Cheat
A Short Story
Everything’s fresh again when you tell it to someone new.
He knew what he was doing. He knew it was wrong. He knew that the girl sitting beside him on the bar only meant trouble, only pain — only ends. He knew it all, all the things that would follow, he’s seen enough people fall apart this way. He didn’t know that it would happen to him. He was so good, all until this point. He remained on the stool, wondering what’s keeping him there.
He looks at her warm brown eyes inviting him over. They’re both drunk now, they know they want to do something. They just can’t place it into words.
The glasses clink, the college kids roar, champagne is popped, the whole world is orange fading to black. He sees it all, hears it all, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. There are five missed calls from his girlfriend, four voicemails, he let them all slip. He knows what he’s about to do, he knows it’s all gone to shit.
He leans forward and kisses the girl, she kisses back. Her arms are limp on her side, he takes her, kissing her harder, wrapping his arms around her slim body. He pulls away and they both smile. She extends an arm towards him and he follows.
They get to her apartment in a drunken haze. Up flights of stairs in wonder. Past the door and it’s all a flurry of motions. A storm of hands, lips, limbs, and legs. The rug welcomes him, the frames stare at him, the chairs bare their teeth at him. The next thing he knows she’s straddling him, both of them laid bare against the darkness.
He can only see her silhouette, but he can feel it all. The difference between this girl and the girl he’s loved for years. He can feel her petite legs on his sides, sliding up and down his body. He feels no guilt, only the ecstasy of the moment until the final moments of release. They head to the bedroom, where they go and go until exhaustion takes over.
His head’s throbbing the moment he wakes up. The clock says it’s 3 pm, he knows it can’t be true. He wakes up alone in the bed. The sound of a shower draws him to the bathroom. He turns the knob and she smiles at him, he says he has to go, she says she wants to see him again.
He washes his face and puts on his clothes. His head is throbbing, but he has to go.
He heads home, knowing exactly where he’s headed.
He should be coming back by now.
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle myself on the sofa. Any moment now I should be hearing the rustle of his keys and the door unlocking. He’d probably be some bar downing some beers and calming himself down. I take a sip of the wine and revel in the silence of the apartment, the only thing I could hear was my breathing and the steady tick of the clock in the background. I take a deep breath and light a cigarette, wondering why we fight at all. I was calm now, there was no part of me that wanted to remember the fight two hours ago — all I wanted was for him to come home and hold me and we’ll make everything all right.
I tap the ashes of the cigarette into the ashtray and take out my phone. I shoot him a text asking him to come home. I wasn’t worried; it was only 7 o’clock in the evening — no reason to be worried. I take a drag and take another sip of wine. I settle the cigarette on the ashtray and stretch my legs on the sofa, flipping through my phone and opening some applications to pass the time until he arrives. The silence was comforting, I could be alone with my thoughts and figure out the fight, making sure it would be avoided next time. And why were we fighting? Something about money, I think — we both got carried away, the smashed plates in the kitchen were proof of that. I swept up the plates earlier and there was no proof that there was ever a fight.
I inhale the tobacco from the cigarette and stare at the smoke slowly rise from the stick. Time moved so slowly around here, this part of the city was quiet — part of the reason we moved here in the first place. I looked around the apartment, taking careful notice of the beige walls and the cream tiles. The living room and kitchen divided only by sofas and the marble-top counter that contained the sink, stove and other kitchen supplies. I stare at the blank TV, considering turning it on. The silence comforted me. It was a kind of revelry that only a few people enjoyed.
Where was he?
I shoot him another text letting him know everything was well and he should come back home. I stand up and get myself some dinner in the diner in the apartment lobby. I didn’t eat much. I suppose I couldn’t, we always ate dinner together and my appetite was only aroused with him around. If we felt like it, we would cook. The nights were our sanctuary with each other, after a long day at work we could simply collapse into each other and feel that everything was all right with the world.
I go out into the driveway and light another cigarette, I decide to call him now. The dial tone rang for a minute but there was no answer, it went straight to voice mail. I tell him that I’m sorry and that I miss him and hit send. I finish the cigarette and head back up to the apartment. I flip open a book and read a few chapters, the glass of wine still half-finished on the coffee-table.
