by E V King
I think I am a bit drunk now, but that’s OK. It doesn’t change anything. All these years later, I am still that girl. The girl in love with Milo. The same divine and cruel being who had apparently decided taking a chance on me would be too much of an effort had started to shift his attention to the kind creature that is now the mother of his child. He probably still lives in the ridiculous illusion that I hadn’t known back then and didn’t know now. But that’s the thing with the ice queen side of myself. I might seem cold on the surface, disinterested and unperceptive, so much so that my emotional sharpness goes mostly unnoticed and is consequently gravely underestimated. I was secretly angry, but how could I be? I wasn’t an inch better off; I had felt the same way. It was too much. Too hard. We wanted different things out of life then; so logically, it was an effort that would not pay off. It would have been a blatant waste of our time. Yet, I am moved by that exquisite man, who made me discover just about anything I ever dreamed of tasting in life. The lust of a lifetime. The love of a lifetime.
The worst reality of this situation is that it could’ve all been different, less complicated; it could’ve been something that didn’t require hiding, a reality I carry along with me every single day. It slowly chips away at me, because I fled a possibility of great importance out of youthful ignorance and imminent social pressure, out of fear of not measuring up to the futile expectations of a deplorable structure, one where I failed to fit in as myself. My cowardice resulted in a dark emptiness, an unrelenting burden on my soul and nature that I have dragged around from the day I decided dereliction was the virtuous way to go about it. I have felt like a whore, because I had sold out to another, most fearlessly so. I had subjected myself willingly to the suffocating rules of an antiquated practice, a tyrannical fabrication of society cursed with the howling silence of its utter hypocrisy; an action which, looking back, was my ultimate insult to the gift of being – and feeling – alive. By marrying, settling down, compromising, I was hoping to hold on, desperately, to an inkling of the real thing. I was Milo’s whore in every sense of the word. I really am. And I am just realizing it nearly eight years later.
Part Two
Chapter Six
Now years had passed, spent in the custody of an ostensibly loving wedlock, yet my mind still fixed on everything Milo, and every fiber in my body was already screaming a full yes, even without having a real setup for a meeting. It didn’t need to be set up, for that matter. The overwhelming magnetism of his approach was already clouding the air around me, and I could almost detect his future presence in the tingles on my skin. Just for a moment, I envisioned myself in another world: a world of borrowed moments, a world in which our true natures surface, if just temporarily, a world in which there is a place for that irresistible living by the senses. Free from all ties, free from all impediments, free from all those godforsaken rules—that is the world in which Milo and I are an inescapable certainty beyond mathematical proportions. In a way, we are the thieves of reality. The inevitable rawness of stolen hours and stolen minutes and stolen seconds is nothing less than a demonstration of an almost unearthly purity of the most basic instincts of the realm of the living. Such purity effortlessly surpasses the banality of the factual character of our usually boring lives. It is our timeless essence.
That morning, I woke up without feeling the necessity of a decision—I had had my answer prepared before the question was even posed; it was composed long before the predictable arrivals of doubt and guilt, distractions with which I would have entertained myself with in the past. All of my days of useless rehashing this inexplicable passion in my head made me decide I needed to handle it differently, if ever I got another chance. Rapture like that doesn’t come around often; we might consider ourselves lucky having known it in life at all. For, after all, true rapture is only to be found beyond the limits of our dreams. So we should follow our demons beyond the craziest, boldest, and naughtiest of boundaries, because that is where the magic happens, that is where we find our true selves. That was the wisdom distance had scarred into my brain. So, no, this time I would not let him slip away.
The rattle of the doorknob meant I had to trade in my fantasy for the real world. Bernie threw his velvet purple dinosaur on my bed and climbed up.
“Mommy, kiss kiss.”
His sweet little mouth squeezed into a tiny trumpet; he kissed and slobbered over my cheek, and I thought it endearingly gross. By command of my son, I rolled out of bed and hobbled down the stairs, my blond hair still sticking out in all directions, and my eyelids still glued together with the remnants of a good-night’s sleep. I was a mom now, a married woman, but the girl was still inside me somewhere, fantasizing away from time to time when no one could see. Although I had only been awake for a few minutes, my head was clear enough to do as I was told, to do as was expected: my duty, my responsibility. Not so long ago, I thought this—marriage, motherhood—would define me forever, although I had seen it as locking myself in, as protection from my own sadness. I had chosen this way of life deliberately—the best possible option left. The next-best thing. How could I have decided on anything else? Life had made the decisions for me.
There are moral limits to what a woman may desire from a man. Leaving behind children for posterity is the most basic, yet the highest of achievements in life. Surely, a decision that results in decimating the time a parent gets to spend with them should be his or her own. Nothing could ever make me debase myself to ask that much of him. Who am I? A nobody—certainly in comparison to a blood tie. That’s right, a nobody. And so, I had reasoned accordingly: a best friend, an honest man, and a good father—a big chunk of love in this life—at least that was the person Charles used to be. It is rare for us humans to be granted recognition of love and lust as we encounter them, let alone to be able to see the difference between them and a rational balance with a lifelong warranty and good values, all in the fleeting moments when choices must be made. Distance all too often coincides with the moment of truth, and all too often is the foundation of the irony of a distorted fate.
