The days that followed my return from DC, I struggled to wrap my head around my new reality. Fear bubbled up from my toes as I worked to embrace my decision to walk away. I knew it was unquestionably the right step. But it didn’t necessarily feel comfortable, my emotions numbed and my heart safely tucked behind a wall. I retreated inward and consumed myself with thoughts.
After spending a week sidestepping his emails and texts, I realized I had to finally say something. And after almost two years of back and forth, it deserved more than words typed on a page. So Sunday night, curled up on my couch, my spine pressed into the sofa back and my knees tucked tight to my chest, I dialed his number. When it went to voicemail, I hung up. I did the same thing Tuesday night. But this time he called back.
With my eyes still closed, I pushed the sheet to the side and fumbled for the phone on the nightstand.
“I was out running but saw you called,” he says.
I turn my head until my cheek collides with a cool spot on the pillowcase. Then I open my eyes and glance at the clock flashing numbers for half past midnight.
“Did you have a good run?” I mumble as I stretch my legs straight and tense my quads.
“You’re asleep. I’m sorry. Go back to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No, it’s fine,” I counter, knowing I’d rather say what’s been on my mind than carry it inside any longer.
After ten minutes of idle chitchat and catching up, my belly aching from the laughter that partnered with the conversation, I finally say what’s been brewing in my mind.
“I hated coming back from DC. Or maybe that I went. Because it was nothing more than a mirage. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changed. For twelve hours, it worked. And then it went back to being still and empty.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, and I hope this comes out right, I mean I need you to either step it up or I need to truly move on. I just can’t keep doing this. I spent the last year hopeful you’d turn a corner. It was a choice I made and I in no way blame you. Seriously, I don’t. But I know what I want. And I still want it with you, an admission I’m sure is dangerous to say aloud. But I think I’ve finally reached the point that what I want, I want it more than I want to have it with you. And, here’s the kicker, I’ve realized I’ll never find it with someone else if you’re in my life.”
“I get it,” he says, his voice falling quiet. “Right or wrong, I’m still paralyzed. I’m scared I’ll hurt you. What if we resume things and it doesn’t work out? I’d feel horrible if I did that to you.”
“Again.”
“Yes, again.”
“Except that’s the only way to do it. Everyone has to risk getting hurt in order to fall in love. Part of the territory.”
“Never thought of it that way,” he says, pausing for a few moments before blurting out a random thought. “Come here in October.”
I wait a few seconds before I respond. “You don’t want me there.”
He let’s out a frustrated low scream.
“Am I wrong?” I ask.
“No, that scream was directed at me, not you,” he explains.
“It’s okay. I’m not mad or disappointed. I’m just tired of spinning my wheels and having nothing to show for it. Three friends who met guys around the time we met, they’re all now engaged. You and I? We’re at the starting line. Shit, we might even be ten feet behind it.”
“Is it remotely possible that I’m doing all of this not to protect you but to protect me?”
I don’t answer his question. With my head pressed into a pillow and my body curled onto its side, I quietly leave space for him to digest his own words. The only sound I can hear is the echo of my breath in the receiver.
“P?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
May I Cut In
Me agreeing to dinner had nothing to do with grandiose hopes or secret expectations. When I slipped into a sexy dress, I did it to enhance my level of confidence. When I stepped into the station and smiled, I did it because seeing him casually standing there brought back happy memories. And when I asked him about what was going on, my fingertip tracing the rim of my glass, I did it because I was genuinely curious.
“Where are you going?” he asked as I hopped off the bar stool.
I walked around the high table, stood between his legs and pressed my lips to his. He wrapped his arm tight around my waist, pulling me into him.
“That was nice,” he noted as I shimmied back onto my stool.
“One of us had to do something,” I said with a wink before raising my glass to my mouth and letting a long sip of my cocktail slide down my throat.
