Reacquainted

A month ago we broke up. Two weeks ago I ended our weird post-relationship relationship. An hour ago I texted her. Now I’m on my way down to her place.

I’m no longer fuelled by the bottle of wine that instructed my actions an hour ago. Instead, I’m running on adrenaline as I reach her house. There’s no doorbell so I text her to let her know I’m outside.

When she answers the door I’m stunned. She’s gorgeous. Her hair’s done up in a loose ponytail I adore. She’s wearing a formfitting grey dress that’s tied closed in the front. Her dress is short enough to show off the lace bands of the thigh high stockings she has on. I take a moment to collect myself before I can actually say hi.

We head to her room. I sit on her bed as I did last time, my back against the wall and my knees up to my chest. She lies down across from me. It’s strange having her sprawled before me like this; I’m one defunct and dissolved relationship away from this figure I know so well. I force myself to keep my eyes on hers.

I ask her if she’s had dinner yet. She says no, so I suggest we go out and grab something. Though she agrees, we make no effort to move. We catch up for a bit. I tell her things have been going alright at my new job. She tells me she’s been fired from her own job for a dumb joke that, even though her coworkers made similar jokes, she was singled out for it. I offer my sympathies, but she tells me she’s doing okay. I believe her, too. For the first time in a long time she seems full of life, vivid and lucid. I briefly forget about the shitty breakup we just went through and lie down beside her.

She gets up almost immediately. I stay on my back and internally chastise myself.

“I, uh, guess we should head out and get you some food now,” I stammer, embarrassed.

“Yeah, probably,” she says. She’s standing idly at the side of her bed now, looking over me. “I’m not really dressed for it, though.” In that grey dress she’d be crippled by the chill of the slightest breeze in this autumn weather. “I’d need to get ready.”

“Then I also guess I should leave your room and let you get changed.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she says in a low voice.

I sit up.

“I don’t want to leave, either,” I say.

I move to the edge of the bed. She unties the front of her dress and I finally allow myself to recognize that it’s not a dress but actually a small, sleek bathrobe. She put it on for the ease with which she can remove it now.

We’re both spent. She’s on top of me.

“So,” she says, catching her breath and sitting up, “would that be the third time we’ve gotten back together, or are we continuing from the last time?”

She’s in the process of moving off of me, slowly, still basking in the afterglow. As she moves and speaks she flashes me a grin. At first I return the expression, but I remember where I last saw it. It was in this room, in this bed, on her face as she told me we’re broken up until she changes her mind. It was my choice to come here, and this is what I wanted, so I can’t be mad. But, we need boundaries.

“Er,” I start, “let’s not put a label on this. I don’t know what this is yet.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her cocky grin softens to an optimistic smile. She goes to clean up, and we go out to eat.

I don’t go home after dinner. Instead, I accompany her back to her room. I sit on the edge of her bed as she lies down beside me, back to wearing nothing but the thigh high stockings. I ask where she was hiding those when we dated. She confesses that the “errand” she had to run earlier was to actually go out and buy them. She was banking on this happening.

She tells me she knows that she wants me, that she always goes back to wanting me, and that she wants us to be together again.

“I want you too — obviously — but no,” I say, bluntly. “We’re not a good couple. We can be anything but a couple.” She looks crossed. She contemplates my answer and the directness with which I gave it.

“Take off your clothes,” she demands. I give her a bewildered look. I briefly wonder if she intends to snap a picture of me to use as blackmail, or something. I refuse. She gets upset. I demand in turn to know why. She refuses to answer and repeats her demand, but I don’t comply.

“I can’t not have you in my life,” she finally says. In her voice I hear genuine fear, a fear I recognize as my own. She was a different person these last few months. Now, finally, I’m with the person that I thought I had lost.

“I need you in my life, too,” I reply. The admission of impasse hangs in the air for a bit.

“Take off your clothes,” she repeats, in a softer voice, “and stay.”

This time I oblige, and hold her for the night. We sleep together, not as a couple, but as something we’re in no hurry to figure out.

Way It Was is a writing project and ongoing attempt to work through a lot of relationship related shit. Find out more about it here.