Meanwhile, I delivered Bernie’s order upstairs, and he curled up against Charles. A distinct maternal compassion instantly took me over when looking at my two men. When I returned downstairs, my coffee was steaming invitingly on the espresso machine. Out of habit, I enclosed the supersized mug in both hands and tilted it with an almost ritual slowness between my lips. The best moment of the morning is just this. When the odor and flavor of that black gold swoons and curls along my mouth with just the right amount of passivity so that I can relish its taste and texture with an appropriate intensity. Along with the steaming liquid pleasure, Milo rolled into my veins again. Tonight I would be moved once again by the eager anticipation of his touch, like many years ago. How this story would end was still a big question mark. I didn’t have patience before. I was a real schoolgirl—which remains the correct term for that state of mind. My daily shot of caffeine brought me to this realization. Only that electric charge of anticipation could make me savor that moment enough. Today would be another one of those days when I let my nature roam free. A day when the wild aspect of me would be allowed to come out to play, however briefly. A day when I leave the unwritten laws and moral objections at home to relish the taste of something I thought to be long lost, a fever dream that never seemed to dissolve.
The day crept by while I focused on fulfilling my marital obligations and executed them with precision, ticked their boxes off my list. If I were to stain my immaculate path tonight, then the least I could do was keep the smears to a strict minimum. Only those smears worthy of defiling a blank canvas would ever be allowed to mark my life. So it wasn’t really out of premature guilt, although I would hardly be considered human if that hadn’t been part of the picture somehow. I wanted to stay true to my sense of responsibility, though. Consequently, I went grocery shopping, and then I continued my work by throwing the laundry in the machine and selecting the wash cycle, cooking, and
bathing Bernie before taking off. To unburden my husband, I prepared the diapers, the changing cushion, and the rest of the baby stuff. I wanted to account for everything that could possibly happen while I was out. I quickly finished up with the dishes and cleared the kitchen. I wanted no extra fuss and junk lying around when I got home, not more than was strictly necessary anyway. I made sure there were enough beers in the fridge so Charles didn’t have to walk all the way to the garage. That way, he could just enjoy a movie and turn in. I did all of this because, for once, I would not be home tonight.
Time to get ready. Several years ago this situation would have rendered me anxious, but I didn’t feel that now. I no longer felt the need to apologize for who I was, who I am. I pulled on a pair of tight Levi’s and a breezy, white silk shirt. And suddenly, there she was, very briefly, that nervous, doubtful girl I once used to be, screaming in my head, but she crept back into her mind cave as I slipped into my black nine-inch heels, an added value, the only form of self-confidence any woman should invest in. I hoped that I was not expecting too much after all this time. The years had certainly changed me, so it couldn’t be that much different for Milo as well. Maybe I was dreaming and wondering about things that were no longer there. Or maybe things had not changed at all. Despite everything. Despite the years. I planted a little kiss on Charles’s forehead, and he waved me away as I was blocking his view of the television screen. I checked the time on my phone, and although it seemed a little early, I was ready to leave; it felt like it was time. I turned around and quickly went over my list of duties one last time in my head before I left. Everything was in place, right as it should be.
Ding.
I am having dinner, darling. I’m checking in with my colleague at the hotel later.
That one message had been all I was hoping for, that one message that gave me a reason to hope. I had been driving around town for a while now, emptying my head. Milo didn’t know this, of course. I needed to rest in the day-to-day automatic, robotic actions to appease myself; seeing others as I was passing them by, all of them on the road, headed for their destinations, secretly registering their movements, had a strangely appealing quality to me. I loved being on the road, on my way. It was very calming. A drive through a no-man’s-land where all is possible, and everything is allowed, a gray area far away from the vile grasp of reality with everything constantly fleeting, moving, and going. It was this place where thoughts and desires were left to roam unrestrained, and their hopes could tag along.
Still over at my friend’s house. Can’t wait. E.
It was a white lie, yes, definitely so. But I couldn’t have him thinking I was crazy. There was nothing bad about the truth; I just knew that, to most people, the truth would seem so odd they would consider me a liar. The light turned green, and my foot gently pushed down on the accelerator. The first tones of the music inspired me to turn up the volume of my radio. The sound of my phone was swallowed up in the bass sounds confined to my car, but its tremble announced the arrival of some news.
Would you care to stop by later? X.
