Eight #4
No disappointment or expectation in his tone. Just... a choice. And somewhere between the silence and the kindness in his eyes, something inside me finally loosens. For days I've been questioning every instinct, every memory, every part of myself.
For tonight…
I don't want to question anything. I step forward instead of responding.
I kiss him. And when he kisses me back, there's no urgency.
No expectation that either of us needs to be anything other than exactly who we are in this moment.
The bedroom door closes quietly behind us.
For the first time in years, I stop overthinking every touch, every hesitation, every fear of getting something wrong.
I just… let go.
***
I grumble at myself for being awake when it’s not even light outside.
What woke me? Leo? No, he is staying at Elsie’s.
I went out and then I went home with… I bolt upright and notice that I am unmistakably naked.
The bedroom is cold, my top half exposed above the blanket.
Alexander is beside me, one arm hooked across the pillow, mouth slack with the oblivion of dreamless rest. For a second, I think about sliding closer, borrowing the heat of his skin, but the thought is chased almost instantly by another, this is not my bed, and I shouldn’t be here. I’m not even divorced yet.
I sit there for a few seconds, cataloguing the facts.
The sour-sweet taste in my mouth. The pull of mascara dried on my lashes.
The stripe of sunlight splitting the curtains, catching on the battered wood floor.
The urge to run is so sudden and so physical that I can feel it in the soles of my feet.
It’s not about him. Not really. It’s about the version of myself that wakes up in a stranger’s room, wearing a dress I can’t zip alone, with nothing but a hangover to prove I was ever here.
It’s about the growing certainty that I am not cut out for the kind of life where mornings are just an extension of the night before and slightly horrified that I just had my first one-night stand at 29.
I slide out of bed, careful not to disturb him. My clothes are a trail of evidence, the dress draped on the armchair, bra hanging from the doorknob, one shoe under the bed, the other in the hallway. I gather them, moving with the stealth of a cat burglar who regrets her career choice.
The bathroom mirror reveals more evidence of the crime.
My hair is a halo of static. The lipstick has migrated to surround my mouth and I look like I bit someone and lost. There’s a bruise on my hip, a souvenir I don’t remember collecting.
I splash water on my face, pat myself dry with a towel that smells faintly of cedar and old soap.
I pull my dress on over my head, shimmy it into place, and decide to forgo the bra entirely, I am not in the mood to wrestle with hooks before coffee.
The apartment is still and blue in the half-light. I find my purse on the kitchen counter, next to the empty coffee mugs. I dig for my phone, but it’s dead. Typical.
I want to leave a note. Not because I am polite, but because when I think about not seeing him again, I feel a pain that definitely seems like an odd thing to feel about someone that I only just met.
I want the note to say, “Thank you for being gentle,” or “You made it easier than it should have been,” or “I hope this doesn’t ruin the taste of French press for you.
” But all I can find is a takeaway receipt and a pen with the cap chewed off.
I write: “Thank you for everything. I’m sorry. I have to go.” I sign it, then hate the signature and scribble it out.
I leave the note on my side of the bed, weighted with the heavy remote from his nightstand.
I am almost at the door when I hear the rustle of sheets behind me. I freeze, shoes in hand, back pressed to the wood, heart thumping like a door knocker.
He doesn’t call my name. He doesn’t even move, except to sit up, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the spot where I was. The note is still on the pillow, a white flag on blue sheets.
I pull the door closed behind me, careful with the latch. The hallway is empty, but I stand there for a full minute, just breathing. I don’t know if I’m stalling or waiting for him to follow, but neither happens. I slide my shoes on, pick my way down the stairs, and out onto the street.
The morning is cold. I shiver, wrap my arms around myself, and start walking.
Behind me, in the apartment, I imagine Alexander finding the note, reading it and tucking it into the drawer next to the bed. I imagine him pouring himself coffee and looking out the window, the town still asleep, the basil plants reaching for whatever light they can get.
I don’t know if I will ever see him again.
But for the first time in a long time, I feel lighter. I feel like a person who might make it to the end of her own story, even if she has to rewrite the ending a hundred times before it sticks.
I turn the corner, the sun warm on my face, and walk home in the new day.