It had been a rough few months, and at the end of them, I felt like I was no good for anyone. My job had fallen apart, and with it, my sobriety. Inside a bottle was the place I always felt safest and so when things started crashing down, I crawled inside one and stayed there. I wasn't an alcoholic, at least that's what I told myself, and if past experience were any indication, as soon as I was ready, I'd be able to climb back to my feet just fine.
But in that time, it was bad. I had a... well, I don't know what we were. We used to fuck a lot and we tried to be friends. Did that make her a lover? A girlfriend even? I don't know. What I do know is that when things started falling apart, I just kind of drifted away. I'd ignore her messages for a few days, and then put her off when I did respond. Evening would come around and I'd think, "I could call her... I should call her." And then I'd pour myself a drink and sit by myself for a few hours until I passed out.
Eventually she gave up trying to reach me. I looked up and a few months had passed since we last spoke. I told myself it was better that way. Better for her. Just move on, I'm a mess anyway. And we weren't anything particular; nothing formal. Just some fun while there was fun to be had. I told myself this until I believed it.
Self-justification is a bitch.
The thing about depression and despair, whether bottle induced or not, is that these kinds of bouts -- the kind that have you hide out in your attic office space by yourself for a few months -- these kinds of bouts don't last forever. You emerge from them and look around and try to survey the damage you just caused. You ask what can be fixed, and you ask what's broken beyond repair. And mostly we're talking about relationships.
I looked at my phone and saw her name in my contact list, but I didn't call her. "She's moved on," I thought, "No sense in ripping the scab off a healing wound."
Calling her would have been selfish. At least, that's what I thought. I really did miss her. I missed the way her hair smelled, the way she tasted when I kissed her. I missed the awkward way she got shy just as she was getting turned on. Her coy little laugh when I called her out and that way she'd say, "Well... you know..." and then trail off because, yes, I did know.
Thinking of her, I was becoming aroused, but I put my phone away. "It's over. I blew it because I was stupid and selfish and mean." Just move on.
I took a new job, which helped me move along. It felt like I was leaving a burning wreckage behind me, but it was for the best. I moved to the other side of the country, threw myself into my work and just tried to keep my head down.
Of course, working meant writing and attending conferences, since I was an academic. She was too, but in a different field, at a different university. Very different circles. So I was surprised one night as I was in a hotel bar in Minneapolis to see her sitting at a table enjoying a cocktail with a friend.
My initial reaction was to just finish my drink and get back to my room before she saw me. So I slammed the rest of my bourbon and water, payed my tab, and slipped out to the elevator.
The elevators were deserted, so I fell into one (a bit dramatically I must admit), pressed the button, and waited for the doors to close. Just as they did a slender female hand slipped in to stop it, and when they reopened, there she was staring daggers into me.
"You son of a bitch," she said as she stepped inside face to face with me. I was still backed against the wall. "You think you can just disappear?"
I was speechless. I said exactly what you'd expect someone to say when they're wrong and cornered and about to face retribution.
"I'm sorry."
It was barely a whisper, but I held her eyes with mine. Her doe brown eyes were fierce, but they softened just a bit.
"I saw you lost your position," she reached out and touched my shoulder. "I would have understood if you needed time alone. You didn't have to disappear."
"I..." the hesitation brought about by a swirl of shame and desire, "I was a mess. I just have to hide sometimes. You were better off without me."
"Don't you think I should have a say in that?" She backed away and leaned against the closed elevator doors, her hands behind her back, her head tilted slightly, a stray lock of her hair fell across her face, but eyes still locked into mine. "It doesn't matter. You never owed me anything."
I stayed silent; the conflicted feelings I had for her coming through my face, my lips pursed.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked almost shyly, her chin down but her eyes still peering up at me.
"Honestly?" I asked.
"Honestly," she nodded.
"I'm thinking about pinning you against the wall and fucking you right here, in this elevator."
"Oh," her breath caught. She placed her palms flat against the cold steel behind her, and tried to flatten herself even more against the door. "So why don't you?"
Just then the elevator doors opened and an older couple got on with us. She steeped toward me and stood next to me, back against the wall, her shoulder brushing against my arm. The fragrance of her hair threatened to overwhelm me.
We said nothing more, but stood awkwardly on an interminable elevator ride. And when the doors opened for my floor. I stepped out, but she hesitated. I placed one hand on the door frame, holding the door, and the other I extended to her.
"Are you coming?"
She looked at me hard, searching my face for some sign of my feelings or intentions that would break the deadlock in her mind, the age old fight between reason and desire. Whether she saw what she needed, or was just overwhelmed in much the same way I was, she took my hand, and allowed me to lead her to my room.
When I closed the door, I turned to her and closed the gap between us. I held her face in my hands and kissed her softly. She responded in kind at first, but shook her head, pulled away and leaned against the closed door.
The expression on her face was troubled and she looked down and away from me, toward the corner of the floor.
"What is it?" I asked. "What's wrong."
With an expression of overwhelming hunger she turned her head to me, eyes wide, and said in little more than a whisper, "Do it right."
I reached out and took hold of her by her neck, simultaneously pinning her against the door and forcing her face up toward mine.
