Amidst the junk mail and the supply catalogs, the standards of office mail, her name appears in crisp, black capital letters. His crisp, black capital letters. She can tell, even with the absence of any return address, by the angled lines of the A and the curve of the B. The letters seem urgent and forceful, calling her attention to the off white envelope, announcing themselves as here and important. She slips her finger underneath the flap on the back.
A single sheet of paper folded neatly three times, hard creases as if he ran over them with his thumbnail two times, three times, a fourth for good measure. There are just a few words scrawled onto the page: the address of some café not in Scranton and not in Stamford, a date (next Wednesday), a time (6:30, enough time to drive there after work), and then simple the word, ‘Closure?’ The question mark intends to be merely an invitation, a request, but it makes her consider the other possibilities, the other reasons.
She refolds the piece of paper, her fingers lingering as she thinks about the sound of his pen scratching against the surface, his hands as he folded it, his heart as he tossed it into the mailbox.
She slides the paper back into the envelope and places it carefully at the bottom of her purse. She glances around the office as if someone might notice or care. But their bored faces are all tilted down to their desks and the moment goes unnoticed.
She begins to feel that electric surge of having a secret. It courses through her limbs and her spine, makes her skin come alive. She twists the gold band on her finger around and around. She waits to feel regret or guilt or something else besides this buzzing excitement.
***
That following Wednesday, the thunder rolls heavy outside the building. The dark clouds push in and down comes that heavy July rain. She stands outside the door to the office to watch the storm through the window there. She pulls at her necklace and feels her knees start to shake a little. Anticipation and nerves start to fill her with every hour that passes. She feels heavy like those rain clouds.
She watches drops of rain rolling slowly down the surface of the window. They make her think of his jaw, his fingers, his arms. The easy grace of those lines, how they were always rolling towards her until they were rolling away from her. She presses her fingertips to the glass, feels the cool warmth of the summer storm and thinks about his chest, his presence, that love of his she felt only in those fleeting instances.
Lightning flashes and there’s a hand on her shoulder. She jumps in her skin a little, not from the contact or the lightning, but from the violence of being torn so suddenly from the memory of him.
“Sorry,” Phyllis says, taking her hand away. “You’ve just been standing there a while and-”
“It’s fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and smiling a little.
She sits back down at her desk and waits for the next two hours to pass.
***
She’s going to be late. Traffic slows almost to a complete stop in the downpour. She sits still in her car for nearly twenty minutes listening to the rain beat down hard on the roof. She feels it pounding in her bones, in her veins, making her restless as she’s one again swept up by the thought of him.
She tries to imagine his face, but somehow she can’t. Two short months have passed since he left and yet it feels like it’s been years. She can remember the features, but she can’t seem to put them all together in her mind. He exists for a moment as just his eyes, heavy eyelids shading the green. Then he’s just his mouth, those eager lips.
The traffic starts to move again.
***
She pulls into the café parking lot at quarter to seven. Her hair has sprung into tight corkscrews thanks to the rain. She runs her hands over it, but it springs back almost immediately.
She’s shaking as she pushes the door open. The bell on it rings too loudly and she stops in the entrance, suddenly terrified. She looks around the café for him, wiping the rainwater from her forehead and her neck, pushing a stray piece of wet hair out of her face. The place is nearly empty save a few scattered patrons. She thinks for a second that he decided not to come or that she has the wrong address or that she’s too late and he didn’t want to wait for her. It’s the last one that scares her the most.
She’s sure she looks frantic there in the middle of the entryway. With her knees shaking and her hair springing out of place and her eyes moving all over the room, near panic and suddenly on the verge of tears.
Then she sees him, her frenzied eyes finally coming to rest on a familiar set of shoulders, and she stops moving altogether, nearly stops breathing.
He’s in a booth in a corner by a window. There’s a cup of coffee in front of him, untouched, and he’s staring out the window with his chin resting in one hand, the fingers of the other running along the rim of his mug.
Her legs are suddenly weights she can’t lift on her own and she stands in the entryway of the café, still and watching him with his head turned away from her. She thinks about escaping before he notices her, going back to her husband, her home, those familiar things.
He used to be familiar. There used to be comfort in the slow tilt of his smile. Now he seems strange to her, makes her stomach turn around inside of her, scares her even. Still, when his eyes turn to find her there on the other side of the café, she feels the weight being lifted from her. She feels herself being drawn to him like she’s been before, like she’s always been.
He smiles slow, tentative. It pulls her in.
***
“Hi,” she says as she sits down slowly, sliding herself into the booth across from him.