After a plate of raw oysters and decadent entrees, we strolled the few blocks leading to his hotel. He hung up his sport coat and I released the buckles of my sandals. I brushed my teeth and he unhinged the clasp of his watch. In the glow of the television, our bodies tangled together, we let the time pass.
“Do you regret handling things the way you did, with us, I mean?” I cautiously inquired as I rested my palm on his chest, the warmth of his body penetrating my flesh.
“I’m not sure regret is the right word. I mean, it’s not, I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, I was scared to come here. In fact, I almost didn’t.”
“When did you decide?” he asked as he combed wisps of hair off my face.
“This morning. I tried to buy the train ticket ten times before but couldn’t do it,” I confessed, the words carried on a shaky breath. “Did you always think I would come?”
“No. I wasn’t sure. But I’m glad you did,” he said before pressing his lips to my forehead.
“Me too.”
“Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“What I meant to say before is that when I’m with you, being with you, I feel vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before. I know it’s something I should push through, get past, but it makes me really uncomfortable.”
I fell silent. Not out of disappointment but because there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do, that would calm his admitted angst. It took me many months to understand that what he’s struggling with doesn’t truly involve me. I’m merely muddled up in his mess. I rested my head against his shoulder, kissed his chest and let my eyes close, the hum of the city echoing off the windowpane.
At ten to five, I was awake and looking around the room in search of a distraction. I curled onto my side and watched him breathe, his chest rising and falling. I stared out at an office building in the distance and attempted to make a pattern of the illuminated windows dotting the facade. Bored beyond words, I slipped out from between the covers, gathered my things and disappeared to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and took a shower, pulled on clean clothes and clipped back my wet hair.
“You don’t have to leave for another hour,” he said within a yawn as he pulled me onto the bed and pinned me against his chest.
“I’m awake. I’ll just grab an earlier train.”
He held me tighter, my body curving against his. I knew what he was trying to say but it was too late. I need more than subtle messages dictated by fear. I deserve better than hesitation and uncertainty. I knew that what I had with him was nice, it was comfortable and safe, easy and fun, but it still wasn’t enough to linger any longer. Being there curled up with him, knowing it was nothing more than a brief moment that would end soon enough, I found little reason to prolong the illusion.
I tugged myself free, thanked him for suggesting the evening, kissed him goodbye and stepped out into the hall. I don’t recall hearing the door click closed. But I also never looked back to check.
“Where are you going?” he asked as I hopped off the bar stool.
I walked around the high table, stood between his legs and pressed my lips to his. He wrapped his arm tight around my waist, pulling me into him.
“That was nice,” he noted as I shimmied back onto my stool.
“One of us had to do something,” I said with a wink before raising my glass to my mouth and letting a long sip of my cocktail slide down my throat.
After a plate of raw oysters and decadent entrees, we strolled the few blocks leading to his hotel. He hung up his sport coat and I released the buckles of my sandals. I brushed my teeth and he unhinged the clasp of his watch. In the glow of the television, our bodies tangled together, we let the time pass.
“Do you regret handling things the way you did, with us, I mean?” I cautiously inquired as I rested my palm on his chest, the warmth of his body penetrating my flesh.
“I’m not sure regret is the right word. I mean, it’s not, I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, I was scared to come here. In fact, I almost didn’t.”
“When did you decide?” he asked as he combed wisps of hair off my face.
“This morning. I tried to buy the train ticket ten times before but couldn’t do it,” I confessed, the words carried on a shaky breath. “Did you always think I would come?”
“No. I wasn’t sure. But I’m glad you did,” he said before pressing his lips to my forehead.
“Me too.”
“Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“What I meant to say before is that when I’m with you, being with you, I feel vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before. I know it’s something I should push through, get past, but it makes me really uncomfortable.”
I fell silent. Not out of disappointment but because there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do, that would calm his admitted angst. It took me many months to understand that what he’s struggling with doesn’t truly involve me. I’m merely muddled up in his mess. I rested my head against his shoulder, kissed his chest and let my eyes close, the hum of the city echoing off the windowpane.
