by E V King
Upon entering the massive wooden gates of religious structures, goose bumps instantly popped up, and I always caught myself thinking how freezing cold they felt. That is, until I found the art. That was my reason for visiting them after all and not because I was a particularly religious person. There were just two big categories of these types of buildings: the modern, white, and cold ones; and ones that were awe inspiring in their authenticity, housing artwork so touching you never would have expected it to find it there. In this particular case, the clair-obscur piece, suspended behind a peephole—well, in actuality, a massive opening in the ceiling behind the altar—was especially attractive to the eye and featured the image of Mary Magdalene, whose home this was. She looked so perfectly imperfect: sitting in the front row, staring up in admiration of the brushstrokes applied with such gripping care by a human hand, I silently let tears run down my face, witnessing a reminder of that rare capacity for magic that not only dwells in nature but in humankind as well.
I snapped out of my tears for beauty to look down at my watch. It was time to get back to the meeting point. I estimated I needed some twenty minutes to manage to bounce my way back and regroup with Milo and James. I made it back even earlier and decided to lie down on the asphalt of the parking lot, my iPod still blowing happy tunes into my ears as I watched the cloudless blue sky above and dreamed away about this wonder of an escape. Both men must have seen me from a distance just lying there, probably calling me a lunatic in the process, but I didn’t care. I tended to come across that way sometimes, being weird, actually doing things other people merely thought about or never thought about, because of sheer embarrassment, a lack of individuality, or a fear of public opinion. I used to be like them most of the time too—those people who lived sheltered, overly self-conscious lives, so fearful of making any decision by themselves; those who find themselves blindly following a set of social rules so stifling that their minds inhabit a living boredom beyond compare. And they do all that without even considering that nobody actually knows who came up with that depressingly limiting crap anyway. Over the last couple of years, I had gradually let go of the ridiculous urge to obliterate myself in order to live down to societal norms.
Getting back in the car to retire to our rooms and freshen up before dinner, James casually opened the conversation.
“So, Milo told me you are a smart girl.” It was surely a compliment Milo had shared during their run, along with a lot of other details I’m sure.
“Well, I have read and studied a lot and speak, or at least understand, a few languages,” I answered politely, yet slightly embarrassed. “So in that way, maybe.”
Milo smiled at my answer. And of course, I was flattered, but only partly because I secretly resented those smart comments. Books can teach you a lot about life, or provide you with useful info, but a good parrot does not an intelligent person make. Actual living is by far the better teacher. But I guess they hadn’t noticed the irony hidden in my last few words, for I had done my best, for once, to not come across as a bitter pessimist.
Upon arriving, Milo and I parted ways with James in the hotel corridor. The faint odor of Milo’s runner’s high climbed up my nose, taking me back in time, when I had first seen him in the flesh, weirdly arousing me, and making me step out of my aubergine skirt before he had the chance to fully close the door behind us. It wasn’t all that out of the ordinary to work up a lustful appetite by noon, although when resting on the bed later, as he was taking his shower, I couldn’t help but wonder how he did it. How he had this effect on me. Something about it, about him, made me conclude that he was my vice, my addiction, very much like cigarettes. You take one hit, in a bar, out with friends, relieving stress from a failed exam, a petty conflict, or a fussy breakup, doing it out of pure mindlessness, lunacy almost, fully aware of the potential life-threatening cancers yet choosing to ignore them, to be rash and stupid and supposedly unaware. Before you know it, you’re craving a pack a day, going insane when you can’t find your lighter, finally satisfying your need by lighting up your fix on the eternal flame of the water heater. In hindsight, it is always easier to have none at all than a ton within reach, falsely telling yourself you’ll have just one cigarette a week. Yes, those filthy things had a lot in common with Milo. They were toxically delicious. It just was downright impossible for me to be alone with him and not want my hit—however you want to interpret that.
Later that afternoon, Milo left to join his entire team for a few hours of work. After all, that was the reason we could have these stolen days together in the first place. I spent my alone time in the room. That was the price we had to pay for our three-day indulgence. That downtime, when the loving was suspended, was spent on nothing out of the ordinary: watching a police-show rerun, eating the prepackaged salad I had bought in the grocery store around the corner…The brainless things one does to pass the time until something more exciting happens. His suitcase was lying open on the floor next to the bed, and looking at the mess inside, I remembered how he had mumbled about the fact that folding his clothes was on his to-do list for tomorrow. So I decided to make of it a mindless activity to get through the next fifteen minutes. Caringly, I folded his seven shirts, five pants, and a dozen pieces of underwear, both worn and unworn, and sensibly stacked them in the open case on the gray tapestry. While clearing out, the heap had revealed an uplifting treasure in the form of bright-colored envelope with the words “For Daddy” written in uneven letters on the front. It had made me smile, and after neatly putting the clothes back, I slid the gripping shred of home attentively underneath them to avoid creases or dog-ears of any kind. Mementoes like that are meant to be cherished and kept personal, and I respected both those things.
