My insides felt like a black hole. A star that had burned too brightly, exhausted its energy, doomed to collapse endlessly in on itself until nothing, not even light could escape.
You already know the story. Sandra and I met at a writing group I belonged to. She only ever made it to a few meetings, but I was hooked right from the start. She was a tiny, pixyish girl with shocking red hair and bright green mischievous eyes. There was an amazing chemistry between us right from the start. She obliquely asked me out the first night we met; we went out for drinks that week and ended up spending the night at her apartment. The sex was good, delicious, and pretty much nonstop. We became inseparable. I moved in with her. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly, things started to suck.
Enough became enough. In the end it was mutual. We had our obligatory fights and make-ups, tears were shed and promises made and all that was over now. I moved the last of my stuff out last Friday; I was staying on a friend's sofa until the first of the month when I could move into my own apartment.
Start to finish: less than twelve months.
And now, just under than one week since we had said our final goodbyes, I was meeting her for a drink. To talk things over, to start becoming the friends we had always said we would be if it came to this; to wallow in what had once been love and what might have been two lives joined together into one. To cry into my beer and then to go home and depressingly masturbate myself to sleep.
It was barely eleven o'clock in the morning on a sunny Thursday in June. Being chronically underemployed has its advantages. I knew Sandra had called in sick to work. We met at a bar she had suggested out in Williamsburg called Shelter Island. I'd never been there before. It was dark inside, with some sort of nautical theme going on, kind of a faux-working class aesthetic. It seemed young and hip; too young and too hip for me. 'Please God,' I thought, 'Please don't let her be introducing her new girlfriend to me.'
Sandra was there, looking sprightly in a little black skirt and a top I hadn't seen before; shiny black stretchy fabric emblazoned with the mock-scowling image of a samurai. Her almost comically tiny Doc Martins and a precious little black choker completed the ensemble. I felt gawkish and underdressed in my jeans and plain blue t-shirt. What had she ever seen in me anyway?
She gave me her patented big sweet smile and ran over to hug me close. My breasts pressed against her smaller ones, triggering a thousand unwanted memories. I hugged her back, luxuriating in her smell, the sense of her closeness.
The place was nearly empty. There was a group of construction workers sitting at a table near the bar, enjoying an early liquid lunch: Budweiser out of the can. A few hours later they would have been utterly out of place; this wasn't the kind of establishment where working Joes came to sip $12 martinis. As it was, I found their presence somehow humanizing. A poet, or an aspiring rockstar-type sat at the far end of the bar, writing furiously in a well worn spiral bound notebook. Well, he sure had the look down: high pale cheekbones, shaggy tousled blonde hair, torn jeans and long unruly limbs. He was wearing an oversized SpongeBob Squarepants t-shirt, and was sitting on his black biker's jacket. I wondered idly if what he was writing was any good.
Sandra and I sat down at the bar. The bartender took our order. She was not a small woman; the fact that she was wearing a horned Viking cap straight out of Hagar the Horrible and that she had her (bleached) blonde hair twisted in two thick braids down past her shoulders did nothing to make her seem any less imposing. I meekly ordered a beer. Sandra went straight for the hard stuff.
Our conversation was remarkably civil and low key. We danced carefully around the painful bits, sticking to safe topics and mutual friends. Damn, she was cute. What a pity she could be such a God Awful Raging Bitch when the mood was upon her.
Sandra ordered another glass of whiskey. I was still only halfway through my beer. I wasn't used to drinking this early. She was starting to slur her words a little. She casually rested her hand on my knee. I thought I might melt. Damned if she wasn't making me horny.
"You fucking little slut," Sandra whispered to me, startling me out of my little reverie, "You are so fucking sexy."
Unsteadily, she leaned over, kissing me on the lips. Her kiss was fierce, aggressive. She bit down on my lip, hard. Interesting. Very interesting.
She didn't let up. Hey, I thought we were broken up?
Sandra kissed me again, hard. Then she grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled, forcing my head back. Her free hand unerringly found my nipple, poikey hard through my bra. She pinched it mercilessly, pulling and twisting till the tears came to my eyes. Fuck me! Why hadn't we ever played this way when we were together?
I could feel the heat of her crotch through my jeans when she finally released me.
"You fucking horny little tramp," Sandra hissed at me, all playful-serious. Swish- smack! She slapped me hard across the face. I tasted blood in my mouth. I would have a fat lip for sure. "I'd like to fuck you right here, right on this bar. You want that don't you?"
