The Party
I cannot recall the first time we met. I don’t remember the place, what he wore, or what we talked about. That entire period is gray and blurry, and only exists in fragments of memory.
His eyes meet mine amidst clinking glasses and voices that don’t appear to be saying anything. My heart skips a beat. I’ve been planning this in the secret folds of my reptilian brain for months. Maybe it wasn’t so secret. I distinctly remember making the decision to throw this party. I’ve dreamed up strategies, ways of manipulating his affections through passing stares and casual flirtations. But none of that has been real. This night is still young.
Was it in the copy room when I first realized it? I remember feeling embarrassed that I looked so haggard. I hid my face behind my hair and did my best to avoid eye contact. Damnit, I thought. Why me?
I feel very mature at this party, full of wine glasses and tumblers of whiskey. This is the first time that I have successfully entertained anyone in my home, and I’m finding myself critiquing everything: paint colors, wall hangings, the placement of this and that.
Yes, I redecorated. No, he does not live here anymore. Yes, this is my dog. No, he is not the same dog you met last year. Yes, she lives with him. Yes, it sucks. Yes, I’m fine. Apparently, I need to have this conversation with every fucking person at this fucking party. I did not realize those wounds could still sting. This was not a part of my plan.
The rest of the evening is measured in quick glances and accidental grazes. Across the bar. Hidden. A seat on the couch. Subtle. Does he even know, or have I been kidding myself all this time?
The couch. I was sitting on this couch the first time he walked into our little apartment, barefoot and shackled. My relationship of three years was slowly collapsing behind my back, yet when he walked inside, I could feel my heart flutter and I knew it was wrong. Introducing one world to another under the guise of a staff outing was strange and uncomfortable, but I welcomed it, oddly. I wanted my partner to see him, to feel infantalized by his chiseled arms, his barrel chest, his distantly warm eyes cautiously observing the world, protective.
The party goes on and his inhibited thoughts come more undone with each sip. I am watching my drinks. I’ve planned this night and I want to remember it. Is this what men feel like all the time? A hunter watching its weakened prey? My prey is not weak, though, and that makes it more thrilling. I watch the way he crosses his arms, scratches his tilted head as he listens to another vague and unimportant conversation. He moves slowly, purposefully, throughout the night.
What are you thinking? I cannot read him as clearly as I usually can for others.When people are unassuming, it is actually quite easy to read their thoughts, their secrets. The language of the body is telling. So and so is sleeping with so and so. This one is insecure about their weight. That one is overcompensating for an unhappy marriage. But when a person so strategically moves through space, guarding themselves within an ironclad vault, I cannot tell for certain whether that laugh means I think that what you just said was funny or I am laughing at you in front of your face.
I often wonder if anyone is reading me. It would be difficult for them to try. I used to be ashamed to admit this, but it turns out that I am an excellent liar. Everyone believes that I was the victim. That my partner sadistically abandoned me out of nowhere, leaving me confused and sad. I don’t lie because I get a kick out of it; it’s just something I do.
The guests slowly begin to trickle out as the evening grows old. Will he join them? I telepathically demand him to stay, and our eyes meet, as if he hears me screaming. He thanks me politely for the drinks. Says he will see me on Monday. Plenty of papers to grade, I’m sure. He shuffles towards the group, leaving me alone, wondering what his next move will be.
I am screaming. I’m sick of this apartment being empty all the time. I’m tired of living with that ghost, with those memories of my love struggling to get out of bed in the morning. I’m tired of it all playing on loop. Holding that skinny, white corpse that doesn’t want to be held. Saving someone that doesn’t want to be saved. Another scream. Another argument. Another sleep without relief. Lather, rinse, repeat.
A set of keys. Does he know what he has just done? It’s really happening. The keys are right in front of him but he does not seem to notice.
I fervently look between him and the keys, him and the keys. Do I say anything? No. He will be back. What if this is an accident? No. This is the move I’ve been waiting for. Check.
The others leave and I slyly take the keys: my bargaining chips. Alone in my living room, I quickly rip off my tights, leaving my bare legs inviting. Tousle the hair. Fix the mascara that has rubbed down my eyes. I check myself in the mirror. A text. Can he come back? I sprint into the bathroom and down a glass of mouthwash. Yes, of course. Just let yourself in. I have to make sure he can’t say no. Spit. I undo one button. Maybe two. Fuck, is this too much? Maybe one. I only have a few seconds left to prepare. A knock on the door. Another skip. Two buttons it is. I run back to the kitchen, keys between my fingers. Show time.
Did he leave his keys here?
I’m in the kitchen, dangling, teasing. I’m flushed from running around like a goddamned idiot. He has to come get them.
