Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  I marched along the sidewalk, my irritation growing with each person bumping nearly into me. It had to happen; I collided with a tourist as his gigantic camera lifted up to capture the image of The Hancock. He didn’t apologize, and I felt like beating him to death with his own camera. Didn’t he know I’d had dinner with the man on the sixtieth floor?

  I stopped.

  And just like that, I realized it was time to get off my high horse.

  Life was roughly the usual, where the most exciting thing that happened to me was when grandma and I made bourbon Sazeracs on TBBT night, and grandpa prepared homemade thin crust pizza. He and I laughed at the nerd quips and occasional sexist jokes, and grandma feigned laughter because that’s what grandmothers do.

  One night I barely made it to the bathroom and vomited so hard I couldn’t breathe. As I gagged over the toilet, my mind flipped through colorful snapshots. Alexander smiling, Alexander laughing, Alexander kissing me, Alexander holding me, Alexander scowling at me. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, and another one, and another one.

  Even with pride in tact, my life felt dead, I was stuck in a rut. To live in this city and not have him call me back hurt like it would hurt kissing the sun. Well, I’d be obliterated before I could even reach the sun’s…damn it, nothing mattered anymore.

  Mired anew in the blissful numbness of illusion, I was a mess on yet another Saturday morning, eating Weetabix Minis right from the box while staring at my iPhone. I was waiting for Alexander to call me and beg me to go on a date with him. I knew he would call. I knew it like I knew the sun would rise again tomorrow. Ha, the weather remained considerably inclement, it’d been raining cats and dogs ever since I woke up, and my phone never rang.

  Boston seemed dead.

  Then the next morning came, and I still didn’t understand why he hadn’t called. I smiled when I thought of his long-fingered hand reaching for the phone. Most likely he’d been handling a crisis at work. Today he would call and I’d return to Manderley. In the meantime I drank coffee all day, buried myself in the alabaster sheets and squalled. Bursts of light kept clouding my peripheral vision, segueing into a scintillating flare. I’d anticipated withdrawal symptoms, just not anticipated them to consume me awake.

  Grandpa came into my bedroom and saw my swollen face. He’d brought over a plate of Oreos and a bottle of J&B, and poured a whole lot in my coffee cup. “What’s happening, Elena?”

  I took a big gulp of coffee and shook my head. “Nothing. Why?”

  “You want pillow? You want me fluff your pillow?” he drawled the perfect David Spade impression.

  “Tommy Boy, gramps? Really?” I reached for a Kleenex.

  He swayed on his feet, tilting his head to examine the floor as if it held some great answer for him. He took some steps to look out the window, placing his hands on each hip. I stared at his back, waiting.

  “Who is he?”

  “A gleam in the eyes. Didn’t call back.”

  An interminable amount of time passed before he spun around and took three big steps toward me, glancing down. “He’s not worth it, El. A man who doesn’t have the balls to call back a good woman never is.”

  Standing in front of a half-length mirror in the bathroom, I wondered why I would bother sprucing up. Tears clogged my throat. Grandma cooked me dinner that night. Crock-pot beef stew, she revealed, because I needed something homey and unpretentious. I watched her cutting the carrots and celery, wishing Alexander was right here with me.

  As the days wore on, touch-and-go, my grandparents’ encouragements succored me. I had good rectitude, but sometimes I couldn’t help myself, I thought about Alexander while I peered outside, as far as I could.

  Once while driving down Clarendon Street, watching harsh wind make frothy raindrops chase each other across the car window, I caught sight of The Hancock. Raindrops reunited into aqueous puddles that blurred the building ahead, and I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach. Was Alexander watching down from his office?

  Then I was leaning against a storefront, ignoring the rush of people passing by. Surveying the hoards of professionally dressed women, I wondered if Alexander could be dating one of them.

  “Move it, bitch,” someone said, roughly pushing past me.