At ten to five, I was awake and looking around the room in search of a distraction. I curled onto my side and watched him breathe, his chest rising and falling. I stared out at an office building in the distance and attempted to make a pattern of the illuminated windows dotting the facade. Bored beyond words, I slipped out from between the covers, gathered my things and disappeared to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and took a shower, pulled on clean clothes and clipped back my wet hair.
“You don’t have to leave for another hour,” he said within a yawn as he pulled me onto the bed and pinned me against his chest.
“I’m awake. I’ll just grab an earlier train.”
He held me tighter, my body curving against his. I knew what he was trying to say but it was too late. I need more than subtle messages dictated by fear. I deserve better than hesitation and uncertainty. I knew that what I had with him was nice, it was comfortable and safe, easy and fun, but it still wasn’t enough to linger any longer. Being there curled up with him, knowing it was nothing more than a brief moment that would end soon enough, I found little reason to prolong the illusion.
I tugged myself free, thanked him for suggesting the evening, kissed him goodbye and stepped out into the hall. I don’t recall hearing the door click closed. But I also never looked back to check.
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Last Dance
Last night I got back from Atlanta, had dinner with my parents and then went home to unpack. I tossed dirty clothes in my hamper and returned clean clothes to the dresser. I tucked my sneakers on the floor of my closet and tossed my visor on my treadmill. And when everything was put away, I sampled my attire. Wearing a black, faux wrap, sleeveless, jersey dress, I hobbled around my apartment in different shoes. The peep toe pump purred sexy but failed to properly remain on my foot. The two inch strappy number, however, whispered simple femininity and eased my efforts in a practiced sashay down my parquet hall. A little after eleven, with my outfit determined, I crawled into bed and fell off to sleep.
This morning, I stepped into a workout skort and tugged myself into a sports bra. I laced my sneakers and swigged some water before setting out for the gym. With my eyes cast down or staring straight ahead at, I counted out my squats and pushed through lat pulls. Droplets of sweat collected on my brow before melting into my visor and my stomach ached for sustenance. But I ignored it all, focusing my effort on toning up and zoning out.
In the shower, I used a washcloth. I never use a washcloth. If you looked at my towels, you’d even see that that size is nowhere near as faded as the hand towels or bath sheets. Anyway, I lathered soap across the nap of the washcloth and scrubbed against my flesh. I wiped between my breasts and across my stomach. I soaped under my arms and between my toes. And when that was done, I shaved. In slow paced motions, I ran the razor up my shin and over my knee. I paid attention to detail and took my time.
Saturday I got my hair cut. Scissors hadn’t neared my locks since March, a decision dictated by the mullet like disaster resulting from my last salon visit. But while visiting Leslie and the kids, I sat down in a chair and got my hair cut. Michael trimmed the ends and shaped the layers before styling it to photo-shoot perfection. Then, this morning, I tried to recreate the masterpiece. I spent half an hour blowing it out. I sprayed on gel and tugged with a curling brush. I spritzed gloss and ironed the sections straight. Then I just stared at my reflection in the mirror, making sure each tress was exactly where I wanted it to be.
I lotioned my legs and arms, walked under a halo of perfume and slid into my dress with a careful shimmy. I slipped into my selected shoes, clipped my pearl earrings in place and did one last run of my fingers through my hair. My tongue ran across my bottom lip, moistening the bare flesh. My spine straightened and my shoulders pushed back. And with a few extra items tossed into my purse, I went to work.
That’s where I bought a ticket, a one way ticket on Amtrak, to be exact. Next I sent a text message noting my arrival time. Then Leslie called.
“How are you feeling?” she probed.
“Numb. Like I’m not even sure why I’m doing this,” I confessed.
“Because, right or wrong, it’s a step you just need to take. Maybe you’re scared this could be the end?”
“Or maybe I’m scared that even though I’m ready for this to be over, it won’t be.”
