ROBERT
I’m shaking and my heart is hammering against my ribs as I stagger into the bathroom. I go to take a shower, not because I feel dirty but because I need to get my head together. I like the feeling of Analie’s sweat on my skin and her scent on me. As I wash, my hands itch to touch her again. But the sex was too intense. The most intense I’ve ever had and I have no idea how we managed to go from having a conversation over hot chocolate to that.
I hold my face in my hands and breathed deep as the water cascades over my naked body. I feel woozy and so empty as though the intensity of our connection has ripped me open.
When Analie came against my tongue I burned to get inside her but I knew, if I looked into her eyes while we were fucking I would have lost the desperate grip I had on my emotions. I’d have lost my control on the creeping, dark self-loathing I’d been pushing down inside for so long. Being with Analie felt so right but that’s what made it so wrong. How was it okay for me to ‘feel’ when Bethany was never going to be anything more than a memory.
I don’t deserve satisfaction.
I don’t deserve anything, not after what I did.
After ten minutes of trying to regain my composure, I emerge into the bedroom wearing just a towel around my hips, expecting to find Analie dosing. We need to talk about what happened between us, but there’s no way I want to open up to her about the things she seemed intent on digging up.
The only person I ever talk about Bethany to is my brother and that’s only because he was the one who picked me up and helped me back onto my feet. He saw me through the worst time of my life and I saw him through the worst of his. Brothers can be close, but I know that it’s only shared experiences that create true empathy between people. We might have our rows and silly little incidents where we found ways to prod at each other’s tender spots, but that’s what sibling relationships are like. In my heart, I know my brother has my back. It’s why he came to New York for the weekend.
In the bedroom, the covers are wrinkled and the pillows strewn around, but I know immediately that Analie isn’t there. I stroll out to the kitchen, expecting to find her dressed and back at the counter. I get the feeling that she needs to be ‘put together’ to feel right in her own skin. What we just did unraveled us both.
I glance around but she isn’t here.
I call out her name, thinking that maybe she’s gone to use a bathroom in another part of the apartment, but only silence meets my shout. I walk from room to room, double checking to prove what I already know in my gut.
She’s gone.
Analie waited for me to lock the bathroom door and then she took off.
I grab my phone and dial her number, now fearful that she might be risking her safety to flee from me without so much as a goodbye. I know the sex was intense; way too intense for two people who know each other so little.
I know why I needed space after.
But why has she left?
The phone rings and rings, then clicks into voicemail. Her recorded message is brief but she sounds so happy as she tells me she’s unavailable and that I should leave my name and number. The first time I call, I contemplate asking her where she is and why she left, but I don’t. The second time she doesn’t pick up, I hang up and swear. Analie can’t have gotten far. Why isn’t she picking up?
I ring three more times, each time catching just the first two words of her message before clicking off. By the final attempt, I’m sitting slumped on my couch, staring at the floor. My skin has goosebumps from where I’m still damp from the shower. My heart is heavy, weighted down by guilt and confusion.
I know she enjoyed the sex. The way she came when I was inside her was so fierce and her moans were so frantic they’d driven me over into oblivion myself. Maybe it was too much under the circumstances. She was upset about Summer and I brought her back here to take care of her. Instead, I prodded at her emotions and then took her to the edge physically.
It wasn’t my plan but that doesn’t make it okay.
I should have known better. I should have acted more responsibly.
I can’t put my finger on what it is, but there’s something about Analie that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s her intelligence and her quick-witted comments; I’ve always been drawn to women who have some sharp edges. She’s beautiful, of course, despite her physical scars. Or maybe it’s because of them. It’s hard to imagine her without them, they are so much a part of her. Maybe it’s the way she seems intent against accepting my attempts at keeping her at arms-length. As much as I hate the way she looks at me as though I’m a patient she wants to fix, there’s another part of me who’s grateful for her care.
I don’t know what to do. I feel worn out and exhausted. I need sleep, but how can I rest without knowing Analie is safe? The trouble is, apart from her phone number, the only other thing I know about Analie is where she works. I have no way to of confirming that she made it home safely until the morning, and I know that worrying about her is going to keep me from sleeping.
I know a lot about sleeplessness.
I know a lot about the restless, horrible hours where an exhausted mind conjures greater horrors than really exist, even when the place you are in during waking hours seems like the depths of hell.
After what happened to Bethany, I struggled to find anything productive that I could concentrate on for any period of time. I flitted between activities, never taking on anything very seriously. The counselling my parents had insisted on had been a waste of time except for two pieces of advice. The first was to work with a charity as a way of giving back and feeling useful. Working with the burns charity is the best thing I ever did. The second was to write things down.
I’m not sure that what I ended up writing is what the therapist had in mind. If she thought, I was going to pour my heart into a diary, she was sorely mistaken. I needed distraction not another place to dwell in my torment. Fantasy novels are where I found my niche, or at least writing them has been cathartic enough to take the edge off my misery. When my mind is lost in the past, I use writing to bring be back to the present and with sleep an unlikely prospect, I go to my room to drag on some sweats. When I’m dressed, I make my way to the office that houses my computer and extensive collection of well-thumbed books.
As soon as I start typing the time seems to pass quickly. At about 3am I finally feel exhausted enough to stop. There’s a small day bed in my office and I lay down there, clutching my phone, thinking about Analie until sleep steals me away.