  I barely made it around the corner before the tears started rolling. There I was, slumped against the wall of the coffee shop on a corner, my head in my hands, sniffling back my sobs. Bemoaning the possibility of Alexander and his new girlfriend, my tears were flowing to no end, tears that I’d held back since days. During the monumental crying, I felt a hard pinch on my cheek.

  “Hey,” I protested. My eyelids flew open.

  “Got your coffee. Give me his name,” said grandma.

  “He works in the tower, that’s why I got all emo.” It came out more pathetic than serious through my tears.

  She held me tightly and I felt her jaw press against my scalp. “He’s an asshole. You must let go and live your life.”

  For lunch, she took me to the Atlantic Fish Company, a renowned white-tablecloth fish house. Unknowingly, she’d chosen one of Alexander’s regular eateries. Snacking on clams casino, I craned my neck left and right, checking out the patrons. Maybe today he was eating sushi off a naked model’s body. Screw him. Instead of the baked potatoes and catch of the day I chose a steak, and we also shared the lobster thermidor special.

  Then, one Friday, a surprise awaited me at home. I had an easy load at work and left early. I didn’t quite know what to do, but after a while I organized my thoughts and headed to the Whole Foods Market and Savenor’s. When I arrived home, I carried in the grocery bags and unpacked them. After, I checked the mail Theresa—the housekeeper—had alphabetically arranged in the foyer. As if it were destined to appeal, a post card with palm trees jumped up at me. Polynesian land, I guessed, as I flipped the card over. The message was succinct and six words long: in this lifetime…wait for him.

  I sat at the kitchen island and wept. Why would he stage this? Why not call me? Miraculously, I came back to the present, prioritizing. I realized I didn’t have much time left before my grandparents would return home. I ran upstairs and hid the card in a desk drawer. With retouched makeup, I rushed back down and started preparing grandpa’s favorite dinner, Ossobuco with Joël Robuchon style mash.

  And indeed, he strolled into the kitchen with a smile on his face. “What’s the occasion?” For his happy-hour rendezvous with friends, he was wearing a perfectly cut designer suit in a deep grey, an Eton dress shirt in a lighter shade of grey, and a striped silk tie.

  I scrounged up the nerve, blurted in a rush, “Facing life as a ghost is a fate far worse than death. Can’t live in that kind of hopeless despair for a second time.”

  His smile fell, and he stared at me, stone-faced.

  I set my wine glass down, blinking rapidly. “I want the now. Not the yesterday, not the tomorrow, but the right now. I’m over him.”

  He stayed still for a moment then said, “You’re growing up too fast.”

  *

  A gust of cold air whirled around me. The sound of it was alike the distinct hissing that’d occurred when Alexander’s hand brushed across my bare skin. I loved the changing seasons—loved living in a city with proper seasons. Leaves and insects flourishing and churning and drying and drying so nature could cleanse in order to demonstrate rebirth. Fall was beginning to drag itself through the city, turning leaves orange and red. I loved autumn as much as I loved the vernal equinox. Spring sprouted summer and autumn hailed winter. In a long while, it’d be Christmas time, my favorite time of the year.

  Sara got me on the guest list of a star-studded gathering in Wellesley. Guests were directed to the garden, where the party was in full swing. Crowds of well-dressed people mingled while sipping champagne, discussing money and each other or whoever happened to be the gossip of the day. A series of white tents had been erected, each of them lit by mercury glass globe string lights, an orchestra sat at one end of t
he backyard, a DJ booth for the after party at the other end.

  While networking, the air felt heavy and humid, the night clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I glad-handed my way through the crowd, every detail threading on my toes. The music seemed doleful, the lights appeared to be covered in patina, swinish guests gave off a malodor of some septic kind, dull voices making my eardrum bleed.

  I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed the entire serving in a single gulp. Bashful as he was, the waiter took my glass and offered me another one. I grumbled with satisfaction. When he skived off, I forced my feet to move, searching for Sara.

  She was the one who found me.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming to this bash. I keep saying hello to people I don’t know,” I began anxiously. “Is it because I’m notorious for being Michael’s childhood friend?”