I shoot him another text, getting a little irked at him. Maybe he was ticked off more than usual. Five years, I thought, it’s been five years since I agreed to be his girlfriend. Five years and three in this apartment, we saved up for it and furnished it from scratch. This was home after all, it’s the home I’ve known for three years.
The wine’s gone warm on the coffee-table and I snatch it up to finish it on the balcony. I gaze out into the city-lights in the distance, wondering where in hell he could be. Nine o’clock, I was beginning to get worried, he would always text if he was going to go out late or if he was going to be out with friends. I call a few times and nada, no text, no call, no nothing from him. My stomach began to churn.
He wouldn’t, right? I’m just being paranoid. He wouldn’t throw away five years. I love him and he loves me and he’s mine and I’m his completely and we were going to spend the rest of our lives together and have a family and get old together and he would never, he could never, I am his entirely and he’s said that he’s mine entirely too — I’m just being paranoid, that’s all. I take out the bottle of wine to the balcony and decided that I might as well finish it. I need to get rid of this sick feeling in my stomach.
I sit down on the chair outside and settle the bottle, glass, and ashtray on the table by it. I felt the cool breeze of the city on my face. He’s coming home soon. Any time now he’s going to come in through that door smelling of beer and cigarettes but he’s going to hold me and tell me he’s sorry and we’ll kiss and we could finish this bottle of wine together and he’ll say that he loves me and I’ll say it back. I won’t allow myself to succumb to the panic. It will all be all right when he comes back.
Ten o’clock, I’ve finished half a pack of cigarettes and half the bottle of wine — I honestly cannot tell which I’m dizzy from. I’ve began calling him frantically, call after call after call after call and shooting texts as much as I can. My hands are shaking uncontrollably now. There’s nothing but radio silence from him. I ask his friends where he is to no avail. They all thought he was home with me, he hadn’t called either.
The silence is maddening now, the ticking of the clock seemed to be getting slower and slower but I could not bring myself to be distracted. I felt the burning in my stomach and I could not tell if it was the wine or the pitch black anxiety brewing inside of me. Why did we fight? Why did we have to fight? It was so stupid, it was just money, and money was money was money and this was five years and it was my entire fault and no one else. But it’s nothing, it’s probably nothing, his phone died that’s all. He’ll rustle the keys and enter now, we’ll see. We’ve been worrying for nothing.
Eleven and nothing still. The wine was gone and the cigarettes too, I was too dizzy to clean the mess in the balcony. I head to the comfort room and vomit whatever was left of dinner. I settle myself on the couch call a few dozen more times, my hands are shaking too much to text. The ticking of the clock’s too much, the silence is too much, he hasn’t called or texted or anything and there is nothing and I can feel the darkness inside me and over me and envelop me and I can feel myself falling down into a void — an inescapable pitch black oblivion.
He wouldn’t, right?
I felt my composure finally snap and I could feel the world spinning around me. Dear God please no, please please no, please please please please please no. Don’t let him please, please dear God I love him, please don’t let anything happen. I’m just being paranoid, right? Please tell me I’m just being paranoid, that I’m being stupid. Please please please. Dear Lord please, I’ll stop smoking I promise, just don’t let it be true, don’t let it be true, don’t let it be true. Oh dear God, how could You? No. This is my fault, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this is my fault, I shouldn’t have fought, I shouldn’t have shouted. And over what? Money. Fuck money, money can go to hell. Oh dear Lord, kill me if it’s true, five years. Oh my God, five years, I cannot lose him dear God, please don’t let me lose him. Oh dear God I –
I cried for what seemed like hours. I’m just being paranoid, that’s all, just paranoia, just that. I just love him so much and I cannot lose him. He’s smarter than that, he’ll come home soon. I clutch my phone so I wake up when he texts or calls. My eyes feel heavy and the world turns dark and I let myself fall asleep.
I wake up to a hand on my shoulder, gently nudging me to wake up. He’s finally here, I think. I smile at him and ask him where he was. He feels so distant; he doesn’t look me in the eyes. No, I thought, no no no , no please no. No, no no no no no no, please don’t tell me so. No, please no. I could feel my stomach on the floor and I ask him for the truth. He simply looks at me and I know. I know and it’s all over. I collapse on the floor and bury my head in my hands. The tears simply flow. He doesn’t say anything, he just walks on over to the bedroom and begins packing.
