Free The Stranger by Kyra Davis Page A

glasses, one for her, one for me. The clear liquid does have the look of chastity but the bite of something much better. I take several sips and lower myself onto her sofa. She places herself on the armrest by my side.
    “You always tell me your secrets,” I say. One of those leopard throw pillows presses against my back.
    “And you never tell me any of yours,” she replies, lightly.
    It’s not true. I told Simone about my sister once. I told her about her blinding brilliance and her energy that was as powerful as it was frightening. But Simone didn’t know those confessions were secrets. For her a secret was something no one knew, not something everyone was trying to forget.
    “I never had any secrets before,” I say, using her definition.
    “Before.” She says the word carefully, tasting its meaning. She curls a lock of her golden hair around her index finger like a ring.
    “You know, secrets and mysteries, they have . . . weight. I’ve enjoyed traveling light.”
    “What kind of weight are you carrying, Kasie?”
    When I don’t answer, she changes tact. “When did you start having secrets?”
    “In Vegas,” I whisper.
    “I knew it!” Simone leans forward and places her glass on the coffee table with a triumphant thump. “You were different when you came back to the room—”
    “I told you, I had a drink with a man in the bar with glass walls.”
    Simone swats aside my words like irksome flies. “There was more.” She gets up as if standing over me will force out my story a little faster. “When I left you at the blackjack table you were still that woman without secrets. And now?” She shrugs.
    “Now I’m something different.” I turn my focus inward, gathering up the courage to continue. “I betrayed him.”
    “Dave?”
    “Yes Dave. He’s the only man I have the power to betray.”
    Simone turns out her left leg, shifting her weight forward to her toes. She looks like the immobile dancers on her wall. “It was more than a kiss?”
    “Yes, more than a kiss.”
    A slow smile forms on her lips. “You slept with a stranger.”
    I look away.
    “You did it! For just one night you were young!”
    “No, I was irresponsible.”
    She arches a blond eyebrow. “There’s a difference?”
    I make a small gesture of concession to her point. “The thing is, he’s not a stranger anymore.”
    And now both her eyebrows reach for new heights. “You’re having an affair?”
    I wince, disliking the word. It’s common and ugly.
    And it fits perfectly with my actions of the last week.
    “He hired me to consult for his company. Even when I’m not talking to him he”—I glance up at the photographs—“he dances around in my head. I’ve been doing things I never thought I would do. I think things I never thought I would think. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
    “That’s easy,” Simone says, sitting by my side and slipping my two hands between hers. “You’re a woman with secrets”—she studies my eyes, my lips, my hair—“and you wear them beautifully.”
    I pull away. “It’s just my hair, I’m wearing it down.”
    “No, it’s the secrets, giving you color, brightening your eyes . . . you look more . . . human somehow.”
    “I didn’t look human before?”
    “Always beautiful, but a bit statuesque . . . Do you remember the statues we saw during our college trip to Florence? They were fantastic . . . but as grand as he is, I can’t imagine making love to Michelangelo’s David . Too hard, too cold, too . . . perfect.”
    I laugh into my glass. “I have never been perfect.”
    “But everyone thinks of you that way. It earns you admiration . . . now you’re inner human is showing and it sounds as if it’s earning you something . . . warmer.”
    “I slept with him today.”
    “At his place or yours?”
    “In his office . . . on his desk.” I’m surprised that the admission makes me grin.
    “Shut. Up.”
    I look up at her and for the briefest of