Impulses

by Brock, V. L.

  I impishly hurl the crimson pillow at her.

  A faint knock on the apartment door abruptly ceases our schoolgirl giggling. I freeze, unable and too scared to move from my position. I glance at Jessie who is kneeling down in front of the TV media unit fumbling with the DVD player. I’m a deer in the headlights––powerless to act as a cocktail of trepidation, disconcertment and dread waits beyond my door.

  Jessie shakes her head slowly at me, her mouth curling in unveiled pleasure.

  “Don’t. Even. Ask.” she enunciates her answer to my unspoken request.

  Under duress, I stride to the door, dragging my feet behind me. Holding my breath and grimacing, I peek through the spyhole, fearing who I am going to see on the opposite side. Please don’t be, him. Please don’t be, him, I plead with all substance of my being.

  “Oh, thank God for that.” I droop with palpable relief.

  Taking the cold, gold doorknob in my grasp, I pull it open and offer and apologetic smile at the young blond stood tapping her foot in the hallway. I sweep my hair over my right shoulder.

  “Miss Kennedy?” she asks tersely. I nod and trace my tongue across the seam of my lower lip. She hands me a huge bouquet of bright pink roses. “Have a nice day.”

  I offer a shy curve of my lips. “Thank you,” is all I can muster, all the while gazing upon the beautiful arrangement. I bury my nose into the center––inhaling generously, savoring the sweet, heavenly scent of the thriving blossoms. And I bathe in an unexpected, blissful appreciation.

  “Who was that?” Curiosity pierces through her tone, however, words fail me. I am in awe, dazed at this simple yet ardent gesture.

  With tears pricking the back of my eyes and a lump in my throat becoming more prominent, I stride to the breakfast bar and deposit the flowers onto the surface, refusing to free my emotional waterfall.

  Jessie gasps. “Wow. Now that is an impressive bouquet if ever I did see one.” She lunges herself into the middle of the blossoms and inhales. “Here––” she recovers a card and hands it to me before continuing to admire their sweet aroma.

  The card is cold and rigid between my fingers. Uncertain of what I’m to do next, I stare down at it as though what is scripted inside is going to ascertain the meaning of life.

  “What is it, Sammy?”

  “I have never received flowers before. I want to value this moment before I open this card and come crashing back down.” My voice cracks under the power I uphold to disallow the freedom of my happy tears. My fingertips brush gently against the stiffness of the card as I silently pray to a higher power for guidance.

  Observing my hesitation, Jessie caresses my upper arm and I soon lift my head to meet her gaze. Her affectionate, wide emerald eyes offer much required encouragement.

  “Open it then,” she whispers desperately, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. I mirror her expression––although not with the same amount of enthusiasm that my best friend exudes.

  My heart rate spikes, butterflies stretch their wings. My body cowers to the adrenaline as it swells, feeling myself tremble internally, and being highly aware of every muscle in my body, as they tenses and relax incessantly. How can one card hold so much power? Taking a deep cleansing breath, and regaining my composure, I open the little card.

  I called by this morning wanting to make sure you were feeling better.

  We need to talk––please. Call me (415) 509 6998. Hayden.

  My grasp on the card tightens and I automatically graze my thumb across his neat, italic handwriting. My stomach constricts unpredictably as I succumb to the hankering sensation to return his call, to talk to him––to see him––slowly annihilates my reluctance.

  “Well?”

  I give way to a shy smile. Unable to speak, I sink my teeth into my lip and hold out the card to Jessie whom seizes it from my grasp. Staring down at the floor, I struggle to fathom the inexplicable clash of emotions I feel. I’ve never experienced longing and aching, over anything other than needing a sexual requirement, but yet I am aching to see him, to inhale his scent, to hear his voice and get lost in his boundless, mesmerizing eyes.

  “Last night, you were in agreement about a new start, a new approach––let’s start it today.” She places the card back into my palm. I study Hayden’s handwriting once more, his number goading me. “Call him,” she whispers, then plants kiss on the top of my head before leaving the room––leaving me marveling about the conversation I thought I would never have to have, but only moments away from having.