It’s over.
He couldn’t stay. Of course, he couldn’t stay; there was nothing left to stay for.
He remembers every excruciating detail of that day. The hangover, the apartment, the stranger smiling at him, the pounding headache, he remembers the ride back home, the confusion of it all. He remembers the struggle of walking up the door and putting in the keys. Opening the door to find his girlfriend on the couch, her phone right clutched in her hand, waiting for the text that never arrived; of course he couldn’t stay, he shattered everything there was to stay for.
He could remember so clearly the sick feeling in his gut, the burning that wasn’t the alcohol. The numbness in his head, the dark cloud impenetrable, the awful haze, and the cotton in his mouth; he only heard his own heavy breathing and the ticking clock against the complete silence of the apartment he had spent the past three years in. He walked over to get water and settled himself over the couch while he closes his eyes feeling the finality of it all. He saw the tear stains on his girlfriend’s cheek, the phone ready to slip from her hands.
He stood up only to wake her. The anger had washed away from her face. He’s home, she thought. It’s all right now, he’s home and there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell him I’m sorry and he’ll say he’s sorry and it will all be fine — like nothing happened; she thought. He saw the relief wash over her face. He couldn’t bear to look at her, he couldn’t bear the shame. He saw her face change from relief, to fear, to anger, to anguish. There was nothing that could be done. He ruined everything; he packed and left that afternoon without saying a word. She was left irretrievably shattered and stared at the floor for what seemed like hours — everything around her was broken, everything inside her was broken.
He felt the sweltering heat of the new city he moved in. He felt the sweat run down his face, the pungent smell of the bay before him. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. He deserves hell, he thought, he deserves more than hell — penance, he just wants penance for everything he had done. He settles his eyes on the distance, on the boats littering the bay, on the horizon. He finishes his cigarette, savoring the taste of tobacco in his throat, feeling the blood and nicotine in his lungs.
He turns around to face the boulevard and he settles upon a figure in the crossing. His heart skips a beat. He could feel his hands shaking with fear, his face suddenly plastered in cold sweat, his entire being faltering. Two months, two months since he left her broken on the floor, two excruciating months for the both of them — pain he deserved, pain she was innocent of. He takes a step forward before the figure turns, revealing a face that isn’t hers.
He had wanted it to be her. He never knew how much he needed to see her again. He wished it was her, but how could it be, he thinks. She won’t want to have anything to do with me ever again, I was cruel, and I deserve hell. I left her broken and alone and I broke every promise I had made in one night. The alcohol was no excuse; he knew exactly what he was heading into. It was all his mistake and he needed to atone for all of it. But why couldn’t it have been her? I could run back, take it all back, everything will be all right again, why couldn’t it have been her? I could call her right now and — he places his phone back in his pocket. There was no point in trying, it was all over and shattered and broken and there was nothing he could do about it.
He begins walking down the boulevard with no destination in mind. Just keep walking, he thinks, maybe someone will mug you, or stab you, or you could keep walking until you pass out from the heat. Walk anyway, walk anywhere, this is your penance. Foolishly hope that there will be forgiveness, he thinks, or else throw yourself into the bay. No, death is no escape, he needs penance. Keep walking, suffer, pay for your sins.
I wonder if all the wine and cigarettes and the alcohol would do anything to me.
It had been two months since all of those things had happened. The wine, the cigarettes, the burning in my stomach, the awful way he had not done anything to fight for me. It was all over so quickly, leaving me in a daze — a broken woman alone in the apartment we once called home. Lord knows how long I sat on that couch and how many bottles of liquor, packets of cigarettes, and instant noodles I had eaten, drank, and smoked.
I knew I had to leave, that place was haunted and there was nothing keeping me there anymore. I packed whatever I could pack in one backpack and left for my parents’ house. It was funny how the entire world could collapse all around you and get up only to realize it was no longer yours and that it could never be yours again. Five years, how could he throw away five years for one night with some stranger he met at the bar?