“Are you wearing that dress you told me about?”
“Uh huh. And it looks great. Hot without trying.”
“Perfect. When do you leave?”
“I’ll leave the office at around two-thirty. I get in at five-thirty. And I asked him to meet me at the train.”
“Are you coming back tonight?”
“I want to. I need to. But I didn’t buy a roundtrip ticket.”
“You’ll see how it goes.”
“Yeah, I’ll see how it goes. Though I have a sneaky suspicion I already know.”
This morning, I stepped into a workout skort and tugged myself into a sports bra. I laced my sneakers and swigged some water before setting out for the gym. With my eyes cast down or staring straight ahead at, I counted out my squats and pushed through lat pulls. Droplets of sweat collected on my brow before melting into my visor and my stomach ached for sustenance. But I ignored it all, focusing my effort on toning up and zoning out.
In the shower, I used a washcloth. I never use a washcloth. If you looked at my towels, you’d even see that that size is nowhere near as faded as the hand towels or bath sheets. Anyway, I lathered soap across the nap of the washcloth and scrubbed against my flesh. I wiped between my breasts and across my stomach. I soaped under my arms and between my toes. And when that was done, I shaved. In slow paced motions, I ran the razor up my shin and over my knee. I paid attention to detail and took my time.
Saturday I got my hair cut. Scissors hadn’t neared my locks since March, a decision dictated by the mullet like disaster resulting from my last salon visit. But while visiting Leslie and the kids, I sat down in a chair and got my hair cut. Michael trimmed the ends and shaped the layers before styling it to photo-shoot perfection. Then, this morning, I tried to recreate the masterpiece. I spent half an hour blowing it out. I sprayed on gel and tugged with a curling brush. I spritzed gloss and ironed the sections straight. Then I just stared at my reflection in the mirror, making sure each tress was exactly where I wanted it to be.
I lotioned my legs and arms, walked under a halo of perfume and slid into my dress with a careful shimmy. I slipped into my selected shoes, clipped my pearl earrings in place and did one last run of my fingers through my hair. My tongue ran across my bottom lip, moistening the bare flesh. My spine straightened and my shoulders pushed back. And with a few extra items tossed into my purse, I went to work.
That’s where I bought a ticket, a one way ticket on Amtrak, to be exact. Next I sent a text message noting my arrival time. Then Leslie called.
“How are you feeling?” she probed.
“Numb. Like I’m not even sure why I’m doing this,” I confessed.
“Because, right or wrong, it’s a step you just need to take. Maybe you’re scared this could be the end?”
“Or maybe I’m scared that even though I’m ready for this to be over, it won’t be.”
“Are you wearing that dress you told me about?”
“Uh huh. And it looks great. Hot without trying.”
“Perfect. When do you leave?”
“I’ll leave the office at around two-thirty. I get in at five-thirty. And I asked him to meet me at the train.”
“Are you coming back tonight?”
“I want to. I need to. But I didn’t buy a roundtrip ticket.”
“You’ll see how it goes.”
“Yeah, I’ll see how it goes. Though I have a sneaky suspicion I already know.”
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Tacking
Erika and I touched down in Guatemala City Thursday afternoon and when we exited the airport, we officially began our adventures. Snaking through traffic dominated by overflowing buses coughing dense puffs of blacken smoke, we relocated to The Black Cat Inn. There we met up with our friends, Maya and James, who led us down the cobblestone streets of Antigua to Hector’s. In between sips of Cabernet Sauvignon and bites of caper topped carpaccio, we swapped recent stories and caught up on lost time.
Early the next morning, we all crawled into a van and relocated to Rio Dulce, a town on a river of the same name, a river that would lead us to the Belize Cays. The landscape melted from bustling city streets to dilapidated residences before turning to a stretch of verdant fields and tipsy palm trees. With our bags on a dock, we waited to be taken to the catamaran that, along with eight other people, would be our home for the next seven days. The air was still, the population was poor and the town lacked any semblance of the resort like charm I was expecting. As my t-shirt absorbed my sweat and tinted the hue, I soaked in my surroundings and waited for the dinghy.