  I salvage my cell phone from my purse and stand immobilized––my legs too heavy to lift. I concentrate on the handset in my left hand and Hayden’s number in my right. Prudently typing in Hayden’s number, my thumb hovers over the little green ‘call’ button for what seems like an eternity. Stop hesitating, Samantha…you’re giving yourself too much time to think…you’re going to talk yourself out of this…just do it! Cringing, I screw my eyes shut, and allow my thumb to slip onto the button.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “Samantha?” Oh, my––the deep, husky sound of his voice is enough to make my knees buckle. I stagger to the barstools and prop myself up onto one before I collapse. “I see you got my flowers.”

  “They’re beautiful––thank you.” I show my gratitude whilst visually fixated on the pink rose buds in front of me.

  “As are you,” he speaks softly, and I feel that familiar uneasiness anchoring me. Powerless to respond, I screw my eyes shut and take a moment to push his kind, complimenting words aside. “Samantha, you still there?” he sounds alarmed.

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “Good––listen––I’ve booked a table at 1300 for 8:00 p.m. this evening. You have no idea how hard I am crossing my fingers here that you agree to accompany me.” He sounds his optimistic self again. “But if you don’t––”

  What? After what happened last night––the way I was––is he really asking me out? Why? Dates are used to build a foundation before engaging in the sex; we have already had the sex, so what he is asking is surely meaningless and a waste of time.

  Stop thinking negatively, Samantha. Don’t even think about it. Don’t think, just do, my subconscious spurs me, motivating me.

  “Okay.” I glide my left hand down my thigh to dry the moisture that seeps through my pores. Jessie’s repetitive cite echoes in my mind, ‘the first step is always the toughest––but once you have achieved it––the others will seem easier’. I roll my eyes in exasperation; she better be right, that’s for damn sure.

  “R-really?” he stutters, surprized but my insistence I presume.

  I giggle at his tone and imagine him pulling the phone from his ear and studying it with widening eyes as my answer trails down the speaker.

  “So, if I pick you up at 7:15 p.m. would that be okay for you?”

  “7:15 p.m. will be fine. Don’t be late,” I answer friskily down the handset. Before he even has a chance to reply, I hang-up.

  Tipping my head back in reprieve, I allow the moment of my acquiescence to sink in. My limbs tingle yet I visibly relax, aware of the natural flow as my body steadily returns to normal.

  “Jessie,” I call, sliding myself off the barstool, “––get your ass out here.” I reclaim my jacket from the back of one of the high-back, leather dining chairs.

  Swaying her hips side to side, she rubs her hands together. “How did it go?”

  “He’s taking me to 1300 tonight.” I pull my hair free of the collar of my leather jacket.

  Her eyes widen, her mouth falling open, yet the curl at the corners of her mouth betrays her enormous grin. “Oh, Sammy, that is wonderful.” She sashays over to the table, and encases me in a triumphant embrace. “I know how much of a big leap this was for you, sweetie. The first step is always the toughest––”

  “I know,” I interject, disinclined to hear her motto again. “Come on then…get your coat.”

  Scrutinizing me with her perplexed express
ion, she cocks her head. No way is Jessie this obtuse; she’s totally making a meal out of this.

  “I have a––” I inhale deeply and roll my eyes as I surrender to recognition of this evenings meeting with Hayden. “Oh, God…” I hang my head, “a date…tonight, Jess. I have never done the date thing before. I need your help and we’re going shopping.”

  Grinning at me like an idiot, she catches her tongue between her teeth in the amusing way that never fails to lighten my mood. Jessie, excited and enthusiastic, is a very scary combination.

  “What?”

  “Samantha Kennedy,” she gasps and purses her dusky pink lips. “Did you just say the word, date?” I shake my head in exasperation, while in all honesty, for the first time in my life…I’m feeling anything but.

  HAYDEN

  I cast my cell phone onto the opposite side of the couch and tip my head back. Closing my eyes I rub my hands up and down my face in reprieve. She said yes…she actually agreed to have dinner with me.

