based on whether or not they will fit Owen’s profile. I size each one up first based on height, then on makeup and clothes.

I watch a young woman leave a Laundromat and go upstairs, to the apartment above it. From where I am standing, I am not sure if she is too tall.

A second woman exits an office building. She is quite short but annoyingly brisk, and I watch as she gets into a car that is nicer than mine. I am not sure I could get close to that one.

I see a woman at a coffee shop and sit at the table behind her. She is on a laptop, scrolling through sites that fall into two categories: politics and food. I know a smidge about both and wonder what kind of conversation we would have. This makes me curious enough to watch as she leaves, and then trail after her to get a license plate number.

I continue down the sidewalk until I see a small woman who is also a meter maid. She is writing a ticket. Her nails are cut short; so is her hair. I cannot see her eyes because of her sunglasses, but she isn’t wearing lipstick.

I pass by her close enough to read her name tag.

A. Parson.

Maybe her, maybe not. I haven’t decided yet. When she isn’t looking, I take a couple of pictures.



* * *



? ? ?

Later that night, Millicent is lying in bed and studying a spreadsheet on her computer. The kids are asleep, or should be. If nothing else, they’re silent. That might be the most we can hope for these days.

I slide into bed next to Millicent. “Hey there,” I say.

“Hey.” She scoots over to make room, though our bed is more than big enough.

“I went shopping today.”

“Jesus, I hope you didn’t spend any money. I’m looking at our budget right now, and we don’t have any extra. Not after the washer had to be replaced.”

I smile. “Not that kind of shopping.” I place my phone in front of her, with a picture of A. Parson on the front.