The car door slams behind me; the rain spills down my check as I shuffle into her apartment complex. The man behind the desk smiles at me, a familiar face. We don't exchange names, but we know each other's faces and that's plenty. He asks me how the weather is; I crack a joke in return, and we go our separate ways. Like clockwork, he'll see me again in the morning and back again next week.
I continue on my path; everything is muscle memory at this point. I take the elevator on the left, rotate to the right, press the fourth-floor button, and tip my hat at the man behind the desk just as the door closes.
The doors open, and I follow the aged floral carpet down the hall and to the right. Room 459, I've arrived. I knock twice, pause, and knock once more.
The door opens calmly; before me stands a woman, skin the color of a latte with too much milk. She wears nothing but this silk robe, black with red lace and a fancy garment beneath. Although I can't see it fully, I recognize it; you have to respect our routine.
"Rose."
"Hello, Johnny." These aren't our names, but it's what we call each other; we find it easier to not exchange names. Some would say it makes it less intimate, but I'd disagree. There is something so erotic and passionate with having someone undeniably but not have them at the same time. It creates this craving, you want unconditional honesty, but nobody is willing to give it up, leaving nothing to requite.
Essentially, this is just like any other relationship. Nobody is ever fully honest with their spouse; I mean
really
honest. There is always that one thing you hate or the one thing from your past your partner didn't need to know. For me, it was my name.
She calls me Johnny because it reminded her of some guy she used to date with hair like mine. Yeah, it was kind of weird to me at first, being compared to her high school boyfriend, but it was kind of fun knowing I held the power to destroy the memory of some guy presumably better looking than me. After a while it became a game of how I can fuck her better than he did. I never knew if I was winning but, in my head, I'd like to think so.
To me, she was Rose. This one wasn't as creative. We watched the Titanic the first time we spent any time with each other. The movie was a classic, she picked it out. Getting her to invite me over without telling her my name was quite the predicament. My best answer was I didn't.
Rose is the barista at the coffee shop two block west of my flat. Every morning I'd come in a quarter to nine and she would have a medium Americano, black, waiting for me. I paid 2.99 for the coffee and tipped her two dollars. She never asked my name and I never asked hers, just what kind of perfume she was wearing and her plans for the weekend. I never came in on Saturday and Sunday. She'd always be curious as to what she would do when I wasn't "visiting" her.
I considered us close, but never friends. Friends knew each other's names. She asked me once and I just smiled, winked, and told her "you decide"; so, she did.
She invited me inside her apartment after I placed a kiss on her cheek and complemented her robe. It was custom for us to always enter with a kiss and a compliment.
I disrobed partially, placing my jacket on the cherry coat rack next to the door; her grandfather made it for her when she was twenty.
"Can I get you some water, beer, whiskey... a blow job?" We chuckled.
"Is that the manners they teach in the finishing schools now? "
"Fuck off" she teased.
"Water's fine for now." She walked over to the fridge and poured me a glass, no ice, just how I like it. The water pitcher sat next to the whiskey bottle she got from the shebeen on south 7
th
street by the deli.
She carried herself in the most pompous of manors across the fake tile floor of her kitchen and handed me the frosty glass. I always thought that floor was tacky, but her landlord put it in, not her.