He places his palms on the table. His fingers curl the top corner of his placement as he tries to smile. She’s relieved to see a similar nervousness in him.
“Hey,” he finally says. “I was beginning to think you, uh, weren’t going to show up.”
“Oh, no!” She interjects too quickly, her voice too loud. “I was just- With the rain, traffic was-”
“Oh. Yeah. Right, of course.”
She was under the silly impression that maybe once they were sitting across from one another things would be easy again. They aren’t and her skin feels too tight and her bones ache and she feels frightened.
The waitress stops by before they can say anything else and she’s glad for the momentary distraction. She orders coffee and smiles and doesn’t turn back to Jim until the waitress has walked all the way back across the room.
“So,” she draws the word out, her eyes meeting his and then moving away instantly.
“Yeah,” he nods too much. He hooks his finger through the handle of his mug, turns it around on the table but doesn’t pick it up. “Um, I just- I guess I-,” and he laughs, “I’m not really sure what I wanted when I sent you that letter.”
“You said you wanted closure.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. Inside she’s shaking, full of feelings she either can’t name or she can and their names make her push them deep, deep down so they can’t get out.
He finally looks at her and his gaze is steady, determined. His lips part once and then close and then part again. He leans forward in his seat a little and the clasped hands he was holding in front of his mug move closer to her. He says, “Right. See, I don’t know if that’s really what I want at all.”
“No?” Her voice is small, nearly inaudible. She’s focused on the heat of his skin so close to hers, that look of intent in his eyes.
He shakes his head once and when he speaks again his voice is low and intimate, “No. I think I just wanted to see you again.”
***
Out in the parking lot, it’s raining again and he holds onto her slippery hand with strong fingers as he pulls her in the direction of his car. But he stops halfway there and turns to her, the sudden stop in their motion makes her dizzy and she barely has time to regain her steady ground before he’s pressing his mouth to hers.
She presses her flat palms firmly against the back of his suit jacket, trying to keep her balance. His body is warm on her own and his hands are buried in her wet curls as he presses harder and harder.
He pulls back and looks down at her. Water drips from the ends of his hair and he blinks, lips parted, hands still on either side of her face. “What I said back then? Before I left? I meant all of it. I still do.”
His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain, but she hears him and all she can manage to do is nod and try not to cry.
***
His apartment is half an hour away. His car is new and too clean and he doesn’t turn the radio on. The rain has stopped again and the clouds are slowly parting. She sits in the passenger seat and watches the early evening sun on one side of the sky casting an eerie glow on the dark clouds on the other. She folds her hands in her lap and doesn’t feel like herself.
They don’t speak much and there’s an urgency to his driving, speeding and moving in and out of lanes. And when he pulls into his parking space, he just looks over at her and smiles and she clutches her seatbelt in her hands, unbuckling it slowly.
He’s moving quicker and suddenly he’s opening the door for her and pressing her against the car, his mouth hot on her throat. She responds instinctively, her hands clutching his shirt where it bunches up at his hips. He’s whispering her name against her skin in a parking garage and she’s never felt so desired.
Finally his mouth finds hers and she brings her hands to the side of his face. She wants to hold him there, not let him go, pretend this is her life and not just an escape.
“Let’s go inside,” he breathes against her tongue, kissing her once more before finding her hand.
***
She can tell almost immediately. He’s seeing someone. The apartment is clean as if he’s expecting regular company. There are candles on the coffee table and on his bookshelf. There is the lingering smell of perfume and two wine glasses on the kitchen counter, red wine still lingering at the bottom, those last few drops that always seem to be disregarded when drunken mouths become ardent.
“So who is she?” She asks as he walks around the apartment switching on lamps.
“What?”
She’s smiling, but his face is serious so she falters a little and adds quietly, “I’m not stupid.”
“And I’m not the only one being unfaithful here,” he says, softening the edges of his voice so he sounds more resigned than accusatory.
She nods. “That’s fair, I guess.”
Truthfully, she wishes he would get angry with her. Ever since the wedding, she’s been waiting for someone to yell, someone to make her realize the many mistakes she keeps making. Mostly though she’s tired of being seen as fragile, innocent. She isn’t either of these things. If she were these things, she certainly wouldn’t be standing in another man’s apartment, soaking wet, with the feel of his mouth still lingering on hers.
She is unfaithful, she is lying, she is selfish, she is fooling only herself.
He isn’t saying anything and she stands awkwardly by the couch, waiting. For what, she doesn’t know. They seem to have lost that energy they had. They are nervous now, timid in the light of his apartment, surrounded by all the evidence of his other life, the one she doesn’t belong to.
“Oh,” he says finally, “I could- Um, I have a dryer?’