  Breathing in a purifying breath, I hold the air captive as I become aware of my paranoia awaking––famished––and ready to indulge upon my already deficient self-worth. Think of the positive, Hayden. She said yes, I am urged by my subconscious in an attempt to derail the menacing, denigrating voice of my reemerging fear.

  But it is, too, late.

  Do you really believe that she wants to go out with you? No, no, no, he rebukes, shaking his head obstinately and pouting his thin, darkened lips, taking pleasure in divulging his cruel words. She pity’s you. His mouth curls into a malign smirk, his eyes black and obnoxious. She wants to tell you to your face just how pathetic you are––how she laid back last night and faked everything as you fucked her like a worthless man; how disgusted she was having your puny body pressed against her...inside her.

  My chest constricts. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating. Even as I vainly fist at the collar of my shirt, yanking it away from my throat as I endeavor to inhale a decent cleansing breath, it makes no difference. My core temperature soars. Perspiration bleeds through my pores as panic and anxiety devastates me.

  The room spins mercilessly on its axis. I haul myself from the couch. Surpassing the trembling of my legs, I stagger up the single step to the media center at my living room window, desperately seeking liberation from my unbearable thoughts. I seize the decanter half-full with amber liquid.

  You think that will bring you comfort you pathetic, futile man? He goads me, prompting my body to bow to the shudder that he spawns. I pour myself two fingers worth of Southern Comfort into a crystal tumbler, and with my back pressed against the cold surface of my window, I sink to the floor, hoping that the smaller I get, the smaller the voice and his torture will become. With intent, I linger the crystal to my lips. I inhale the rich, spiced aroma of my freedom before I bleed it dry, and welcome the burning sensation followed by the warmth on my breath as I shallowly exhale.

  I don’t know how much more I can withstand. I’m trapped––trapped in the dungeon of despair with only the small, shrill voice as a companion. With tightening fingers caressing the cold, patterned surface and my elbows propped up on my knees, I stare down at the empty tumbler, watching fixated while I roll it in my grasp.

  A tidal wave of negative emotions overawes me, despair and hate, anguish and inability. I hang my head as the already strident voice nears my inner ear making it impossible to discount.

  Hayden, Hayden, Hayden, he mutters his disapproval; don’t tell me you are shocked by these emotions. She told you––she always told you what you were. Why would anyone else think differently of you? You’re a waste of space, you’re not worthy of the air you breathe. It should have been you in the car that night.

  “Shut up, shut up…shut up.” Flailing my head from side-to-side, I frantically search for something to hold on to, a light at the end of the tunnel, divine intervention, anything to block out the berating voice in my mind.

  I’m vaguely aware of the motion I make as I pull back my right arm, allowing the glass to escape my grasp as I launch the tumbler across the room. The sound of shattering ricochets around the area as it finally collides with the door and splinters into a hundred tiny fragments…like me, a shattered man. I succumb to my repressed tears, allowing them to flow freely from their prison, liberating myself––if only for a few precious moments––from the menacing, wicked, cruel voice that ridicules me, with my head buried in my hands.

  The long-awaited sensation of emotional-numbness soon transpires and my tears begin to cease. My eyelids feel as though they are closing over razorblades. Moistening my cracked, drying lips with a sweep of my tongue, and dry the dampness from face with the backs of my hands, I tip my head back against the window.

  Come on, Hayden. Pull yourself together…you have a date to get ready for. And through the numbness of my emotions, I feel a sliver of hope warming me as it radiates from my stomach, stretching outward through my body like a firework. A faint smile begins to bore itself upon my tearstained features. There is only one person who can supply me with the answers I seek, and I silently vow not to listen to the voice of my insecurities, until I hear the truth from her.

  It’s 7:05 p.m. when I pull up at The Fillmore Point Center. I study my reflection in the rear-view mirror, and fist my hand through my now dried hair. A lock unbinds and falls onto my brow. The swelling of my eyes from my emotional breakdown earlier is now barely noticeable––thank God.