He laughs coyly. He’ll play along. I’m suddenly reminded of every attempted and failed conquest. Every moment where the tension got high, almost to a boil, but then fizzled out; watered down with timidity. Perhaps I wasn’t a strong person back then. Perhaps my courage was hiding behind uninspired visions of white picket fences, laundry baskets, soccer balls. A marriage that was never going to happen. I want to get married, but I don’t want to marry you. I usually leave that part out, because I still don’t believe it.
He comes towards me and I pull the keys closer to my chest. Come get them. Laughs again. Quit playing with him. But I’m tired of losing. I’m getting what I want this time.
We shouldn’t do this.
I breathe in deep, ready to take the plunge.
He wouldn’t have come back if he really believed that.
Did I really just say that? I never say things like that. They always appear in my head, buzzing thoughts that quip like gnats, but they never escape. I may have misjudged this entire situation. I am going to look like a complete fool in the parking lot on Monday. Oh god, why did I take this job in the first place? Why did I ever move here? Why did I wear this fucking dress? I regret everything.
A pause. Eyes lock. He is thinking about what to do next. Will he do it? Will he walk away? It’s now or never. We won’t be in this position again. Not like this.
He takes my face in his dark hands.
Flashes of kisses in the rain, kisses in the woods underneath the sun, peeking through leaves like prison bars. Kisses stolen in hallways, stolen at family parties, stolen in driveways in cars driven hours past curfew. Kisses in elementary school jungle gyms, subway cars, the middle of a train in the middle of Grand Central Station in the middle of the night.
I snap back and register what is happening. At first, it is gentle, uncertain, unfamiliar, but sweet. I realize I have him where I want him. I begin to kiss him deeper. He starts to hold me tighter. I can feel his heartbeat quickening. Hands holding. Hands sweating. Hands gripping feverishly for anything, anything connected to him. Every breath is a race back to him. Feet shifting. Feet tapping. Feet tripping over feet on their way to the bedroom, awkwardly, achingly. His hands finger the zipper on my dress. Is this what I want? I tug back on his jeans. Yes.
We’re in the doorway. Beating faster. He’s been waiting for so long without ever admitting it.
I’m against the door frame. My knees are shaking and I need to hold on. I’m anticipating what’s about to happen and I begin to feel a tinge of regret. I’ve been alone for so long now. What if I forget what to do? Is it actually like riding a bicycle?
We stop. The bed is staring at us while we stare at each other. We see one another for what seems like the first time.
The bed. The same bed that I have been sleeping alone in for almost a year. It used to be our bed. I remember feeling so excited the first time he said that. Our bed. Our apartment. Our life. I wanted that to be true for so long that I really believed it. I ignored his pain to ignore some of my own. I’ve held onto this bed for so long, like the memories of our shared life. As I look into this stranger’s eyes, I wonder if I’m making the right decision. Am I really about to invite him in?
But it’s too late. I want it. I need it. This is moving on.
He tries to speak. I tell him to stop and I kiss his neck. Unbutton his shirt. I can feel him getting nervous. I am trying so hard not to ruin this. He is letting me undress him, but still deciding if this is right. My lips move back to his and I meet them with a tender bite.
The gun has gone off. We are no longer strangers.
He tugs off my dress. Caresses my curves against the black lingerie. He’s surprised. Being this close has opened up his mind to me, like a dusty melodrama hidden in the corner of the stacks, found only by those seeking it out. He had certainly thought about this moment, but never knew what to expect. Every time he watched me toast a bagel or make a cup of coffee, he thought about what it would be like to lock the door and rip off my college sweatshirt. He considered what it would be like to have me in the kitchen of the teacher’s lounge, or across the conference table, papers scattered across the floor. I was a constant, fleeting thought in the corners of his black eyes.
Everything has changed.
I feel his breath on my shoulders, my neck. He presses against me and I am moved to the bed.
I wish I could stop time and observe from the other side of the frame. I’m met with flashes of every moment of eye contact between us in the past year. The last time I thought this would happen, we were both drunk on cerveza, musica blaring in our ears. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror that night thinking, “Tonight is the night. Is it?” I returned to the party and saw him talking to a tall special eduation teacher from the other side of the building. I snuck home shortly after without saying goodbye.
I climb onto the bed and look at him standing in front of me, shirt undone and pants unzipped. I reach out to touch the geometric lion on his chest. The lion he would never fully explain, leaving himself unexposed. He runs his fingers through my wild hair. The shirt drops to the floor. His mouth meets mine once more and I pull him towards me. He is on top of me, hands grabbing at my thighs. His black beard scratches my neck, but I don’t care. It reminds me that this is real.
His olive skin is softer than I thought it would be.
His fingers slide down and I am awakened. He rolls onto my side and pulls me back to his chest. He’s kissing my neck. I’m writhing against him.
My turn.
I push him onto his back and scale him.
He’s not ready to give up his power.
He sits up and we are sitting face to face.
A formidable lover’s dare.
For a second, I think I see him smile.