“That’s not a room,” I muttered as I peered into the area designated as my cabin. “That’s more of an isosceles triangle. Perhaps, even, a coffin for a one-legged man. But no way in fucking hell is that a room.”
I crouched down onto my hands and knees, the rough surface of the deck scratching against my flesh, and craned my neck through the hatch to get a better view. The space stretched seven feet long and spanned maybe three feet at one end and three inches as the other. And from the bottom to the top, there was under three feet of clearance. As I started to seriously question my decision, I glanced over at Erika who was in the same spot on the neighboring pontoon. I knew she too was struggling to grasp the geometry of our accommodations.
“You push your bag to the end,” the deckhand noted as he dropped my duffel through the hatch.
I decided to avoid debating the fundamentals of angles and opted instead to ignore my reality.
With our sleeping quarters assigned, the twelve passengers collected at the bow and awaited instructions from the captain. There were rules to be learned, guidelines to be shared and details to be explained. The captain delivered his message in Spanish and Maya kindly translated it all into English.
“No shoes on the boat. Breakfast will be at seven, lunch will be at noon and dinner will be at half past six. When you go to the bathroom, discard the toilet tissue in the wastebasket. And be sure to pump eight times to empty the toilet.” Then Maya fell silent even though the captain was still talking.
“I’m sorry, but did he just say there was no shower?” I asked with a gasp.
“You got that even though I didn’t translate it?”
“I figured it out when he scrubbed his head and pointed to the other side of the deck. Guess I should’ve left my $18 bar of soap at home.”
“Wait, you have $18 soap?” Maya asked.
“That may be wrong but it’s nowhere near as wrong as a showerless boat excursion scheduled to span a week.”
“Good point,” she conceded.
That night, over a meal of soy glazed chicken and white rice, the passengers scattered on the deck and started formal introductions. There was a couple from Guatemala City, a few Brits, two Aussies and the four of us. Jude talked about how she went on vacation to Mexico and has yet to leave and another James spoke about his unending jaunt around the globe. As I got to know these people, I started to realize that as much as I’d miss properly lathering my hair with shampoo, the company I’d be traveling with was sure to make the journey fun.
The next morning, I awoke with achy knees, my joints sore from being bent the entire night. It appeared my original concern about cramming my seven inch deep duffel into a three inch space was correct, thereby reducing my sleeping nook to around feet in length. When I sat up to stretch my back, I slammed my forehead into the rim of the hatch. My clothes smelled of sweat tainted ocean water but due to the spacial logistics, I was unable to change out of them. Like a prisoner of war, I immediately resumed my efforts to plot an escape.
The boat motored up the river, briefly stopped in Livingston and then continued on to Belize. With both sails raised, the coastline faded away and the path ahead was nothing more than a span of blue ocean. I found a corner of the deck and buried my nose in a book. Then, as the sun started to near the horizon, land appeared. Small stretches of white sand islands dotted with swaying palm trees came into focus. Turquoise water lapped on the shores and coral reefs reached out in different directions.
I dogeared a page, placed my book down and stood to my feet. I stretched my back, rubbed my eyes and inhaled a deep breath. And suddenly I was smack dab in the middle of a postcard.
That night, after a feast of freshly caught fried fish and whipped mashed potatoes followed by a heaping slice of double-layer yellow cake with apricot jam and vanilla frosting, I sprawled out on a pontoon and watched the sun kiss the ocean. And that’s when I knew, even with dirty hair and grimy fingernails, hairy legs and a coffin-like triangle of a cabin, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Early the next morning, we all crawled into a van and relocated to Rio Dulce, a town on a river of the same name, a river that would lead us to the Belize Cays. The landscape melted from bustling city streets to dilapidated residences before turning to a stretch of verdant fields and tipsy palm trees. With our bags on a dock, we waited to be taken to the catamaran that, along with eight other people, would be our home for the next seven days. The air was still, the population was poor and the town lacked any semblance of the resort like charm I was expecting. As my t-shirt absorbed my sweat and tinted the hue, I soaked in my surroundings and waited for the dinghy.
