Clara and her double seemed inseparable after that night. They watched TV beneath a blanket together. They read Chilean poetry together. They drank lemonade from a shared straw on the patio together. One Saturday Clara went shopping, but she brought home clothes for her double to keep, as well. I watched through the keyhole: the double wore blue jeans, studying her butt in the mirror, as Clara buttoned a white linen shirt for her. Clara left the top three buttons undone and tied the hems into a knot above her double’s belly button. They exchanged words I couldn’t hear, giggled, shushed each other, then I saw my wife hook a finger over the double’s waistband, pull her toward her, and unbutton the jeans.
Sometimes they showered together. I raised concerns about the integrity of our doubles rule—no sex with a double unless it’s both of us—but she insisted it was nice to have platonic help washing her back.
I was certainly included. I frequently found myself in some new game. I came home one day to a pitch-black house. Marco Polo, Clara said, and as I followed her voice, bumping into tables, I’d occasionally feel something against my foot. A tank top, a t-shirt, socks, a pair of shorts, a bra, a pair of leggings. When I eventually found them, they were both naked in a closet, making out against our winter coats.
Another night, I found a card leaning against a flower vase in the foyer. You are cordially invited to an evening in la bibliothèque. A tuxedo was hung on a door handle.
Clara stood by the lit fireplace in a backless gown slit up to her waist. Her hair was pinned beneath a head scarf and she wore sunglasses she didn’t need. She stepped toward me and adjusted my bow tie.
“Who am I?” she asked.
Before I could answer, her double—or was it Clara?—entered wearing the same gown, the same scarf, the same glasses. She felt the top edge of my cumberbund.
“Who am I?” this Clara asked.
One held a finger to my lips. They both sat on their knees and looked up at me as they removed their sunglasses. One unzipped my pants, then the other hooked her glasses into my fly and pulled me closer.The slight sign of a smirk, their painted red lips. Each gown came to a point just below their back dimples; firelight flickered against their skin.
“You only get one guess,” one of the Clara’s said.
They took turns performing. One Clara ran her tongue along the underside of my cock, the other licked along the right side, then the left. One Clara took me into her mouth in my entirety before tightening her lips, then slowly withdrawing. The other started with the tip, sucked a bit more of me into her mouth, pulled away, sucked in a bit more, pulled away, easing in my full length. One Clara kept her eyes closed, as if relishing her own talent. The other locked her eyes with mine, daring me to finish.
“Which one of us is your wife?” they asked.
I apparently guessed wrong—though they never revealed who was who—and for the rest of the night, as punishment, I was only allowed to watch.
Then on the weekend I woke from my nap and found them asleep beneath a blanket in the garden. They wore matching green floral bras, lovely amongst the rosemary, but—I lifted the blanket to check—no panties.
Unbeknownst to Clara, I discovered a way to determine how many orgasms her double had experienced. I maintained a running log of her double’s brain waves, so looking back through that history, I could look for specific erratic patterns that indicated sexual spikes. By my count, I’d been present for—indeed, often responsible for—roughly a dozen orgasms. So, per our rule, I expected to see roughly a dozen sexual spikes. When I ran the numbers, reran the numbers, then ran the numbers a third time for good measure, I discovered fifty-seven spikes.
I confronted Clara with my calculations, explained the science, my method. I said I’d had my suspicions, but now I had evidence. Numbers don’t lie. Charts don’t lie—the ladies of the house, my love and our concubine, were having an affair.
Then Clara asked if my calculations took masturbation into account, and I had to confess that I had not considered this.
She stormed away to the bath.
Still, the number haunted me. Fifty-seven. Forty-five orgasms I’d been unaware of. Forty-five orgasms achieved without need, at the very least, of me. Forty-five orgasms alone, I was to believe? With such ready and able roommates?
I came home early one day, burst through the front door, but only found them playing canasta. I made a show of going to the hardware store then doubled back after ten minutes, but my wife was merely straining pasta as her double stirred a sauce. I installed a motion-sensitive camera in the garden, but caught only blurred photos of birds.
One afternoon, when I’d all but accepted Clara’s word, I was taking an empty banana crate to the garage when I noticed a thick layer of fog coating the windows of our car. Peering through, I was certain I saw the color of skin against the vinyl seats. I tore open the back door and there laid my wife and her sweat-drenched double, moaning into each other’s cunts.
“Clara!” I shouted. “In my Buick?”