  “Nothing succeeds like beauty. You can easily be singled out among a crowd.”

  My smile turned into a grimace. We squabbled on and on like a married couple enjoying a restricted tête-à-tête. The variations of canapés weren’t as palatable as I remembered. A few guys solicited me, and I turned all of them down. The next day, I woke up and realized it had been a full month since I saw Alexander last. I shot up in bed so fast it made me dizzy. Bizarre thoughts flitted through my head. Was he still single? I still felt jealous, still felt he was mine. Then again, he was a grand performer and undoubtedly he’d make the new girl unhappy and ditch her coldly, just like he’d never called me.

  My confidence was glitzy, polished to a dazzling sheen. I put on my killer boots, my prettiest fall dress, the most genuine smile I could muster, and together with Sara I went to a famous nightclub at Boylston Place. Two girls alone in a nightclub always seems like whorish, easy prey, that’s how we looked right now and yet I was fine with the invidiousness.

  I marched over to the bar, ordered martinis and tried to gear up for possible encounters. Someone at the bar whistled, two fingers in his mouth, loud and shrill.

  Sipping away at my martini, my neighbor caught me wrong-footed when he said, “I hate doing shots, actually.” His smile was distracted as he waved at the barman. “Two Jameson’s.”

  My determination to open up wavered like a candle flame caught in draft. Small details jarred with the requirements. His hands weren’t right. They looked too delicate and the somewhat ragged cuticles revealed his disguised nervousness, making me wonder what else his handsome physique disguised. Just his hands, that’s all the excuse I needed to hold me off from talking to him.

  “New in town?” He slid a shot glass toward me. “Or just new to this?”

  Not liking the insinuation, especially since I’d been trying so hard to be outgoing, I angrily slammed the whiskey shot down my throat. It burned on its way down and brought tears to my eyes.

  I debated the wisdom of my other observations, again. His shoulders and chest were about right, but the height wasn’t, he looked an inch or two shorter. A man’s weight was something I’d never been good at estimating, but to me, this man was carrying enough muscle to be toned and rippled. Although he was dark haired, his eyes didn’t look dark enough. Between the two physical traits, only the hair color was a deciding factor. Had he been blond he wouldn’t have served my purpose at all. He seemed unattached, at least for the evening. With no woman at his side and no ring on his finger, it was so easy to catch his attention. There was a vaguely predatory look in his eyes, so all in all, not a bad catch. Could mend my soul.

  I couldn’t go through with it. Couldn’t bear his touch for even a second. There was no other man for me.

  “Are you sure?” He glanced at me with disbelief.

  I gave him a sympathetic smile. “I thought I was ready. I guess I’m not.”

  He reached for my bare shoulder and caressed it. “Is there something I can do to make you change your mind?” He drawled this with no little lust.

  “No.” It took me less than a minute to grab my bag and get out of the suite.

  As I stood at the bank of elevators, fighting down my tears and punching uselessly at the call button, I noticed he’d followed me.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked with a gravelly tone. “Was I boorish?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  I shook my head.

  He squinted his thickly lashed blue eyes. “What does that cutesy headshake mean?”

  “I didn’t want it to go down—to happen like this.”

  “The irony isn’t lost on me,” he assured me with a sarcastic smile of his own.

  Nothing could have made me feel worse. Self-disgust bubbled up in my throat. I didn’t say the words, though. The age-old, ephemeral words: it isn’t you, it’s me. I said, “You’re not him.”

  The elevator doors hissed open with a demure chime that sounded impolite and impatient. Considering I’d been waiting patiently enough, the nifty mechanism should allow me the same courtesy. I knew it wouldn’t. I stepped in and closed my eyes until the doors slid closed.

  I gave some driver my address. He eyed me warily before he sped off, skidding every now and then on the falling rain. I tried to fight off Alexander’s memory. Not that it changed anything. A dizzying collage of images kept invading my mind. How good his expert lips had felt on my lips, his hands keeping my thighs manacled on his lap, the petal-soft warmth of his mouth pleasuring me.