She raises her eyebrows, “Oh. You mean, for-”
“Your clothes, yeah.”
***
She goes into his bedroom and he follows her. He stands by the door with his hand on the knob, both looking at her and not looking at her. He is waiting for her to tell him not to watch, to tell him to leave the room. But she doesn’t, something within her feeling bold, and she can feel his eyes on her as she undoes the buttons on her shirt, as she slides her skirt down her thighs and steps out of it.
The only light in his bedroom is the bedside lamp and he looks more like a shadow standing in the dark, far corner of the room. But she can see the whites of his eyes following her hands and her skin burns.
He takes a step forward, further into the light, and she hands her clothes to him. His eyes, dark with desire, move down her body and up again. She suddenly feels cold with all her exposed skin, feels herself being to shake.
“I’ll just go pop these in the dryer then,” he says, swallowing hard and leaving the room.
She sits trembling on the edge of his bed in her plain cotton underwear, damp from the rain, and waits for him. She folds her arms, covering her breasts, and brings her feet up on the edge of the bed frame so that her legs cover most of her exposed body. She rests her cheek on her knees and starts to cry.
His voice comes suddenly from the doorway, “I always loved you, you know. Always.” The last word gets broken up a little and she hears his shuffling footsteps approaching her. She doesn’t lift her head, just watches his shoes, those brown, clunky work shoes of his, laces coming loose from a day’s worth of moving.
The bed dips under his added weight and he ducks his head to look at her. His hand reaches up, pushes her hair back from her face, his fingers linger on her hairline, drawing down to her jaw before he drops his hand into his lap. She does her best to smile softly at him, but it comes out mangled by a fresh wave of tears. Her lips falter and she shuts her eyes tight.
His lips are soft on her forehead. “Don’t. Please,” he says quietly against her skin.
And it’s then. She lifts her head, kisses him fearlessly.
***
They leave the lamp on, glowing orange all over their exposed skin. Yet she doesn’t flush or turn away from his eyes as he slowly peels away the remaining bits of fabric covering her. Instead she lets him see all of her, watches his face as he takes her in, imperfections and all. She stretches herself out underneath him, all the expanses of her skin vulnerable to his gaze. A gaze that is part wonderment, part lust, part adoration. A gaze that, like both of them, has no idea if this will happen again.
He is gentle until she tells him he doesn’t have to be. And then he is rough and desperate, both of them gasping and holding tight to one another. His name comes off her tongue, rough and ragged, fingernails digging deep into his shoulder blades. He buries his face in her neck and his teeth nip at the skin there, unconscious of the marks being left.
She whispers, “I love you,” quietly into his hair and their pace slows drastically. He lifts his head and looks down at her, arms supporting him on either side of her head. He moves slowly now and her hands move along his chest, his stomach. She wants to learn every part of him, but she’s afraid there isn’t enough time.
They are both aching and aching until they finally come undone.
“Did you mean it?” He asks, his shoulder resting against hers, breath staggered, eyes to the ceiling.
There’s quiet then, just the rustling of the sheets as she gathers them at her chest. Then, “Yes.”
***
She sits up. It’s late, too late. She reaches for her underwear, but his fingers trailing down her spine stop her. “Stay the night,” he says and when she looks over her shoulder at him, with his hair disheveled and the sheet draped over his hips and his heavy lidded eyes and swollen lips, she finds herself saying, “Okay.”
She throws on his work shirt, buttoning just two of the buttons. She calls Roy from his kitchen and makes up some excuse about staying with her sister for the night. He’s drunk and in the middle of a poker game so he doesn’t ask questions. She can smell Jim on the collar of his shirt as she tells Roy she loves him and she dry heaves over the sink after she hangs up. It isn’t regret about lying to her husband or sleeping with someone else. It’s the whispers of an old regret, one which she was sure she’d pushed back far enough that she would never see it again. But here it is now, being reflected back at her in the window above the sink.
Strong arms wrap around her from behind and she presses herself back against the warmth of his body, endlessly grateful for being brought out of her head. He kisses her neck, “You okay?”
She simply nods, turning in his arms. Her arm goes around his neck as she brings his mouth to hers. His hands slip under the oversized shirt to the backs of her thighs. And he’s lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the counter.
He slips the buttons from their holes and now there is florescent light pouring down on their skin, harsh and picking up on their flaws. But they are together in their imperfection, both of them scarred, both of them damaged.
He is overpowering, a bit forceful, intent. She wraps both of her arms tight around his neck. She holds on.
***
“We should probably talk,” she says when they’re on the living room floor later, leaning back against the couch with a blanket thrown over them. She turns into him, presses her mouth to his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says.