  I sit rooted in my seat. Well, what are you waiting for? She is up there waiting for you, move it, my subconscious urges and for once in my life, I welcome his enthusiasm. Endeavoring to maintain my poise through the mounting nerves that shrouds me, and calming the butterflies that are grazing themselves against the lining of my stomach, threatening to free themselves from my mouth, I prepare myself to face Samantha, idly contemplating which Samantha I am going to be in the company with for the rest of the evening––confident Samantha, or the callous Samantha that I had the misfortune of meeting last night.

  The apartment door is swung open almost immediately after my knuckle collides with the wood on the second knock.

  Samantha’s roommate, Jessie stands at the threshold. Her faded blue, fashionable ripped jeans and white camisole hug her figure, while her brunet mane piled high into a ponytail showcases her high-set cheekbones.

  “Mr. Wentworth––”

  “Please, I’m, Mr. Wentworth in the working week…Hayden will do just fine,” I grin.

  “Hayden…” she repeats slowly, testing it against her palate. “Please, come in.” She opens the door farther and steps aside.

  Hands locked behind my back, I nod my appreciation and enter the apartment.

  “Sammy won’t be too much longer. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting, a glass of wine…” she trails off as she pushes the door shut.

  “I’m driving actually…but a glass of water would be lovely.”

  Strolling past the oak dining table and the breakfast bar to the right of the front door, she then turns into the kitchen. I follow behind her and perch myself up onto one of the white, vacant barstools.

  Everything in the open plan living room/dining room is white and red, apart from the leather dining-table chairs which are chocolate. Still the décor is subtle and modern. A wide rectangle archway divides the space between the two rooms. I can only imagine the copious amount of light that sears through the large bay window at the far end of the living room. A ruby colored, leather couch resides against the right wall. The white fireside takes pride of place at the heart of the left wall facing the couch and a sturdy coffee table rests in the middle of the room, above a red shimmering rug.

  My subtle perusal is ended when Jessie places a hi-ball glass of water on the breakfast bar in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I mutter before taking a mouthful of the ice-cold liquid. Mist has already begun to form on the exterior of the glass.

  “You’re more than welcome.” She cocks her head to the side,
and gazes over my shoulder. I watch as her mouth curves into a contented, genial smile, and she nods her approval.

  Pivoting swiftly upon the surface of my seat, I come face-to-face with the riveting, spellbinding vision abounded with finesse, which stands at the threshold of the hallway opposite me. I’m rendered speechless and physically paralyzed by her beauty. My mouth falls open and my lungs fail to allow my next intake of breath.

  “Samantha––” My voice travels low and raspy on a weighty sigh. I can feel my eyes aflame with a combination of emotion, ranging from desire, admiration and longing, mixed with bemusement and anxiety, Finally finding my feet, I slide off the stool and approach the breathtakingly beautiful, woman, who unknowingly already has me worshipping at her feet. I don’t even know this woman, yet I know what I would do––what I would give––to have her as mine.

  The black asymmetrical dress sits alluringly above her knees, the back drapes down to her ankles whilst the material clings and caresses the contours of her body. The low-cut and loose neckline hangs pleasantly over her breasts and exposes enough cleavage to tempt certain wanton thoughts. Her strappy stiletto arches her instep as they mould her foot into place, and her black opaque shawl is wrapped around her upper arms. Her auburn hair is separated into a half up, half down do with soft, bouncing curls, which tumble passed her breasts. Her eyes are a seductive, smoky silver-gray and lined with dark kohl, emphasizing their prominent shape, and her mouthwatering, delicious lips coated with a nude lip colour.

  “You look amazing.”

  Halting my desire to pounce and ravish her with my lips, I stalk toward her and press a tender kiss against her cheek, taking my time to revel in her sweet, intoxicating, and agonizingly seductive scent. I hunger to trail kisses all over her body and taste her sweetness again.

  Samantha…you have no idea how much I want you––how much I need you.