Exposing Esther
A Short Story
A modified version of this short story first appeared in The New Quarterly (Fall 2018, Issue 148).
Esther found herself in public, naked. And it wasn’t a dream.
Technically, as supported by the definition of the word, she was not in fact naked. This did little to ease her mind.
Her single garment—a classic, mid-length, beige trench coat—meant she was one degree away from being completely exposed. Esther liked having at least two degrees of separation between her and the world, preferably three.
So how did this normally reserved, some (in fact, most) might say prudish woman, find herself in such a precarious situation?
Only one person could be blamed for Esther’s current state: her husband.
Recently—last Thursday to be precise—Esther and her husband, Fred, had partaken in an Italian pasta dinner with a group of acquaintances. The conversation took a detour, then another, aided by a glass of wine, then another.
Esther sat listening quietly, while sipping her wine slowly. Unlike her dinner companions, she could make a single glass last an entire evening. A skill she prided herself on.
At some point, someone (whose identity is still in question) decided that the topic of conversation should turn toward sex. The topic of conversation often turned toward sex at these gatherings. Esther’s face would automatically become flushed . . . although no one ever seemed to notice. If required, she would have blamed it on the wine.
It was at this moment in the evening that she would excuse herself from the table. She would take enough time in the ladies’ room to allow everyone the chance to have their say on the matter before returning. However, on that particular Thursday evening, Esther’s calculations were off. As she approached the table, she overheard her husband saying that their sex life was very vanilla.
Vanilla? As in, sweet?
But judging by the expression on the others’ faces when they looked up and saw her, her husband’s statement was anything but sweet.
Later that same night when Fred was safely asleep—as confirmed by his loud, obnoxious snoring—Esther got out of bed and crept downstairs.
She turned on the computer and began her search.
Her search for “vanilla sex.”
She immediately deleted her browsing history after clicking on the first link.
Esther had seen enough.
Her husband thought their sex life was boring.
After a restless night filled with unwelcomed visions, Esther formulated a plan.
A plan to spice up their sex life.
She went through a series of potential options, including the purchasing of a whip and the downloading of porn. Nothing seemed quite right. She wanted a plan that wouldn’t leave any evidence.
So, she, ever the resourceful woman, decided to use what she had on hand.
And what Esther had on hand was a trench coat.
This was how Esther found herself standing in a subway car, heading to her husband’s office, wearing nothing but that trench coat.
The subway was her only viable option.
Taking a cab was out of the question. She didn’t want to sit down, protected by only a single layer of clothing, where thousands had sat before. She couldn’t be that close to others’ humanity.
So, she stood in the subway car, feeling the eyes of every male passenger on her.
They knew.
Esther knew they knew.
At that moment, she hated her husband. And quite possibly every male on the planet who had ever gone through puberty, living or dead.
One of those hate-inducing men—who may or may not have been smirking—offered her his seat.
Esther refused.
He insisted.
Esther refused again.
He got up.
Esther was forced to say she was getting off at the next stop. If a cab was frequented by thousands, what horrors awaited her on a subway seat? The risk was too great.
The greater risk was that her trench coat would bulge open if she sat down, leaving those men still in doubt with that last bit of confirmation.
Esther would have to get off the subway and wait for the next train.
The next two trains came and went, but Esther stayed on the platform. She hadn’t liked the look of the male passengers lurking inside.
Having already ruled out taking a cab, she would have to walk the remaining blocks to Fred’s office building. What she hadn’t taken into consideration, however, was the wind. Even the forces of nature were against her.
Esther’s loose hair—which she usually wore in a meticulous chignon—was flying in all directions, tangling itself in every way imaginable. But she couldn’t devote any attention to her hair. Her attention was solely focused on keeping her trench coat from flapping open. It was a two-handed job.
It was also a tiring job, which involved her walking in an awkward, stooping position. Every few minutes, Esther would brace herself against one of the tall buildings to collect her breath . . . and her sanity.
During one of these breaks, she contemplated calling the whole thing off.
So what if her sex life was vanilla. Weren’t most couples’ sex lives vanilla? She didn’t know. How could anyone on the outside looking in, know?
But Esther was a woman of her word. Even if she had given that word only to herself. She would see this thing through to the end.
At long last, Esther reached Fred’s office building. She rushed into one of the elevators as the doors were closing, and immediately regretted her hasty decision.
Waiting for her inside was a woman with a baby strapped to her chest. Obviously coming into the office to show off her creation. And obviously in desperate need of adult conversation.
Esther made small talk as best she could, but resented the woman and—to a lesser extent—the baby, for intruding on time she could’ve used to regain her composure.
And then, the baby of unidentifiable sex, dropped its teething toy on the floor.
The woman looked at Esther with expectation.
But Esther, even in the company of another woman, didn’t want to bend down and risk being found out. Nor did she want to volunteer to come into contact with that slobbered-on object.
The woman bulged her eyes and had the audacity to clear her throat.
Esther looked away.
The baby began to cry.
Esther decided she resented the baby more.
Luckily, Esther reached her intended floor and left any guilt she may have felt on the elevator behind her.
Esther was buzzed in by the receptionist, who remembered her from the Christmas party. The same receptionist, who now insisted on taking Esther’s coat.
Esther had to forcibly pry the woman’s hands off her, saying that she would keep her coat with her.
Was there no more decency left in the world?
Esther collected herself and made her way down the hall to her husband’s office.
It was time.
Time for the reveal.
Fred was looking down when Esther entered his office.
She quickly locked the door behind her and checked it three times.
When he finally noticed someone else was in the room with him, he seemed confused, as if he couldn’t quite place her. But as Esther slowly unbuttoned her trench coat—like she had seen once in a French film while at college—Fred’s jaw dropped as he registered what was happening.
And what was happening gave him a look of pure delight.
She removed the trench coat in one fluid motion and threw it at Fred, surprising herself. She was about to remove her shoes when she remembered the carpets hadn’t been replaced in years.
Esther hadn’t completely forgotten herself.
Esther stood by as Fred—whose polyester pants were now down at his ankles—cleared his paper-strewn desk.
She wanted him to hurry up, but mostly, she wanted to ask him why he was clearing it. There was no way either one of them would be able to lie comfortably on the desk. Logistically, it wouldn’t work. And even though it wasn’t a bed, wouldn’t the lying down aspect still be considered vanilla?
She wasn’t sure.
And she had to be sure. Because the one thing Esther knew for certain was that she would never surprise her husband at work wearing nothing but a trench coat, ever again. She needed to do this properly.
So, she grabbed Fred and pushed him into his office chair. Not an easy feat given his ever-increasing girth. Then, she mounted him—another accomplishment in itself.
Esther performed the customary back and forth motions, with an occasional (low) moan thrown in for good measure. She desperately tried to lose herself in the moment, but her mind wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she gazed out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Windows that made her feel like a fish in a fishbowl, like she was being watched.
She was being watched.
The building across from her husband’s also had floor-to-ceiling windows. And at those windows, pressed against the glass, were people, watching. Recording.
Esther had been caught.
She was completely exposed.
From somewhere deep inside of her, something new and foreign was awakened.
Something . . .
Something . . .
Esther released.
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