Free Extracurricular Activities by Maggie Barbieri

single. Part of me was starting to get the impression that Tony wasn’t kidding; I was his new “amore” and nothing was going to get in the way of our love. I shuddered at the thought—although being with a man who had unlimited access to Boar’s Head products was somewhat appealing—while I rooted around with my free hand for my car keys, mentally constructing a “Dear Tony” letter in my head that began with “Although we’ll never be together in that way …”
    I finally reached the car; I put the bag of food on the front hood. I heard my name, but unfortunately, the caller was too close for me to pretend to be deaf. I looked up and spied Jackson ambling up the street with Trixie, who was on a leash. I thought we had some unspoken agreement whereby we didn’t speak to each other. At all. But apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo. Or decided that the statute of limitations had run out on our silence. Trixie bounded up to me and planted her nose between my butt cheeks, her usual greeting.
    He gave the leash a little tug but didn’t make mention of Trixie’s seeming love of my ass. Trixie’s ass love was the most lovin’ I’d had in two years. “Hey, Alison!” he said, a big smile on his face. “Boy, I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” he said, laughing. “No pun intended.”
    None taken. “Hi, Jackson.”
    â€œWhere the heck have you been?” he asked, pushing back a lock of his light brown hair. I could see that he had recently stocked up on whatever superhold hair gel he liked to use; individual strands of hair were artfully arranged atop his hair in a messy, Abercrombie & Fitch model kind of do. He realized that his question was probably self-explanatory. Where had I been? Living somewhere else while my house was being cleaned, fumigated, and repainted. He looked down at the ground.
    â€œOh, here and there,” I said, bending down to pet Trixie. I stole a look at him from my crouch; he didn’t seem like a drug- and alcohol-addled, anger-obsessed murderer. But, hey, you never know. I wondered if I should be a little more concerned about him, but the look on his face was pure fecklessness and the vibe he gave off was not threatening in any way.
    â€œI’m really sorry about Ray,” he said in that condescending way that made my skin crawl.
    I nodded a thank-you at him.
    â€œWhat a mess, huh?” He toed the ground with his fancy nonathletic sneaker. I didn’t think any serious athlete would be caught dead in an orange sneaker with pink trim, but that’s just one woman’s opinion.
    â€œYes, it was a mess,” I concurred.
    That out of the way, he decided to commence with the small-talk portion of our conversation. “Did you take a summer vacation?” he asked. Holy subject change, Batman.
    Jesus, we’re going to have a whole conversation, I thought. Did I take a summer vacation? “Yes. I went to Quebec.”
    â€œTrès bien!” he said. “Parlez-vous français?”
    My last name is Bergeron and my parents were French Canadian. What do you think? I tried to be nice. I didn’t want him murdering me in a drug-induced rage. “Yes, I do.”
    â€œMoi, aussi!”
    â€œGreat!” Or more appropriately: fantastique! I plastered a big grin on my face. “I’m kind of in a hurry, Jackson. I’ve got to run,” I said, opening my car door. Trixie sat beside me, looking up at me with her sad/happy dog face.
    He put his hand on my arm. “Listen, I know we had a rather unpleasant spring.”
    I’ll say.
    â€œThings are better, though. Terri and I are in counseling and I think we’re going to be able to work through everything.”
    What planet did this guy live on? First of all, why did either of them think I gave a rat’s ass about their marriage? I lived through a marriage that couldn’t