There it finally was, the question I had long been anticipating, the question that had been suspended in the air since morning with an ominous certainty. We hadn’t changed. It always came about this way. We made plans, yet always acted as if they might not happen. Each of us was constantly seeking, and then asking for, confirmation from the other side. As if we were never quite certain enough. But subconsciously we were. We just liked playing this game of pretending: pretending it wasn’t a done deal since…well, forever; pretending we didn’t know how this would play out; and pretending to not know what always happened when we saw each other. I was surprised to feel so calm. No pounding heart jumping around in my chest. No tingling lips. I wasn’t far from my destination, ten minutes tops. The asphalt of the highway slipped away under me as I pushed toward the endpoint, lying somewhere in the distance, enveloped in the pinkish-red evening haze. I had notified Milo with a text that I was coming, as if he didn’t know I was, like he didn’t expect me to be there.
I parked the car and slid my car seat back to study myself in the tiny mirror of my sunshade. It was time to let my hair down, give it the freedom I had promised. With a supple gesture, I pulled the electric-blue band down along my golden hair. I painted my lips a color called Aphrodite Scarlet and put the shiny lipstick back in the side pocket of my taupe bag. From the corner of my eye, I saw his car maneuvering into the last parking space. A swift tickle of hunger climbed up my insides and blocked my airway just for a tiny second, and I realized the thought of him being this close nearly sufficed to make me swoon. The dusky wind brought me the sound of his tenor voice, and I caught myself looking for him, but Milo was still an invisible presence in the falling night.
I stepped out of my car and shook out my hair, letting it air out for some extra volume, while I secretly focused on the sweet melody of his voice. The knowledge that he would see me quite soon was hardly lost on me, but I would make him wonder if I knew or didn’t.
Checking in quickly. You go and take a seat in the bar. X
As always, I did as I was told. When it came to him, submitting was an exciting thing to do. I turned around to lock my car and then went on to do as planned. I didn’t want to treat him to a premature look, so I strutted, determined, and aimed right at my target. The corner of my red-painted mouth turned up. I smirked, enjoying this innocent little game, as I felt his eyes burn on my back. Nothing was ever more exhilarating than slightly delaying that palpable presence of my desire turning to flesh. I proceeded to the bar, picked a couch that had room enough for two, and ordered a screwdriver. That had always been my poison of choice, but for a very long time no occasion had been worthy of one. Feeling stared at—as apparently a woman walking alone into a bar is a very novel occurrence—I savored every second that would bring him closer and eventually within reach. And there it was, that rugged-looking face with that ever-charming smile.
“Just a quick hello.” His lips grazed along my cheek, leaving a trace of a past in flames. “Be right back. I still have to check in. Stay right where you are.”
I didn’t have a chance to say a word, but that was quite OK. I took a long, deep breath and felt my cheek scorching with anticipation. Patiently, I took another sip of the vodka mix. Fairly quickly, I realized that this dram of alcohol would never be enough to stave off his impact, to slow it down, so I reached for my tall drink and downed about half of it.
Ding.
Just two more minutes. Right there. X
That didn’t seem like Milo. The undertone of the message carried the same trace of nervousness I detected the week before when I heard him on the phone. He had a tell when he got nervous. Every time he would get that way, he sported a type of grinning little laugh and made a slight wheezing sound. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. The mere idea, the unearthly possibility, of me having that effect on him, though very flattering, seemed odd, unreal, and frankly, unbelievable.
There he was again. More relaxed this time. Calmer. More controlled. More Milo. And, most importantly, and a little disappointingly, he was not alone. His colleague had followed him into the bar. Or was it Milo’s deliberate choice that his colleague be there? Did it relax him to have a safeguard, protecting him from this thing we tend to do? Milo sat down next to me on the couch, as I had figured he would, and his coworker took the seat across the table. Both of them had a preference for another poison with the treacherous appearance of water—gin. A round of drinks later, we toasted to the night and our reunion. It was a nice opportunity for me to be bold and brazen and stare right at him, without alarming the already slightly inebriated other man across the table. In Milo’s eyes, I discerned a familiar playfulness and the cute little wrinkles around them. The lines were a little deeper now and, with them, more charming than ever. I willingly took another hit of my cocktail. My stomach cramped a little because of the tension, and I
spied, just in time, that there was still a glass suspended in the air, in anticipation of a toast.
We started talking about the unimportant crap that fills our days: work, booze, the exhausting habits of others—common topics of the ever-noble discipline of bar philosophy. At times, I was fascinated by the look of Milo’s profile. I let him talk eagerly with his homely, warm-hearted friend, probably the way they always did when finishing up a day’s work. Meanwhile, I gently caressed his face with my eyes, and every single time I forgot to take a breath I would fill myself with more of my Russian poison. It must have been the vodka that was allowing me to delicately stroke the arm Milo had stretched out onto the back of the couch. He turned to look at me, so fiercely, so intensely, that even if it was just a look thrown from the corners of his eyes, it felt like a confirmation. The signs were clear enough. The more the alcohol was flowing between our words, the harder it was for me to contain my impulses. He was there just in front me—for once, within reach—that reckless rascal who stole my heart so many, many years ago.