The Last Time I Saw Carl Naked
Christy Hartman
About this Author:
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about love and loss and the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others
The Last Time I Saw Carl Naked
The first time I saw Carl naked, he was watering his wife’s heirloom tomatoes.
I was next door, sprawled on my patio lounger, laptop open, prepared for my first work-from-home day after years in an office. Sun reflected off Doris’ wind chimes, highlighting Carl’s lower back hair. He glanced over his shoulder and tossed me a cheeky wink. When my husband called to say he’d be working late again, I swallowed my annoyance and told him an anecdote about my boss picking his nose when he thought his camera was off. I didn’t tell Jason I’d seen his best friend’s hairy ass in the backyard.
The second time I saw Carl naked, he was filling Doris’ hummingbird feeder. He waved, commented on the weather, and observed that I was getting some serious tan lines. Sunshine hadn’t touched my breasts since the Italian beach where Jason and I spent our honeymoon. Back at the hotel, wiping sand out of our naughty bits, my buttoned-up husband had reflected that the nudist life wasn’t for him. I had nodded, but secretly revelled in bobbing in the sea, free of spandex and inhibitions. Today, in my garden, I yanked off my tank top, giving Carl a thumbs up.
That night was the monthly neighbourhood dinner–India themed. Jason left our bathroom smelling of the Versace cologne I gave him last Christmas that he hadn’t bothered to open, until now. He’d been paying more attention to his grooming habits lately, though it hasn’t inspired him to fix our six-month dry spell.
Five couples descended on Doris and Carl’s house. Doris ushered Jason, and our Crockpot of vindaloo, into the kitchen and Carl handed me a frosty mango lassi. We chatted comfortably, like I hadn’t seen his exposed pakoras in the garden a few hours earlier. Jason’s distinct seal-bark laugh burst from the kitchen, but I couldn’t hear what my uptight husband found so funny.
The third time I saw Carl naked, he rolled a yoga mat out on his lawn and executed a series of sun salutations, his penis rising slightly with each skyward stretch. The gap in the hedge was positioned perfectly for our eyes to meet between his thighs each time he folded into downward dog. Once he’d settled into Savasana, pubic hair waving in the breeze, I returned to my spreadsheet.
“How long are we going to pretend?” Carl stepped through the shrubs and sat opposite me.
“Pretend what?”
“That your husband isn’t fucking my wife.” Carl checked his watch. “It’s noon. They’re probably together now.”
I sighed. “I wasn’t sure you knew.”
“They aren’t great at hiding it.” Carl stretched out a hand. “I called a lawyer last week.”
I held his hand, enjoying the warmth of contact. “I wish I was that brave.”
“You seem pretty brave.” Carl’s eyes flicked to my exposed skin. “I’ll give you his number.”
I brushed away my tears. “Then can you teach me to channel my inner warrior?”