A call from my legal home ruined my thoughtless process for the evening. Charles was drunk again; the alcohol made him act even more like the spiteful man he really was underneath his public persona, the man that few people ever truly perceived. He didn’t know I was transgressing the way I was, but to him anything I did was already an infringement of his laws, a violation of his rules, and a disobedience of his reign. A simple step outside of my set perimeter demanded his permission. But I don’t wish to waste many words on him, that malicious man who still lived in feudal times, for he doesn’t deserve much remembrance in the long run. All that is vile is unworthy to be kept alive, in both mind and tangible recollection. Ironically, however unlawful the connection between Milo and I most certainly was, it is that much more unadulterated and therefore deserving of this ineradicable commitment.
A persistent knocking on the door woke me up, and I realized I must have dozed off to the silent humbug in my head. Still rubbing my eyes, I unlocked the door for Milo in my tartan-patterned underwear. I grabbed my pack of slims from the small desk as I walked back into the room. Softly, he closed the door behind him as I lit up a smoke and swung the window wide open.
“I would ask you how your evening was, but you look upset,” he said.
Either the smoke had given my mood away, or maybe he was able to read me. Maybe it was both. He joined me on the windowsill and placed his hand on my bare thigh, looking at me inquisitively. With a sigh, I released the toxic fumes into the darkness. My lover was wise enough to grant me a moment of comfortable silence; he just sat there, hardly moving an inch, his fingers still hugging my leg with the utmost patience. I put out the finished cigarette and flicked the stub out on the asphalt.
“Charles called. He was on a drunken rant, again…”
Milo had come to learn what that entailed and stood up, got hold of my hand, and calmly led me toward the bed. Gratefully I snuggled up against him on top of the sheets, resting my head on his shoulder, and as his right arm curved around me, I found myself ensconced in his embrace. His fingers tenderly caressed my back, unwinding me stroke by stroke. Milo might not have been a man of many words, yet he was always capable of conveying all that’s meaningful without them. A serenity filled the room,
surrounding me, coming over me…This was what home is supposed to feel like.
“Dear, you’re far too precious to worry about rotten apples with a blushing complexion. Just rest; you need it.” He spoke softly, running his fingers slowly through my hair, and left a gentle kiss lingering on my lips.
“Let it go…You’re safe with me.” I closed my eyes and my very last thought for that night entered my tired mind. This should have been home.
The last hours of our short secret getaway had come too soon, as they always did in delightful cases like this one. Our good-byes were never easy and surely not something I would ever grow accustomed to; on the contrary, the leaving part gradually grew worse. And this particular parting felt like nothing short of torture, its every second brimming with the inevitability of that so-called douleur exquise that would quickly befall me, as well as the unsettling promise of it overwhelming me, time and time again, until one day down the line its dauntless sadness would undoubtedly devour me whole.
“Honey, are you sad?” Milo asked as he stepped closer.
He must have seen it, ruthlessly creeping into my tear-shot eyes, as we were packing our luggage to travel back to our separate lands of disillusion. With a gentle touch of his hand on my arm, he made me drop my phone charger into my open suitcase—which was taunting me from the bed—and subtly prompted me to turn around to face him. I was feeling a little ashamed as a single tear curved over my cheek, as if now he had stumbled upon my deepest, darkest secret.
“Don’t be,” he whispered softly in my ear as he folded me in his arms.
I let myself lean into his embrace with the sole purpose of touching his body with every possible inch of mine, trying to take him in, to let every detail of that moment seep into my senses; the remembrance of that moment would soon serve to numb my torment, filling the void he left behind. With fondness, I remember the texture of his dotted cotton shirt lining my palms as they rested on his back. That embrace was a soothing sliver of comfort flashing by, the way truly meaningful events always do, although we must have been standing, locked into each other for an uninterrupted five minutes; and all of it took place while we were delicately hiding behind the doors of room 114.
Chapter Fourteen
The crystal chandelier hanging perfectly centered above the meticulously installed dining room table was casting a convivial hue around the oak-paneled room. My eyes slid indifferently along the shimmering silverware, the exquisite porcelain plates, the sparkling glasses, and immaculate white table cloth on to the brilliant, heavy floral drapes garnishing the impressive space. Our company for the evening was composed of prominent businessmen and their overly adorned wives.
‘Es, smile. These people are important for our position in society. They might be of use one day to take the company to the next level. Make nice. And don’t make any smart comments, no one likes a gorgeous wife upstaging them. Be a good girl now.’
