Erica
That night, Dominic and I had sex three more times. By the final act, my hips, thighs, and jaw were so sore that I pleaded for him to finish quickly. He seemed to like that, and, soon afterward, we were panting and gasping once again in each other’s arms, lying naked on the bed. I fell into a deep and pleasant doze, enjoying the manly scent of him and the feeling of fullness in my pussy.
At about four a.m., I was dimly aware of him rising from the bed and making his way to the bathroom. I didn’t blame him. After the night’s festivities, we both really needed a shower.
Next thing I knew, I woke up at eight a.m., and the bed next to me was cold.
“Dominic?” I asked hesitantly, wincing as the pain in my hip and ankle flared when I stepped out of bed. I checked the bathroom first, but found it empty, and the water in the drain cold. The towels we had used and tossed aside the night before were now hung neatly across the bar.
“Dominic?” I said again, more urgently this time. I went to the living room, hoping, perhaps, to see him sprawled across the couch, or wrestling himself into his jacket. I even (though I felt silly for even thinking it) dared to imagine the smell of eggs and bacon frying in the kitchen, a good morning “thank you” for everything that I had for him (and let him do to me) last night.
Nothing. The door was closed. No note, no goodbye, nothing.
“Of course, Erica,” I scolded myself aloud. What did I care that I was talking to myself? It’s not like anyone was around to hear me. “This is how these things work. They fuck you, and then they leave. You knew that.” Suddenly, without meaning to, I felt tears spring to my eyes. My ankle ached. My hip scalded. My pussy and breasts were sore. Every part of me seemed as if it was in pain. Clumsily, I slid to the floor, covering my eyes with my hands.
“Oh, Erica, you’re so stupid,” I sobbed, shivering naked in the early morning light. “Why on earth would a guy like that be interested in anything you have to offer except sex? Ha! You were lucky even for that!”
I could imagine him now, returning to his biker’s gang to report his latest conquest. “He’s probably even getting my name wrong. Calling me ‘Stella’ or something.” And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst thing, by far, was the feeling of loneliness I had upon awakening in an empty bed.
“You were so close, Erica,” I whimpered. “So close. The husband. The job. The white-picket fence. Everything I ever wanted….”
“At least,” I realized, “everything I’d ever been told to want.”
That thought made me pause. I remembered being five years old, and dressing up as a bride for the amusement of my parents. In the weeks leading up to prom, my mother told me that handsomeness and charm would end up being a good indication of the man I would one day marry. “If you go with a loser, Erica-Bella,” she’d said. “You’ll end up marrying one, too. And God forbid you not find a date at all!”
In the end, my prom date had been sweet and charming and a joy for my mother to behold. They, at least, did not have to see him puking behind to gymnasium after one too many swigs of Jack Daniels.
I remembered Brian. He, too, had been the epitome of my parent’s wants. I had never found him exhilarating, of course, but he was a safe, sensible choice. He would make sure I got my house, and my clothes, and my children.
Out of spite, I imagined Dominic being a father. “Ha,” I thought. “The kid would probably be dead by six months.” This disdainful laughter hurt the bruise on my hip, and I grimaced.
Still, as angry as I was at Brian, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how right my parents and my friends were. In the five years I had been with Brian, the most dangerous thing we had experienced together was buying marijuana from some college kid at a concert we’d gone to, and smoking it giddily in the fields. For weeks afterward, that memory had filled me with rebellious euphoria. It was my pride and joy––an exciting thing for me and Brian.
Now, after the night I’d just had, this adventure suddenly seemed laughable. But wasn’t that the point? Brian had hurt me, of course. He’d fucked up big time. But in all the time we’d spent together, wasn’t only having one fuck up a good thing? Exceptional, even? Wasn’t he perfect, in every other way?
As I thought this, I dried the tears from my eyes, rose to my feet, and stiffly marched my way back to my bedroom, where my cell phone was waiting on the nightstand. Absent-mindedly, almost without any conscious thought, I clicked it on, and scrolled down to Brian’s number.
“You should call him,” I told myself. “Think of how shitty you feel now. You’re going to feel this shitty every day for the rest of your life if you don’t get back with him.”
I imagined it: waking up in a cold and lonely bed, perhaps winning an hour or two of fucking amid endless solitude, until at last I became an old spinster, dried-up up-top and dried-up below. That’s what Brian was, really: a safety, a vaccination against a life of loneliness.
My finger hovered over the call button, about to descend, and…
“Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!”
It suddenly burst to life in my hand, vibrating violently as it received a call. I did not stop to think. Instead, I pressed to answer and swept it to my ear.
“Dominic?” I spurted stupidly.
“Dominic?” The loud, ugly voice growled back at me. “What, are you drunk again, Erica my sweet?”
I scowled, and held the phone as far away from my ear as the volume would allow. It was Mr. Blade, my boss.
“No, sir,” I responded wearily. I had in fact never been drunk at work, despite his numerous offers to pour whiskey into my coffee. I made very sure not to leave my drinks open around him. The incident he was specifically referring to occurred at the end of a seventy-hour work week, when I had been too tired even to string my words together.
“Well, if you’re not drunk,” he continued, “where the bloody hell are you? It’s almost ten, you lazy cow!”
I winced, hating when he called me ‘cow’. It made me think of an open-mouthed, stupid creature, staring blankly at the wall. Which is how I spent most of my time at work, actually—it was that or erupt at him in anger, –which I was never brave enough to do.
Lazy cow. I guess I deserved it.
“No, it isn’t,” I said, “It’s…” I glanced at my watch and was stunned to see that he was correct. “Sorry, sir! Sorry!” I cried, dashing frantically to my wardrobe to fling together an outfit. “I’ll be there soon!” Click. I hung up before he had time to respond, to question me about where I was last night to make myself so late. After finding an acceptable outfit, I ran a comb through my hair––wrinkling my nose when I realized I would not have time to shower. My colleagues were just going to have to live with dirty Erica for a day.
My outfit assembled, I wrestled on a pair of pumps and rushed to the door, grabbing a granola bar for breakfast as I went. It was not until later––after I had started my car and pulled out of the driveway––that I realized how strange it was that I was not hungrier. One would think, after all the activity of last night, I would be starving––but no. I was full.
I guess that’s what great sex does to you.
As I accelerated down the road, speeding to work as quickly as I could, I realized that however much I wanted to bash Dominic for being who he was, great sex is exactly what I experienced last night. I remembered what he had asked me when we’d finished: “Was it worth it?”
I let my mind flow over my body. My sore breasts and pussy. My bruised ankles and hips. My messy hair, which I knew would draw looks from my coworkers. And yet, I realized: Yes. Definitely worth it –
“Ahhh!” I slammed on my breaks, narrowly avoiding running a red light. A group of bikers, clad entirely in leather and black helmets, rode by on the perpendicular road. I wondered if they were part of the group that shot at us last night––the Crooked Jaws or something. I hoped not. Instead, I wished them to be Dominic’s group, and that Dominic was among them. It would be impossible to tell, for they were going too fast and most of their faces were hidden, but I thought that I could still recognize him if given the chance.
Though I did not want to, I was still thinking about him. I wondered, half-ashamedly, if he was still thinking about me.