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Friday is always our night. No matter what life manages to throw our way, we always find solace in our weekends together, whiling away the hours in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs. I choose the red dress tonight, the one he first saw me wear when we met so many years ago. I quickly run to meet him at our favorite obscure restaurant. I get three blocks before realizing I’ve forgotten my umbrella and the clouds are heavy with an impending downpour.
The restaurant is almost empty but for us and two women sitting in the opposite corner. I automatically walk toward our booth, and he is waiting for me. It is the first time he has not smiled in months. I know something is wrong. And then he speaks.
My head reels, spinning, futilely attempting to control the insurgency of emotion that threatens to break me apart. Two words, carrying the weight of the world with them, destroying every last fabricated hope I’ve tried to cling to in fear, desperation, blind faith, naiveté. I start shaking, the ache seeking to purge itself from my body. He stands still, watching me, waiting for my response, trying to decipher my reaction. My throat closes up and I turn and lunge for the doors, praying for salvation in the night as the darkness swallows me.
I run aimlessly, the entire street deserted at this witching hour. The rain starts, slow at first, small droplets of cool liquid dripping onto my eyelashes, over my cheeks, my bare shoulders, down the V of my dress. I struggle to shed the hysterical veil of madness that has crept over me. I feel a thousand needles stabbing into my abdomen and recoil, trying to breathe. The rain comes down harder, spilling down my face, mingling with my bitter tears of remorse, regret, self-loathing. I finally stop, winded, leaning against a light post. My dress is soaked, clinging to my body like a second skin, suffocating.
I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. His face appears in front of mine, his pained eyes mirroring my own angst. He brushes away the wet curls that cling to my lashes, cupping my cheek in his hand, turning my face up to his. He stares in silent apology, but it’s not his fault. He wants forgiveness for the unforeseeable, the unchangeable. Circumstances that neither he nor I can control, the painful powerlessness of our situation palpable.
The silence is profound yet filled with the agonizing words we dare not exchange, the intangible magnetic pulling our bodies closer together. I can’t, don’t try to resist. These may just be our final moments together before thousands of miles physically separate us.
He kisses the salty tears that come from the corners of my eyes, unbidden like a broken dam, and we crush our bodies together, a perfect fit, the heat of his skin under his now-sodden shirt reminding me of the reality of his presence, of our paradoxical commitment to masochism. His mouth covers mine, breathing into me, resuscitating the life in my body. I grip him, unwilling to let ever go.
Taking my hand, he starts leading me, and I realize we are at his place– I have unconsciously run to our haven, my only refuge in this city. We stumble up the slippery steps, his large fingers intertwined with mine. He shuts the door. Beads of water drip off of us, forming little puddles on the wooden floorboards. He presses up to me, his lips hungry for mine, the hot refuge of his mouth snapping the last remaining invisible threads of my restraint. My pulse races, my mind devoid of any thoughts, save for my need of his flesh, his closeness.
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