Crushed

(Note: this is not the end of "Crush", it is merely a state of heart in regards to a different woman altogether)

* * * * *

She kept insisting that this guy was just a friend, that she wasn't interested in him. That guy was an acquaintance of his, a friend of sorts. And now, he never saw him.

On the way home from work, he had to pass by her house. Well, he didn't have to, but she lived next to the train station parking lot, and since he took the train... He would drop by occasionally, say hi, then leave. He did again tonight, this time in a deep funk, not really sure why.

He looked at the buttons, careful to buzz the right one. They were so small and close together, and more than once he'd buzzed her neighbors. Today, he pushed the right one, and her familiar voice came through the speaker. Even through the terrible, tinny cone, he could hear the softness in her voice.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

She buzzed him in and, as she had done for him for the last couple years, left her apartment door cracked open. He trotted up the stairs and paused at the heavy steel stairwell door. As was his custom, he tried to get to her door before the stairwell door finished closing with its loud "click" reverberating in the hallway. He opened the door, letting the momentum of the door swing it outward as he quiet-sprinted down the hall. This time, he just got there - he heard the click just after he started pushing on the apartment door. He smiled to himself. Now to pretend that he didn't just sprint-tip-toe down the hall and walk in. He took a quiet deep breath. Better. Instead of a scowl he wore on the street, he merely had a neutral face. He pushed open her door and walked in.

She came out of the bedroom, folding a sheet using her hands and her chin, paused, and looked up at his face.

"You okay?" she asked.

She stood his height, 5'7", but built very thin, like Kate Moss. Her short dark hair was pulled back and tied out of the way. Like usual, she wore no makeup, just a lip gloss.

He didn't answer.

She sighed, put the sheet down, and walked to the table, sitting down. "What is it now?"

He sat down. "I miss our being together. I really liked being able to spend the night with you a couple nights ago. I miss that."

She sighed. She'd been trying to wean him off of her presence, but it wasn't working well. And honestly, the weaning needed to work in both directions. She loved him dearly, yes. But to be with him "till death do us part"? No. She got up and walked to the couch ("their couch" she still thought). "Lay with me," she asked him.

He got up and shed his dark overcoat, laying it carefully across the back of the chair. He walked over, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. He untied his shoes and pulled them off, then lay next to her. Snuggling, he found that spot between her shoulder and neck, that spot which he fit just right. He breathed her in. Her arms surrounded him, comforting him. She scritched his head ("like the way Snoopy likes"), his favorite comfort touch, relaxing him. He closed his eyes and adjusted his arms, snuggling closer to her, holding her close to himself.

He moved down, just a bit, so that he could listen to her heart. She moved a bit to accommodate his wiggling motion. He paused, listening to her thumping heart. Odd, he thought behind his closed eyes, it seems fast.

He froze.

He moved down just a bit more.

She tensed. "Come up here." Her voice seemed so far away.

He buried his nose in her rib cage.

She pulled on his arms. "What are you doing?" she asked, forcefully. "Stop!"

His stomach clenched, bile rising to his throat. He wanted to vomit. He rose up and looked at her, furious, eyes piercing, reflecting anger. And hurt.

"I smell sperm." He said it simply - his voice had no emotion, no inflection.

"Let me explain, please." she pleaded, sitting up.

"There's nothing to explain. I could smell it from your chest." he replied. "Did you tell him we just slept together too? Oh, wait, sorry, that's none of my business."

He put his shoes on. He had difficulty tying them, both because he could barely see the laces and because his fingers were trembling. He stood and walked back to his coat. His footsteps seemed very loud and far, far away. He pulled on his coat. A present from her, he thought. As was his slacks, his shirt, his socks, even his underwear. He forgot about the watch she gave him, but it didn't matter. He pulled on the coat.

"Please..." he heard behind him, coming from the couch.

He walked to the door, sniffing discreetly (or so he thought).

He turned the knob and pulled the door open. The quiet hallway greeted him. No neighbors. Not even the odd umbrella or shoes left by a doorway.

His throat felt thick, swollen. He didn't trust himself to say anything.

Stepping out, he reached behind him, not turning back, his hand finding the doorknob instinctively. It'd been two years that he'd been coming here. His hand found the knob without his eyes to guide it. He let the door close quietly, careful not to disturb the neighbors.

He pulled open the heavy stairwell door. This, too, he closed carefully, the click quiet but reverberating in his head. He walked down the stairs. They seemed much taller than before.

He did not vomit.