Emma
“I can’t fucking stand that sound. Do you really have to make so much noise when you laugh?”
The memory of Bastain’s voice rings loud in my head, like an album stuck on repeat. When I need a break from it all, when I just can’t pretend anymore, an oversize tub and bubbles are my therapy. Sometimes I light candles and pour a glass of wine while I just sit. Finding solace in the darkness. It’s quiet here. The water is my fortress. I sink down into its depths, letting it wrap me in the security of its warmth.
“You’re overreacting. You sound like a crazy person right now.”
The scent of sweet cashmere washes away the worries of the day and drowns out the static in my head. Voices that try to convince me I’m worthless, crazy… lost. The little girl that used to dance around her room using a baton as a microphone as she pretended to be Madonna disappeared a long time ago. The confident young woman that graduated summa cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in business hides behind baggy sweatshirts and messy buns. And all that’s left of the energetic girlfriend that used to find joy in making beauty out of everyday yardwork and laughing at her own jokes is a perfectly fabricated smile that lets the world know everything is okay. Even when it isn’t.
“Why did the whale cross the ocean?”
It was a simple joke. Meant to make my boyfriend smile after a long day. He looked across the dinner table, over the top of his still full plate of chicken parmesan, and his eyes met mine. Lifeless and dull. He wasn’t amused. All I wanted was to make him smile.
“To get to the other tide.”
The words had barely left my lips when I started laughing. Childlike and uncontrollable. Maybe it was the tension rolling off his shoulders, or maybe it was the fact that Bastain hadn’t spoken three words to me since he walked through the door. But I needed to laugh. I needed to escape the negativity, if just for a second. I laughed so hard my sides started to burn and my eyes started to water. I had to set my fork down on the freshly polished surface of the solid wood dining table to keep from hurting myself. The laughter spilled from my mouth without hesitation and then it happened. I snorted. The moment I did it I knew it was a mistake. His blue eyes narrowed and he glared at me.
“I can’t fucking stand that sound,” he said.
The laughter turned to tears as he slammed his silverware down, nearly cracking the ceramic plate. I didn’t mean to cry. It just… came out. Like my body was mourning its ability to laugh. That’s when he told me I was overreacting, acting crazy, that he didn’t mean it the way I was making it seem.
That conversation took place two years ago. I haven’t laughed since. Not out loud anyway. Not like that. So, on days when the silence is deafening, I come here. To my bubble-filled haven. And I tune it all out. I search for the woman I used to be, wondering if she’s still in there somewhere or if she got trapped in the quicksand. I wonder if she fought for so long to get out that it finally just consumed her. And now there’s nothing left. Just the quicksand.
Alex
Chase, one of the senior associates in my law firm, peeps his head through the crack in the door of my office. A slight tug at my ear buds and the Spanish speaking voice on my Rosetta Stone fades into the distance. “Hey man, you’re coming to Devon’s bachelor party this weekend, right?”
Fuck. The bachelor party. Somewhere between going over the latest deal prospectus and creating a routine for my new self-defense class, I forgot all about this weekend. However, blonde haired, blue-eyed, bulkier than the average man, Chase, is not one to let it slip through the cracks. I can think of a million other things I’d rather do, such as finally unpacking the stack of boxes that have been piled in one corner of my living room since I moved here over a year ago. Or firing up the oven for the first time ever, breaking the take-out routine. Knowing Chase, he’d show up at my flat with a full crew and a couple of strippers if I said no.
“I’ll be there,” I agree.
He grins and taps his palm against the steel door frame in appreciation then disappears just as quickly as he came. At 29 years old, he’s five years my junior and way more excited about pussy than I am. Not that I haven’t had my opportunities over the past year, but I choose to stick with a glass of Macallan, a bottle of lotion and Tumblr for now.
“Una mujer,” I say to the screen of my Macbook as I look on at the image of a pretty blonde in a blue turtleneck. The “woman” reminds me of Heidi. Hell, everything reminds me of Heidi. The 863 miles I put between our bodies doesn’t make a bit of difference if I can’t get her out of my head. I wonder what the Spanish phrase for “My girlfriend left me for my best friend” is. Okay so, technically she wasn’t my girlfriend. We were just two adults who did great things together naked. And technically she didn’t leave me. I let her go, let the best man win, so to speak.
It was a simple case of miscommunication at its finest. If he had known the woman I was fucking was the same woman he was falling in love with, our story would have had a much different ending. Unfortunately, sexcapades and relationship advice weren’t something we talked about on a regular basis. I knew he met a woman, and he knew I was fucking one. That’s about as far as it went. Until the day I walked in his office and found her there- bottom propped against his desk with his hand running up her thigh. Things pretty much went downhill from there. Now here I am, starting over- avoiding sex, women, and anything related to feelings like they were the plague. The laptop clicks as I pull the screen down and look around my office then out of the set of floor-to-ceiling windows -anywhere but at the blonde on my computer monitor.
I suppose in some ways the Miami skyline is a lot like New Orleans. It comes alive at night, bouncing reflections of a kaleidoscope of colors off the bay. The water and the black and white framed photographs that hang on the walls of my office are the only things that make me feel like I’m not so far from home. In a moment of nostalgia, I run my finger across the images of Bourbon Street, then the St. Louis Cathedral, and the Superdome before stepping out of my office and into the lobby.
I occupy the corner office on the fifteenth floor of the tallest building in Miami’s “Wall Street,” otherwise known as Brickell. Every once in a while, guys like Chase will poke their heads in my door for a “hello,” but for the most part it stays pretty quiet up here. I like it that way. It helps me get more work done. But right now, I can’t focus on work. Right now, I need to get out of here. I need to get out of my head, and there’s only one place I know I can do that.
Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes. I don’t bother to wipe it away. I just keep pounding the bag in front of me. My hair is soaking wet and I have been feeling the aching burn in my biceps for the last half hour. Adrenaline keeps me going. It courses through my veins like a raging river, pushing me, driving me.
This is my haven. This is my escape. In here, I am free. Nothing exists outside of me and the 100-pound Everlast punching bag. Here, I don’t have to run. I keep my feet firmly planted as I land blow after blow, releasing all the day’s frustrations. Every time my fist makes contact, a piece of me goes with it, pieces I’ve been running from for over a year.
Classes haven’t started yet so, I blast the music on the overhead as loud as I can to drown out the voices. The voice of my father telling me I let him down. The voice of Heidi telling me I wasn’t worthy of her heart. The voice of society telling me I need to get back out there and try again. Fuck trying.
Every morning I wake up, get dressed, straighten my tie, and present myself to the world. To them, I’m the man with the perfect job and a great flat in an upscale neighborhood. I’m the strong, silent guy who teaches kickboxing classes at a gym in that same neighborhood. To the world, I have my shit together. On the inside, I’m falling apart.