He threw it all away and how could he throw it all away? He didn’t stay long enough to allow me to say what I wanted to say, he simply got up and left and didn’t let me get a word in. Did I want to stay with him after what he had done? I didn’t know — even now, two months later, I don’t know what I want. It didn’t matter what I wanted, he had made his decision and he made my decision or me. He could go to hell.
But I missed him, I missed him so much. It hurt to see anything that reminded me of him. I didn’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone now, not now, especially not now. I should have been more careful, but I didn’t know it then and how could I have known it? It was too late now and I couldn’t find him anywhere even if I wanted to. Did I want to see him again? Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know. I grab my phone and go through a few apps to distract myself from the things pervading my mind again.
Was I ever going to be alright? No part of me was alright. I felt a deep, dark pit and I could see no light at the end of the tunnel. I felt numb all over and gone — simply gone, my heart was nowhere to be found and my soul felt in tatters. Would I ever be alright? With all this? Probably not.
I sit up from the bed and put on a shirt. I find that it’s already too tight and think that it must be some left over shirt from college. Either that or I had been putting on some weight. I head out of my room and find my father in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled odd. Was it lunch? Breakfast? Just fucking eat, it doesn’t matter.
I set a plate out onto the table and place whatever food I could find on it. I wanted something sour, or salty? I don’t know. Food was food. I sit down and my father asks me when I’m going to start working again after quitting work last month. I told him I didn’t know. He asked what my plans were and my response was the same. He looked at me with eyes a mix of pity and fear. He begins for the living room and stops by the entryway, he stops a moment and tells me that I’ll get back up from this and if he saw the bastard he would beat him within an inch of his life. I simply smile at him and continue on with my meal.
I finish my meal and head out to the front yard to have a quick smoke. I place a stick in my mouth and lift the lighter closer to it. No, I probably shouldn’t. It didn’t matter anymore what I wanted, the world wasn’t mine anymore and it would never be again. I give the stick to my father and head back upstairs into my childhood bedroom. He shouts at me from across the house that maybe I should get out of the house. I stop for a moment and decide that maybe I should.
I take a quick shower and put on some clothes. They don’t feel comfortable and I put on something loose — to hell with weight gain. I step out of the gate and begin braving the sweltering heat of my hometown and begin heading to the jeepney station.
No one could escape the cacophony of the city, the endless honking of the cars, buses, and jeeps in one blaring symphony that knew no hour. The humidity was invasive as well, the sweat, the dirt, it all made sure you felt tired and awful when you got home. There was a reason I left this city but I had nowhere else to go. It was maddening to have come so far only to find yourself back where you had begun.
I decide to go by the bay and watch the sunset. Never mind the smell and the deathly grey color it looked. It took me about an hour and a half to get there. I faced the infamous traffic of the city and transferred to the jeep that would take me the closest to the bay.
I step off the jeep a few blocks from the bay and sit myself in a Starbucks right across the bay. I had become dizzy from the ride and needed somewhere to settle myself down. I look out into the boulevard and the bay walk all a stone’s throw from where I’m sitting. A figure emerges from a van and walks out to the edge of the seawall. He stares intently into the distance. I can’t help but think that it’s him.
It can’t be him. It can’t be him. It can’t be him. No no no no no no no, this can’t be. I step out to the street and begin making my way to the figure by the bay. I’m just about to cross when he turns around and he seems to be frozen as well. I’m not wearing my glasses and it’s too far to tell. It can’t be him. It couldn’t possibly be him. The figure reaches into his pocket and takes out something that must be a phone. He shakes his head and begins walking quickly southward. He must have received a text from someone, I thought.
Did I want it to be him? I don’t know, but there are things that he has to know, he has to hear what I have to say. I won’t let him just leave me this time. I want it to be him, can’t it be him? I don’t know if I still love him but all I know is that I need to tell him at least the one thing. The one thing I might have already ruined with all the shit I placed in my body.
The stoplight glows green and I begin to cross. The figure grows ever smaller, walking briskly down south. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I’m too tired to run now, I’m dizzy, and I feel awful. But if that is you, and I hope that it isn’t and it’s maddening to think that we were so close and in the same city and neither of us knew. If that is you over there walking down south, I just need you to know something.
It’s yours.
