I look to my right and she's sitting there in the rocking chair with her newborn nursing at her breast. She is looking down at the baby cradled in her arm. With only a slight change in the angle of her head, she shifts her gaze and her smile up to me.
"My mind wanders to you sometimes," I tell her.
"Daydreams?"
I nod my head. She still smiles.
"Are they dirty?" she asks, as if she half wants them to be.
"Sometimes. But only briefly." She seems pleased by this response. "They're usually like this though."
"Like this one, you mean," she clarifies as she returns her gaze to the child and adjusts her breast in its mouth. I nod my head, even though she's not looking at me.
"Why would you daydream about me breast feeding?" She seems to be wondering aloud. "Unless you're turned on by that," she adds, looking up at me with that slightly wicked smile.
"I suppose anything that draws attention to your breasts is likely to turn me on. But it's not a sexual fantasy," I tell her plainly.
"Clearly," she says with her happy smile, all wickedness lost now. She pauses and resumes in a more conversational manner.
"So why would you daydream about me sitting next to you breast feeding?" she repeats.
"Because you're a new mother."
"You could imagine me changing his diaper," she says with a smile and a quick glance up to me.
"I could," I pause. "But I wouldn't."
"Why me then? Do you love me?"
"I enjoy your company and conversation. I think you are beautiful. But, no, I do not love you." I am surprised by my response.
"No, you don't," she says looking at me warmly, reassuring me that that was the correct answer.
"Is my baby always in these daydreams?"
"Aside from the ones where we have sex?"
"Yes," she smiles. "Aside from those."
"I think so."
"But it's not your baby."
"I know."
"It's my husband's baby."
"Yes."
"So then. Why me? Why my baby?"
"I think I can answer for why it is you. I am not sure I can answer for the baby's appearance."
She is no longer smiling, but she is looking at me with an openness that begs me to share with her.
"Well," I pause. "You swear."
"I swear?" She is both amused and confused.
"I mean, you cuss. You use profanity."
"Oh!" She smiles broadly. "Yeah, I do. I need to clean that up around him though," she says nodding her head down at the child. "You like that I swear too much?"
"I'm not sure why. And I wouldn't call it too much, though it's certainly more frequent than any other woman I know. For some reason it's charming to me. You say what you think without going through a bunch of filters."
"But I haven't used profanity once in this conversation," she says in a way that asks if it contradicts my statement.
"No. You haven't. But you haven't needed to." She seems agreed on this. "But you did bring up sex first." With this she smiles and nods her head in not-quite embarrassed agreement.
"Isn't there anything else?" she asks.
"Sure. I mentioned the swearing, but I like the way you talk. I like talking to you. I like listening to you talk to somebody else."
"You like the way I talk? You mean, the words? The sound of my voice?" she's flattered but still confused.
"Yes. And yes. I love the way your voice sounds. I love the way you construct a sentence. I love the words you choose, and I love the way you navigate a conversation. I love that you avoid bullshit [she smiles at my use of this word] but that you don't put anyone off."
"Wow." She smiles and takes a deep breath. She looks back down to her child again. "I wish my husband would say something like that to me."
"Unfortunately, you'll never even hear me say that to you."
"True," she says softly, still gazing upon her infant.
"I have other reasons for these daydreams," her gaze coming back to me, "but it all comes down to the fact that I would love you immensely if the circumstances were different."
"Yes. But I am married."
"Yes."
"And I love him."
"I know."
"So you will find some other girl and you will tell her what you tell me," she says with her warm smile.
"Only if she talks like you do."
She smiles.
"Are we going to have sex now?" she asks with that wicked smile again.
"You know that we are not," I reply with a smile.
There is a knock at the door.
"Come in," I say without turning away from her.
The door opens and it's my brother.
"We're late," he says.
I finally turn away from her to see my brother standing in his tuxedo, minus the tie.
"Aren't you ready yet?" he asks in a hurried manner.
I look back for her again but she is already gone.
"Almost," I tell him as I pick up the tie from the stand next to my chair. "Almost."