Never Again?

But I already knew the answer. I hadn't wanted to know. I'd made a concerted effort to keep anything and everything associated with Will out of my mind and my life in the weeks following that encounter in the alley. I'd tried, and partially succeeded, at compartmentalizing the whole thing and pushing it to the back of my mind while I threw myself into work.

I'd been focused on getting promoted while Will had been burying his wife. The wife he'd cheated on just before she'd killed herself...

I hit the reply button:

"My God, Will. I didn't know about Emma-Louise. I'm sorry. So sorry about everything... You'll never know how much."

I sent it. Then I curled up on the bed and cried harder and longer than I had in years, maybe even in a decade.

***

Red strobe lights flared from an ambulance roof. It's going to be a busy night for the hospital opposite my apartment block, I figured, as I slipped out into the drizzly dark of the evening. Friday rush hour traffic, meet Manhattan rain. Chaos, please ensue.

I shuffled through the crowds heading uptown towards my favorite Indian takeout. My part of midtown has lots of great eateries, but this was among the cheapest. Tonight's selection included green, yellow and orange forms of curried slop. I ordered a naan the size of a small coffee table and the green one, suspecting goat, but already anticipating washing it down with the beers chilling back in my fridge.

As I walked back along the wet sidewalk, I wondered, a little doubtfully, if Sheila had purchased my book yet and, if so, read the opening chapter. If so, what on earth did she think? At the start of The Broken, glimpses of frantic love-making are juxtaposed with the lead character's wife receiving her terrible news: bodies rampant are cut and spliced with the devastation of a body overrun by cancer. I had been surprised how many critics thought this (to me rather obvious) conceit was impressive: the images of invasion and engorgement, sexual and cancerous, gradually blurring into a single mirage.

But now I was wondering, rather differently, how the woman who'd inspired the scene's erotic content would find it, primarily as a record of that one time we'd been together. A historian I am not.

It all lay so far in the past -- a decade now, and it was even five years past by the time I'd started the book -- so my memory of that night was far from complete. It had also been shattered by Em's death and the guilt that had ravaged me thereafter. All I had left in my mind of the time before she'd gone, it sometimes seemed, were shards of a bigger, now broken, picture. And yes, those shards could cut. The images in the novel were, in truth, all I could remember, but perhaps they were also all I could bear to remember, not least because my one time with Sheila had eclipsed ever erotic moment of my marriage, even at its peak and before Em's descent into chaos. I'd long felt guilt about that one, but especially when fleeting memories of that night cut into my darkest periods -- standing at her graveside, say, in the months, the years that followed. It was around then arousal turned to anger.

As I approached my apartment block, I recalled the images seared into my mind and the book. It was a while since I'd unlocked them, but they flooded back eagerly:

- Our teeth clattering as our mouths crushed into that desperate first kiss;

- The button than flew from her blouse as I half unbuttoned, half tore it open;

- Coldness seeping from her flesh into my lips as I kissed the underside of her throat and then her breasts, rivulets of hard winter rain streaming down her gleaming skin and into my mouth;

- One of her nipples elongating dramatically on my tongue as I sucked on it hard enough to make her gasp my name;

- Our hands shaking, not with the cold but with desire;

- Her trembling fingers tussling with my belt as I stretched and shoved her knickers down her legs (she never found them later);

- My hands lifting and holding her firm, tensed buttocks as I crushed her against the alley wall, deeply grazing my knuckles as I did so (although I didn't notice the wounds until I was on my train back home);

- My shout of surprise as she forced back the skin of my cock, then tightened her grip to bring it forwards again, twice or maybe three times before -- and this has never happened to me before or since -- I immediately came;

- And then the contrast of her hot mouth to the cold air as she sank to her knees to catch the remainder of my cum between her lips;

- My hands in her hair;

- The look of dire urgency on her face as she stood up and, wrapping one leg around me, pressed my still rock-hard cock against her slit, and then her bite -- she actually drew blood -- as she came, fast and convulsively, as my length slotted fully into the burning warmth of her pussy;

- That we both came twice more before that near-miraculous erection finally gave out (although I can't honestly remember how that had happened, save for even more fragmentary images -- this part of the night, as the wine we'd consumed finally took deeply hold, has become a whirling, ecstatic dream...

- Her body, shaking with a different emotion, as I held her afterward, half lying, half leaning against the alley wall, cocooned snugly inside my greatcoat;

- Her caresses on my face as she nursed my now painfully spent cock, and her joke -- and oh, how I'd adored her for the joke, so typical of her cheeky wit, and yet made as our world finally fell apart -- 'Who needs Viagra?'