  Beyond the cab’s window, I was looking at cars and their number plates, hoping I’d catch one that belonged to him. As always, I found myself tearing up. Being a no-nonsense cabbie, it wasn’t much of a surprise that the driver heartily pretended not to notice I was crying. When he pulled up at the house and gave me the fare, I didn’t hear him and he had to repeat himself a few times.

  Elena Anderson

  The Reality Check

  I was dreaming about my mysterious stranger. Each one of my steps matched his as we swayed, flowed, glided…

  “El, wake up.”

  I groaned and pushed the hands away from me.

  “Time to wake up,” grandpa persisted. “What happened to your alarm?”

  I fluttered my eyes open and peeked up from underneath my eyelashes. “Deactivated.” My head lifted. “Is the house on fire?” He didn’t answer, so my head flopped back onto the pillow. “It’s too early.”

  He tickled my sides. “All these years and you’re still impossible to wake up, kiddo.”

  I pushed myself up to my elbows, the sheets tangling at my dressed waist, and rubbed at my eyes. “I’m not feeling well.”

  He sat down next to me and felt my forehead. “Don’t act puerile, you don’t have a fever.”

  “I feel tired, gramps.” I sounded a little snotty, and acted as though I had bleary vision.

  His gaze sharp, he rubbed my shoulder.

  “I think,” I sniffled, my words slurred and made lazy on purpose, “I think I’m going to take a sick day. Blame it on the fall weather.”

  “Playing hooky?” He gave me a disbelieving stare. “Really? Well, too bad. A shiny new car has been delivered.”

  Instantly I felt good. Good? That’s very incorrect. I was bubbling over with excitement. “I might go in after all.”

  The muscle by his jawline twitched as he cupped my cheek. “Where’d you get the money? Why didn’t you ask me?”

  The depth and timbre of his voice startled me. I swallowed. “I’ve no student loans to pay, and you made sure I never wanted for anything. I managed to save some money…photo shoots I did on the side in California.”

  We were quiet for a while after that. I kept up the mendacity because I didn’t want him to rake me over the coals for giving money to Maria.

  “What kind of photo shoots?”

  I scratched the top of my head with two tips of my fingers. “Face and clothed bust shots for Paco Rabanne ads. They went for the blonde goddess.” I grinned. “Cha-ching, I still got the money.”

  He still looked at m
e oddly, but nodded. “If you need money, ask me, okay?”

  I shrugged in tacit acknowledgement.

  “Why don’t you sign the papers? I’ll go with you to Zürich.”

  “NO.”

  “Should we go to the Governor’s Resort in Turks & Caicos, or Sandy Lane in Barbados for holidays? It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

  “It isn’t! Mount Gay for the win,” I laughed.

  “That’s my girl.” He got up and opened the door to my bedroom, turning back to me before stepping out. “Happy and laughing. That’s my Elena.”

  Removing my nightdress, I got up and ran to the en-suite bathroom, heading for the shower. I didn’t even bother to get out of my underwear as I twisted the handle and leapt under the stream of hot water that exploded from the showerhead. It soaked through my hair and trickled down my back as I thought back to about two weeks ago, when I’d been standing in this bathroom and wished I owned a small car. I took the shampoo off the ledge and dumped a few globs into my hair, creating a big puffy cloud of lather on my head that probably made me look like a female WoW Troll. I rinsed it, forewent conditioner, grabbed a towel from the rack and started drying myself.

  I strode cautiously to the kitchen, pausing for a split second in front of a mirror in the hallway. Entering, I asked, “What are we having?”

  Answered grandpa, “Very unfussy, a cheesy mushroom omelet.” The way he swirled the whisk around in a glass bowl with raw eggs and greens reminded me of a maestro instructing his subjects.

  “Very husbandly, grandma’s favorite,” I acknowledged with a wolfish grin. “What has happened? What did he do, grammy?”