His hand is on her knee, under the blanket, tracing absent circles on her skin. She feels heavy and tired under his touch. She wants to sleep forever next to the warmth of him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “So, so sorry.”
“Let’s not do that though, okay?”
“Okay. I just-” She presses her lips to his throat, her palm pressing flat against his stomach. “It shouldn’t be like this.” Her lips are on his collarbone, her eyes are closed so tight, her hands are everywhere, anywhere on his body. And this is new to her, how her desire for him seems to never turn off. She is moving so that she is on top of him, knees on either side of his body. His hands settle warmly on her hips. She leans down, kisses him, says, “It should be you. It always should have been you.” And then it’s, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” as she kisses him, crying, scared.
He stops her with his hands firm on her shoulders. He wants to know what she means, what this means. He wants the answers she doesn’t have to the questions she was hoping he wouldn’t ask. He asks, “Will you leave him?”
She shakes her head, drops her forehead against his so her tears drop onto his face, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” She kisses the places where her tears have fallen, tasting her sadness on his skin.
“What do you know?” His voice lacks any emotion she could read. He sounds empty and she wishes she could fill him up.
She answers, “Nothing anymore,” and her hands are on his face, fingers curling and uncurling nervously against his hairline as her eyes look into his, she works her worried mouth, twisting her lips, pulling at them with her teeth, until she finally settles and says with her hands pressing resolutely against his face, “Just this.”
***
They don’t sleep. There is too much to say or not stay. Neither one is ever satisfied, always wanting more, needing more, taking more. They are convinced this night is the last, the only. They have to make as much as they can from it. Years and years of love that they only have tonight to show, to drown in, to live.
Overwhelmed and exhausted, they lay on top of each other in the middle of the living room feeling the sun slowly creeping along their skin until it’s morning.
And this light on their skin is different from the light before. This light is real, this light cannot be turned off, this light spills onto their bodies violently, blindingly. They cannot hide in that secure shadow of night that makes everything seem like fiction and so makes you bolder, makes you stronger. Everything is real now.
***
She dresses silently and nervously in his bedroom. Her clothes are wrinkled from being left in the dryer. He watches her from the bed and his gaze makes her fumble with the buttons on her shirt. She looks at herself in the mirror on the closet door. She looks terrified, her hair all a mess, her eyes wide and her knees unsteady.
He comes up behind her, she watches him as he pushes off the bed and walks slowly toward her. He puts his hands on her shoulders, presses a kiss to her temple. She feels unsettled being so close to him now in the daylight, as if only now does it occur to her that this is wrong, this has consequences, this changes everything.
“I don’t want this to be it,” he says into her hair.
She watches their reflection in the mirror, how his arms move down hers and back up, how his eyes close when he kisses her hair, whispering faintly that he loves her before pulling his lips back.
“Me neither,” she says weakly, as uncertain of the how as she is certain of the why.
***
The roads are wet but the sun is bright as he drives her back to her car. She listen to the sound of the water beneath his tires and leans her head against the window. They say little, both too weary and worn out for words. He turns the radio on and lets quiet music fill the silences.
When he pulls into the empty parking space next to her car, she turns in her seat, still buckled in, and lets him kiss her softly, quietly for awhile. His fingers are gentle on her trembling jaw and she pulls back to say, “I’m not ready.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just sits with his hand still cupping her face, his thumb running along her bottom lip. “Promise me- Just please tell me this is not the last time I’ll ever see you,” he says, his eyebrows pulling together in that desperate way.
She takes his hand from her face, pushes her fingers through his and looks down at them. “It won’t be,” she says, smiling sadly up at him as she drops his hand and unbuckles her seatbelt. She leans across the center console and kisses him soundly, opening her door behind her.
***
The sound of the car door closing behind her is unbearable and she misses him instantly. She wants to turn around and get back in that car with him, tell him to take her anywhere he wants. She would be his, they would start over.
Instead, she finds her keys at the bottom of her purse, unlocks her car, climbs in and waves weakly at him as she starts the car. He backs out of the space and she follows behind him. She can see his eyes in his rearview mirror. She tries to smile for him and it works for a second before it collapses. And she wishes she were in front so he wouldn’t see her crying as she waits for him to make his left turn onto the road.
Eventually, there’s an opening and he glances back at her for just a second before turning. She pulls up into the space he’s left and turns right. She feels as though her insides are attached to a string on his car, being pulled away with him as she goes in the other direction. He takes the most important pieces of her and this must have been his plan all along. She imagines him gathering them all up in his arms, knowing that she’ll come back for them eventually.
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