Bob and I are at the zoo, checking out the macaques from the wide viewing window, when I notice a muscular man in a tiger t-shirt checking out Bob’s ass.
And even though coming here on a token date was Bob’s idea, he’s so focused on his new camera and the macaques that he’s oblivious. Both of the extra attention and me. Bob shifts his weight, inching toward the glass, and angles his lens like a paparazzo at a pink-faced primate gobbling a fleshy fruit. When Bob bends over, I swear the tiger man sighs.
It’s definitely not the first time I’ve witnessed a man sizing up my husband. And, to be fair, Bob’s shorts are on the tight side. In our effort to ‘reignite things’, we’ve been eating out more and both of us have put on weight. Me far more than him, of course. My fucking female metabolism. But Bob? The close fit of his shorts accentuates his ass in a way that makes him look fitter than ever.
I suck in my stomach, straighten my back, and side-eye Tiger Man. He sees me and smiles. Perfect teeth, like something out of a comic book. His strong hand rivers through his dark hair, a wavy shoulder-length bob that I’d kill for, and he licks his lips.
Maybe I misread his gaze?
I river my hair back at him, hopeful, while Tiger Man swings his attention between the macaques wilding through the enclosure—their non-prehensile tails erect for balance—and me? Us? No. Bob and his body.
Am I fucking invisible? I squeeze the zoo map in my fist and Bob nudges me. “You okay?”
Was I huffing? He told the therapist he hates it when I huff.
“Of course,” I say, resolved not to give Tiger Man another second of my thoughts. Let him look at my husband, for what good it’ll do.
I re-center myself by reading the info sign—something about rhesus macaques being similar to humans, useful for research, blah blah blah, sent into space. I imagine the rocket blast, their pink faces peeking out of space helmets, wild-eyes and furred hands holding on for life, watching everything they thought they knew disappear. Did they understand what was happening? Were they lonely or afraid? As they gazed back at the glowing blue ball of the earth, what did they miss most?
The astro-monkeys float to the back of my mind while, in front of us, two male macaques spar on a tightrope stretched between trees. They pull faces at each other, baring teeth and puckering lips until an older macaque with a plain complexion and tired, low-hanging tits barks at them. Shrieking, the young males run past Tiger Man’s side of the viewing window where a small crowd forms.
The crowd jostles and tuts, pulling Bob’s attention. He draws me with him toward the display, edging next to Tiger Man, and we lean in, our breath fogging the laminated glass.
Just around the bend, a paddling pool where the two male macaques, now submerged in a soup of water and salad leaves, nuzzle each other, their fever-pink faces open with adoration. Bob makes low bow-chicka-wow sounds, and when Tiger Man laughs, the monkeys in my mind burn up on re-entry.
Up close, Tiger Man is slightly older than I thought, maybe mid-to-late thirties, and yes, a full foot taller than Bob. And built—his olive-toned skin giving salted butter. I could show him some bow-chicka-wow. Rip off his tiger t-shirt, run my tongue along the ridges of his abs, along the trail of dark hair—what I could do to him alone in a forest—and start to picture the scene: verdant leaves, abundant wood, the heady smell of rich soil. I glance at Tiger Man again and realize he’s likely imagining the same thing, only with my husband.
Tiger Man looks through me, past me and sizes up Bob’s frame—the jut of Bob’s jawline, the light down of his forearms, sliding down the taut slope of Bob’s belly. What Tiger Man could do. The pleasures he could bring Bob to. The ways of knowing. The devouring.
How easily he could pounce.
“Honey,” I say to Bob, “I’m starving. Shall we go eat?”
Bob nods and, turning towards me, catches Tiger Man’s hungered stare. Time stops while they take each other in—both of them gleaming, faces naked, teeth bared.
