Charlie wrapped both hands around a cold cup of black coffee, never lifting it to his lips. His head hung slack over the cup and his unkempt, sandy blonde hair dangled around his face. I took a seat next to him at the kitchen table. He shook his head and looked at me with an unfocused stare. I wanted to do something to help him, but I did not know what. Feeling useless, I gathered a couple of empty beer cans from the edge of the table. These empties completed the pyramid he had stacked in the center.
"Fuck her," he snapped. He swept his forearm across the table and scattered the empty cans around the kitchen.
With his energy spent on this brief burst of anger, he dropped his chin down to his chest. Only inches from the table, his long hair dragged through puddles of spilled beer. He released a heavy sigh, filling our air space with his hot, foul, drunken breath.
He cocked his head at me with a questioning look. His brow furrowed and eyes pinched shut, fighting to hold back tears. In the next instant a shadow crossed his face and a torrent of beer-addled rage poured out. "Fuck that cock sucking bitch... who cares? She's done with me? Fuck her! I'm fucking done with her!"
"Alright buddy. C'mon, let's move it into the living room." I got up and helped him stand. Throwing his arm over my shoulder, we staggered across the filthy kitchen. Charlie kicked cans and dragged his feet through stale, spilled beer. We had a harrowing moment where he stopped, gulped, and burped. He held off an imminent puke. With a few near collapses we got across his living room and I dumped him into his recliner.
Charlie collapsed into the over-stuffed chair. His head lolled left, right, and then his chin came to a rest on his chest. Within moments he began to snore. I scanned the room for a wastebasket and found a small one near his bookcase. I dumped the bits of paper from the wastebasket into the kitchen trashcan and secured the liner. Lifting his arm, I nestled the waste basket into his side and positioned it in case he decided to boot.
Confident that Charlie was out for a while, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to his ex, Cara. "He's out."
About 10 minutes later Cara texted me back. She waited outside the door, not wanting to knock and wake up Charlie. After walking out on him yesterday, Cara had left a few things at the apartment that she needed to retrieve. There was no way he was going to make it easy for her, so she recruited my help. Charlie's my boy and I would never do anything to hurt him, but he was prone to be childish about stuff like this.
I was careful to open the door without making any noise. She stood on the apartment stoop with a large grey duffel bag over her shoulder. Her long, chestnut colored hair was bound in a loose knot atop her head. What appeared to be chopsticks held the knot in place. She wore baggy blue sweats and a grey fleece hoodie. Cara was an obvious athletic beauty, regardless of what she wore.
It was only a day since this had been her apartment too, but she was hesitant to cross the threshold. Anxious to get this over without any trouble, I motioned for her to enter. Our eyes met, and I could see the fear in her eyes. She whispered, "Thanks Martyn," as she entered. Careful to not make any noise, she tip-toed across the living room. She looked back over her shoulder as she stepped into their former shared bedroom. It was obvious by the flash of disdain on her face that whatever feelings she once had for Charlie were gone. His drinking cost him his job and he targeted his anger at Cara. She endured it for months. But yesterday he snapped and struck her in a drunken haze. She called it quits and moved out that day.
Following her to the bedroom, I leaned on the door frame and stood watch for any movement by Charlie. She gathered her personal belongings. All that remained from her hasty escape were shoes, a few articles of clothing, and some jewelry. I turned to see if she needed any help as she lifted some lacy pink panties off of the bed. She held them at arm's length with obvious contempt and dropped them back onto the floor.
I shrugged. Before Cara, Charlie was notorious for one-night stands and an inability to commit. She was good for him, but he blew it. And now he had gone out and hooked-up with another woman right after Cara walked out. He was making it hard to have any sympathy for the fool.
Cara went about gathering her things and placing them into her duffel bag. I saw her pull a pair of black stiletto high heel shoes out of the closet and thrust them into the canvas bag.
My mind flashed back to a friend's wedding several months ago. Charlie, her, and I attended the reception together. Cara looked stunning in a classic, knee length, teal colored dress. It's narrow waist and a plunging neckline accentuated her lovely, pert breasts. She wore those same stilettos, emphasizing the muscular tone of her long legs. Watching her glide with grace around the room in those high heels was all the distraction I could handle.
As happened all too often, Charlie got drunk and acted like a jerk. His surfer good looks suffered from the effects of alcohol and physical neglect. But in his mind, he was still the charmer that could get any girl he wanted. After hitting on all the bridesmaids and the bride's married sister, I poured him into a Lyft. I gave the driver a generous cash tip to get him home.
I remembered how awkward I felt trying to comfort her. There was no point in making excuses for Charlie. She was strong and fought back tears, unwilling to accept pity from anyone. As I fumbled for supportive things to say, she took my hand and said, "Thank you."
The delicate scent of her perfume entranced me. Her soft touch was electrifying. I felt an almost overwhelming desire to touch her, to taste her lips, to run my hands along her seductive curves. I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach that led to a physical stirring in my pants. And then I remembered that Charlie was my best friend going back to middle school. Unable to justify any action that would hurt him, I boxed up all those feelings and locked them away.
Oblivious to my churning feelings, she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and went back to the reception. It wasn't long until she joined a spirited group laughing and enjoying themselves. Within minutes she was smiling and conversing as if nothing happened. Cara was never defined by Charlie's actions.
By accident, Cara backed into an empty tequila bottle on his nightstand. My attention to the job at hand snapped back into focus. The first bottle knocked against another. Both fell over on the hard wood with a clank and crash, shattering the hushed silence we were trying to maintain. I heard Charlie groan and rustle about in his chair, trying to get up. Cara's eyes locked with mine, both of us frozen in terror. My instincts kicked into action, and I bolted out of the bedroom to run interference with Charlie. I needed to give Cara the opportunity to escape. Before I made it halfway back to his recliner in the living room, he collapsed and fell back into a stupor.