That had been Charles’s bidding before getting out of the car. And so, I graciously accepted a fine-looking hors d’oeuvre from their servant and praised the salmon-dill creation. I followed up on my assignment, beaming big, inviting smiles, listening patiently to the latest modern art searches, decorating adventures, and private shopping sprees of Chanel-painted trophy wives, feigning sincere interest by molding my face into a charming mask with glistening eyes and broad, full-toothed smiles. Their snobbish chronicles were so preposterous that it wasn’t even all that hard to fabricate a sparkle in my eyes; little did they notice it was the shimmer of disappointment at witnessing these actors on this stage of hypocrisy. I was uncommonly agreeable, I laughed and occasionally nipped from my glass of La Fleur-Pétrus; but partaking in this dishonorable performance was utterly revolting. In an inattentive impulse, I briefly glanced down into the alluring flicker of the marble-sculptured fireplace and let a swift sigh escape. Nothing in this world could possibly feel worse than the loneliness brought on by a lighthearted crowd.
When I didn’t hear from Milo the next day, dark clouds set in again, in my mind at least. The solemn, woeful voices of that eerie silence screamed loudly until my eyes were shining with sadness again. Inside I felt the hairline cracks returning, all of them slithering in at once with a loathsome deliberation. With every black wave crashing on my heart, I sat there, crouched on the ground, and I turned my eyes up, restlessly desperate. Flakes of me twirled around my head, glistening provocatively, but missing the sparkle that once was. That was how I experienced a day without words, without touch, without kiss. And all of it came against a depressing backdrop of the profound exasperation that even Milo didn’t want it this way, but that we were forced to this life, punished for what we have or had. In short, we were punished by the cruel intervention of karma.
Nobody could possibly be worthy of this liberating kind of romance, deserving of this kind of luck, however brief and powerful, but nothing short of sublime. Nobody could ever even be granted a whiff of it without repercussions of an equally sublime cruelty. I wished for one letter, just one, or a comma or a stupid emoticon for all I cared, but something, a sign of life, a sign that it wasn’t over yet, that I didn’t have to stop dreaming yet.
Maybe she was sitting next to him, lying next to him, or even more psychologically ruthless, touching him as I so often did, whether it happened in a stolen moment or inside the cloudy castles of my mind. I fully knew what we were getting into; there was no denying it. I knew about her, sure, and this time around, I didn’t care, as even one more day without him, without his ephemeral treats of passion, would mean flat-lined living. The sharing was never the problem, but just now, for an instant, it became one. Now I turned green with envy, slightly nauseated to think she actually had a home I was only able to borrow. So now I died a little again, broke down, and rolled up like a hedgehog without bristles, unable to fend off the sadness.
Once more, though, this spell of despondency had proven to be an unequivocally unnecessary act of torture I had subjected myself to. After two weeks of mental self-flagellation, a new opportunity presented itself to Milo and me. I was waiting in a parking lot, in shadows cast by the gothic lines of the church where we had agreed to meet. It was somewhere midway between our residences, so it seemed like a good option. I had arrived first and was nervously clicking the cap of my lipstick on and off.
His car pulled up next to mine. Milo got out, walked over, carefully looking over his shoulder, checking that nobody had noticed us, and jumped into the passenger seat next to me.
“Sweetie, I have missed you so,” he said. His hand cradled my face as he kissed me with ardor. Six little words and a tender gesture put a stop to my worried heart and brought back the peace.
“Oh darling, you’re not the only one feeling that way.”
His hand slipped under the stretchy fabric of my dress, and he pinched my leg hard, a squeeze that instantly left four fingertip-sized bruises on my skin. I didn’t mind. I loved carrying his traces along with me. He bit and licked my ear, which, combined with two weeks of bottled-up desire, created a tension between my hips. His stubbly cheek grated mine as his fingers explored my excitement. I stared at the stained-glass windows, moaning faintly as he pushed inside of me. This surely must be sacrilegious on many levels, from many angles, but we continued, for within our natural dispositions, we didn’t care. We spent half an hour kissing and fondling and talking away. It might not seem like much to the common man, but to anyone in love, a half hour equals thirty minutes of nonstop heaven. So much can happen in so little time. Tenderness can happen. Ecstasy can happen. Love can happen.
The seat next to me, still smoldering from Milo’s brief presence, was empty now. I smiled with a faint melancholy, for it wouldn’t be all that long before we’d meet again. We had made a plan, only a few days on, to steal some more time from another life, the one we could’ve shared. And just so, our sadness was filled with the joyous anticipation of another shred of our daytime dreaming, our particu
lar honor among thieves. Living hushed in our ordinary lives, we were able to escape for little adventures, some of them seeming so unreal that they never happen, yet somehow they did.
A few days later, I was enjoying a cup of coffee, a well-deserved break from the tedious tasks of suburban life that come around like clockwork, when I received a message from James.
Hi E. How are u? Everything o.k.? x James.
The text sent by Milo’s colleague surprised me. His tone felt awkward but, since he was one of Milo’s few confidants, I replied, half out of a sense of obligation, half out of politeness.
Me: Hi James. I’m OK. How are you? E.
I left out the x at the end intentionally. I didn’t want James to get the wrong impression, but maybe I was overthinking things. Yet his unexpected message retained a peculiar undertone. Call it gut, call it intuition, it just didn’t feel appropriate.
James: Fine. I am at work now. How’s your love life? Seen Milo lately? Xx