It's my first evening out since I moved out of the house. I haven't seen you or the dog in weeks, and though I am attending the wedding of a couple we both know, the bride has assured me that you had another engagement, and wouldn't be attending either the wedding or the reception. So I agreed to go, and I sat through the ceremony like a stone, my eyes downcast, not leaving the ring you gave me. I still haven't given it back.
It's a short ceremony, and the crowd soon travels to the reception hall in a long line of cars. I was going to skip the reception, but I promised the bride I would be there. She is worried about me, I think. I think everyone is worried about me, because though I willingly admit that you have left me, I refuse to take off your ring. I am doing so, I am sure they realize, because I am determined to force you to make contact in order to regain possession of the diamond. Even then, I wonder if I'll be able to take it off. I wonder if you'll have to remove it from my finger forcefully.
The reception is in a hotel ballroom. The decorations are beautiful, and judging from the sizable crowd already in attendance, I think you'll probably be one of the only invitees not in attendance. People are still arriving when I find my seat at the table, and my heart tightens in my chest when I realize that your name was mistakenly left on the seating arrangement. I am tempted to reach out and slip the place card with your name scrawled across it into my purse, so that I won't be confronted with your name all evening. I decide against this, because you'd be in my head regardless. One more reminder will hardly make a difference. The empty feeling in the pit of my stomach is constant, and reminder enough of what I have lost.
I get up and walk to the bar, ordering myself a gin and tonic with extra lime. My dress, a floor length plum sheath with spaghetti straps and a matching scarf, feels strangely constricting, perhaps because I had to buy a strapless bra that was a band-size too tight. The tight fit does wonders for my cleavage, but that only reminds me of you, too. I take the drink back to the table and am about to sit down when I notice you at the table and, oddly enough, my first thought is that you've come to take the ring away.
I clench my fist reflexively as you turn your head and your eyes catch mine. I am literally frozen in place, my heart pounding in my chest as my hands start to tremble. You look incredible in a dark suit and a pale-blue shirt. I recognize the tie as one I bought for you, and I wonder if the fact that you are wearing something I picked out for you is of any significance, but then I wonder if maybe you thought I wouldn't be here, and I am suddenly embarrassed. What if we are being set up? What if you never wanted to see me again, and I am in for the most uncomfortable night of my adult life?
While my thoughts are racing in my head I almost don't notice your approach. When you step in front of me you give me one of the biggest, brightest, fakest smiles I've ever seen. You reach for my hand and bring it to your lips in greeting, but I realize you took my left hand and I snatch it away from you, fearful that this will be the moment you take back the ring. I think that, if this is so, then this is then end and I am most likely going to die of grief.
You give me a dark look when I snatch my hand away, and I realize you must think I pulled away because I couldn't stand the feel of your touch. The pit in my stomach grows and swells, until my entire body is filled with the nothingness.
"The bride and groom haven't made their entrance," you tell me through your teeth, "and every eye in the room is on us. We're the talk of the party. Please make an effort to behave like an adult, Maria."
I nod, but offer my cheek for a kiss, still protective of the ring on my hand. I know this is a mistake when your face nears mine and I am suddenly assaulted with the smell of you, the familiarity of the brush of your lips against my skin. I sway against you and, instinctively, your arms reach out to steady me. "Is that your first drink?" you ask teasingly, all the while knowing the effect your proximity has on me.
"Why don't you put the drink down on the table and we'll go for a short walk," you suggest, turning me toward the table and leading me gently with a hand on the small of my back. "Somewhere where we won't be the center of attention."
I leave my drink on the table and follow you out of the room, my small hand inside your larger one. As we exit, I wonder if we sparked any conversation, but the thought leaves my mind as we walk through the lavishly decorated hotel corridor and you lead me to the elevator. We get in and you push the button for the fourteenth floor, and I look at you curiously, suddenly wishing I had downed my drink before we left the reception room. You reach for my hand again, and give my small fingers a firm and reassuring squeeze,
We walk in silence to suite 1410, where you use a keycard to open the door and step back to allow for my entry. I step through the doorway and you follow, closing the door behind us. There are no lights on and in the dark I feel lost, and a little ill at ease...the same way I've felt for weeks now. When I feel your hands at my waist I am reassured, and I place my hands over yours and our fingers interlock.
"Joe, I—" I start as you step close to me, and I feel the muscular wall of your chest against my back. I close my eyes and breathe in your scent. "Joe-- wait, I—"
Your hands travel up my hips and I take in a sharp breath as I feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of my dress. Your hands find my breasts, but the fabric of my strapless bra is firm enough that I'm certain you can't feel my nipples react to your touch. I think absentmindedly that I should protest, play hard to get—it's been so long since we've been together, I wonder if you only came to the reception, if you only rented a hotel room, to relieve a build up of sexual tension. The feel of your hands on my body makes me not care, though, and I groan and lean back into you. You turn my body in your arms until my forearms are pressed against the wall of your chest, my hands clinging to your shoulders as your mouth lowers and settles over mine.
Heat flares between us, an electric current surges through my body. I whimper and wrap my arms around your neck, loving the taste of you. Loving that all those times I remembered the taste of your mouth, I remembered you well. Our tongues wrestle as you begin to unpin my hair, letting it fall from the chignon at the back of my neck. You pull away, surprised, when it fails to cascade down my back and instead lands just below my shoulders.
"What happened to your hair?" you ask, burying your fingers in the thick brown strands, your face looking suddenly stricken. I lift my chin to look up with you.
"It's what girls do when we get dumped," I shrug, not really having a better answer. "We cut off our hair. I think it's symbolic of a new beginning, or something like that." I tug at the strands self-consciously, "It's not that short..."
I look up at you, my eyes big and brown and full of vulnerability, "Do you hate it?"
"No," you say, your mouth claiming mine again. "I just wasn't expecting it." You pull away again, this time separating our bodies. You backtrack to the door and flip a light switch, which illuminates the bedside lamp.