“That’s not a room,” I muttered as I peered into the area designated as my cabin. “That’s more of an isosceles triangle. Perhaps, even, a coffin for a one-legged man. But no way in fucking hell is that a room.”
I crouched down onto my hands and knees, the rough surface of the deck scratching against my flesh, and craned my neck through the hatch to get a better view. The space stretched seven feet long and spanned maybe three feet at one end and three inches as the other. And from the bottom to the top, there was under three feet of clearance. As I started to seriously question my decision, I glanced over at Erika who was in the same spot on the neighboring pontoon. I knew she too was struggling to grasp the geometry of our accommodations.
“You push your bag to the end,” the deckhand noted as he dropped my duffel through the hatch.
I decided to avoid debating the fundamentals of angles and opted instead to ignore my reality.
With our sleeping quarters assigned, the twelve passengers collected at the bow and awaited instructions from the captain. There were rules to be learned, guidelines to be shared and details to be explained. The captain delivered his message in Spanish and Maya kindly translated it all into English.
“No shoes on the boat. Breakfast will be at seven, lunch will be at noon and dinner will be at half past six. When you go to the bathroom, discard the toilet tissue in the wastebasket. And be sure to pump eight times to empty the toilet.” Then Maya fell silent even though the captain was still talking.
“I’m sorry, but did he just say there was no shower?” I asked with a gasp.
“You got that even though I didn’t translate it?”
“I figured it out when he scrubbed his head and pointed to the other side of the deck. Guess I should’ve left my $18 bar of soap at home.”
“Wait, you have $18 soap?” Maya asked.
“That may be wrong but it’s nowhere near as wrong as a showerless boat excursion scheduled to span a week.”
“Good point,” she conceded.
That night, over a meal of soy glazed chicken and white rice, the passengers scattered on the deck and started formal introductions. There was a couple from Guatemala City, a few Brits, two Aussies and the four of us. Jude talked about how she went on vacation to Mexico and has yet to leave and another James spoke about his unending jaunt around the globe. As I got to know these people, I started to realize that as much as I’d miss properly lathering my hair with shampoo, the company I’d be traveling with was sure to make the journey fun.
The next morning, I awoke with achy knees, my joints sore from being bent the entire night. It appeared my original concern about cramming my seven inch deep duffel into a three inch space was correct, thereby reducing my sleeping nook to around feet in length. When I sat up to stretch my back, I slammed my forehead into the rim of the hatch. My clothes smelled of sweat tainted ocean water but due to the spacial logistics, I was unable to change out of them. Like a prisoner of war, I immediately resumed my efforts to plot an escape.
The boat motored up the river, briefly stopped in Livingston and then continued on to Belize. With both sails raised, the coastline faded away and the path ahead was nothing more than a span of blue ocean. I found a corner of the deck and buried my nose in a book. Then, as the sun started to near the horizon, land appeared. Small stretches of white sand islands dotted with swaying palm trees came into focus. Turquoise water lapped on the shores and coral reefs reached out in different directions.
I dogeared a page, placed my book down and stood to my feet. I stretched my back, rubbed my eyes and inhaled a deep breath. And suddenly I was smack dab in the middle of a postcard.
That night, after a feast of freshly caught fried fish and whipped mashed potatoes followed by a heaping slice of double-layer yellow cake with apricot jam and vanilla frosting, I sprawled out on a pontoon and watched the sun kiss the ocean. And that’s when I knew, even with dirty hair and grimy fingernails, hairy legs and a coffin-like triangle of a cabin, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
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