Mackenzie

Haley kept the conversation general and mundane on the way home. It was like she understood something was amiss and it wasn’t her place to ask. Which was a good thing because I wasn’t even sure what had transpired.

The man I had lunch with was not the man I had been sharing a house with the past week. The man I had been spending time with was attentive, passionate.

What took place in Richard’s office I could only describe as cold.

He used a condom. It was the first time we had made love with a condom. The feeling was foreign and again I could only describe it as cold, impersonal.

In the moment he removed it and discarded it in the trash, that was how I had felt, discarded.

The logical part of my brain deduced it was most likely necessary. After all, it wasn’t like Richard could take a shower afterwards, and he still had to finish off his day.

My intentions were to go to his office and have sex. That was what we did. We had sex in Richard’s office.

The first time we slept together was just sex. It was about satisfying a longing, a need I was not aware I desired. It may have been just sex, but somehow it did not have the same feeling I had today. The first time was on the island, after I saved Richard from the storm. When he was out sailing in his boat.

In Rick’s boat.

Was the man I had been spending my time with Rick and the cold impersonal man I had sex with today Richard? Rick was known to be a passionate, experienced lover and that was what I had enjoyed since my arrival.

Was I living with Rick, not Richard?

He told me they were the same person. It wasn’t like he had a split personality. It weighed on my mind that maybe that was why I was having a hard time reconciling having sex in Richard’s office.

Was that why I felt exposed, like I was just a visitor?

I was in love with Rick. I was visiting Richard and not all that sure I liked that man. The man I visited in that office, in that building. The man that before I arrived, lived in a beautiful house on the outside, however had no warmth or color on the inside.

Like his house, Richard was beautiful on the outside.

Did he have warmth on the inside?

I went to the kitchen, hoping my appetite would return if I attempted to make something. Opening the fridge, I saw the beers Rick enjoyed when we sat and watched movies together.

At the end of a long day, Richard would reach for his Scotch. What was so special about that Scotch, I wondered? I headed to the bar and grabbed the decanter. Swishing it around a few minutes, I poured myself a mouthful.

I didn’t mind the flavor, it wasn’t unpleasant. It didn’t give me the answer I was seeking. What was so special about Richard’s Scotch?

Scotch neat, he called it. I poured myself half a glass and sipped on it slowly. That was how he enjoyed it. He sipped it slowly.

I was still not appreciating the appeal. During my experiment in trying to get into Richard’s head, I noticed a box in the corner. A box I had brought with me and put to the side and forgot.

I took the box to the living room and proceeded to empty the contents onto the coffee table. It was the papers I meant to look over. The papers Richard was going to have his business partner look at before I approached the charter company about a joint venture.

A venture that would have me living on the island permanently if all went my way. If that was still what I wanted to do.

Before I realized how much time had passed, I had indulged in too much Scotch. Staring at the papers before me, I began to feel nostalgic. I was remembering how it was being married to Michael.

The gentle loving husband who never made me feel discarded.

He never gave me the raw carnal passion Richard had, either. Or was that Rick?

Alcohol on an empty stomach was not a good idea. I was feeling woozy, lightheaded and homesick.

I headed upstairs to sleep it off. I would take care of the box in the morning. It might do Richard some good to have his perfectly organized house in dishevel for a change.

I came out of the shower and wrapped the plush terry robe around me. It reminded me of the soft cotton nightgown I owned. I hadn’t had the occasion to wear it since my arrival.

I had been sleeping in the nude. A convenience given how often myself or Richard would initiate love making anytime the urge aroused us during the night.

Tonight he was working late and I was tipsy. There would be no love making tonight. He would not be here to comfort me.

My mood had turned melancholy. I wanted him to make love to me. I wanted him to erase the memory of the cold impersonal sex we had earlier.

He was the reason for my discomfort but my body was betraying me. Wanting only his touch, his arms holding me. I wanted his voice whispering in my ear. Calling me baby in his sickly sweet tone.

I entered the walk in closet and sat in the big armchair in the corner. I needed a minute to recover from the dizziness. What was I thinking, drinking all that Scotch?

I let the bathrobe fall from my shoulders and hit the floor. I reached for it and put it on the hook behind the door to dry. The realization that I was still sober enough to not want to leave the wet robe on the floor made me smile.

I slid open a drawer and unfolded my white eyelet cotton nightgown. It was purchased at a fair and was hand made by a local seamstress. The fabric was a brushed cotton that only felt softer over time. It never lost its white sheen the way white often did.

It was supposed to hang below the knee. My height had it landing a couple inches above. I like the shortness of it. It prevented me from becoming tangled in it during the night.

Something registered in the corner of my eye. My father’s hunting jacket. The one I gave Richard when he left the island with the Coast Guard.

He kept it. It still smelled of him. I put it on and remembering how many times I had used it over the years.

I really should not have drank all that Scotch.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I curled up in the arm chair. I needed just a few minutes to refocus, then I would return the hunting jacket to its hanger and head to bed to sleep off the effects of the alcohol.

I hoped I wouldn’t pay for it in the morning in the form of a hangover.

I had the sense I was floating. Not floating, being carried. Big strong arms were cradling me. I felt the feeling of being laid down onto something soft. A bed, a soft warm comfortable bed.

Then a voice, the one I had been waiting for.

“Let me help you take off the jacket, baby. You’ll sleep better without it.”

Baby, he called me baby. It made me smile. Was I dreaming or was he helping me into bed?

“Drink this, it will help with the hangover tomorrow.”

Water, he had brought me a bottle of water. It was a good idea to get some down. I was still feeling tipsy but was aware of what was happening around me. He was taking care of me. I took the water, it was cold and refreshing. When I was done, he helped me under the covers.

His lips brushed on my forehead.

I raised my hands and wrapped them around his neck. I brought him to my mouth. I wanted him to make love to me.

I didn’t have the strength to prevent him from removing my arms and placing them at my side, tucking them under the covers.

Of course he did not want to make love to me. I was drunk and barely capable of staying awake.

I relished in the warmth of his body against mine. My soul, however, was feeling cold and empty from the memory of what happened in his office.

Was this the beginning of the end of a bond I thought we had?

Would anything remove that lonely feeling of being discarded?