But is this what had actually happened? How true were my memories? What couldn't I remember? What had I forgotten? Or imagined? What might Sheila recall of that night -- her perceptions could be so different. If only I could ask her. Obviously, that would never happen now.

My breath was quickening, I noticed, and not just from walking briskly through the rain, as I got back to my block and entered the lobby. As I passed the doorman, I mumbled hi, shifting the carrier bag containing the food to hide my erection. Those images... those memories: too much. The warmth pressing through the cloth from the warm curry was actually making matters worse, like a lover's hand massaging me through my jeans.

As soon as I got inside my apartment door I dropped the bag, unhitched my belt and unsnapped my fly. I sprang gladly into the open air and the familiarity of my right hand, and began firmly rolling back and forth my skin against the sinewy rope of my core...

A few minutes later, having used the paper napkins from the takeout bag to clean up the mess I'd shot halfway up the hallway wall, I slumped down at my dining table, slopped out the food and flipped open my laptop. Facebook was still open and, as the internet connection sprang into life and updated, I could see that Sheila was online, but -- from that wistful little half moon in the chat application -- she was dormant. Too bad. No chance to reminisce. I forked a mouthful of green curry into my mouth - mutton maybe - washed it back with some beer, and clicked to read my messages. I immediately opened hers to consider her words.

I'd read the same thing a hundred times or more from Em's friends and mine, of course, but I realized these words represented a dam holding back a wholly different category of emotion. So I typed quickly, because she needed to know and I needed to say this, even now, so late in the day:

It's not your fault, Sheila. She never knew. She never knew anything about it. Although I could never forget it.

I dispatched the message and ate, very slowly, mulling over what I'd just done. The curry was hot, but inside my stomach began to chill like stone.

***

I woke up with a headache and a stiff neck. I'd cried myself to a fitful sleep, and woke naked, curled into a ball and tangled in the sheet, with my arms wrapped around a pillow. My laptop was still perched on the edge of the bed. It was a wonder I hadn't kicked it off while trying to escape miserable dreams of Will and Emma-Louise and Steven...

The clock read 1 o'clock am.

I got up and washed my face, but I didn't dress. Still naked, I roamed through the empty house. Steven hadn't come home. He hadn't locked the front door behind him either. I turned the deadbolt and set the alarm system before wandering into the kitchen.

The tile floor was cold against the soles of my feet, but I didn't care. I opened the liquor cabinet. Wine didn't seem strong enough to chase away the old ghosts suddenly stirring in my life. I pulled out a half full bottle of Cuervo and a shot glass.

"To Emma-Louise," I said before tossing back a shot.

The alcohol burned and hit me fast and hard. I'd never been a huge drinker, especially not over the last few years. I liked a clear head so I could focus on work. I wasn't a drunk and didn't use booze as an escape or as an inappropriate coping mechanism. I had more sense than that. Or at least I had until now. The last week had been an exception with all the wine, and now the tequila...straight, without even salt or lime...

Did we have any of that? Salt, sure, but lime? I rummaged in the fridge. Nope. Oh well, straight it was. I poured another one and stared at it. Well, maybe salt... I set the shaker next to the shot glass.

"You know," I said, talking directly to an imaginary Emma-Louise now, "I always hated you." I pointed my finger. "I only ever laid eyes on you once, but I despised you...before and after we met. And I think... I think I hate you even more now. Because you had what I wanted. I loved him, Emma-Louise. And if I had been his goddamn wife, I sure as hell wouldn't have gone and fucking killed myself. Fucking bitch."

I tossed back the other shot, forgetting the salt, and slammed the glass down.

Hot now from the alcohol, I leaned against the stainless steel refrigerator and hissed at the intense cold against my skin, but I pressed into it. Then I turned and stepped close enough for my hardened nipples to touch the shiny surface. I dropped my forehead against the door, cupped my breasts with my hands and rubbed my tits against a kitchen appliance.

"Shit," I murmured, squeezing my breasts. Tequila gave me a potty mouth and made me horny as a cat in heat. Any more and I'd start howling.

With a sigh, I left the kitchen. The staircase looked huge, but I climbed it, holding on to the railing the whole way up.

"Will Schumann," I muttered. "When I finally get to the fucking top. I'm gonna write you a message that will knock you on your ass."

I flopped on the bed, sprawling on my stomach, and pulled my laptop to me. Typing this way was awkward, but typing any way was awkward after two shots of tequila. I spread my legs apart, liking the way the cool air felt against my pussy. I should've picked a different kind of booze. Nothing got me hot like tequila...

I woke up the computer and realized I was still logged into Facebook.

A new message from Will: It's not your fault, Sheila. She never knew. She never knew anything about it. Although I could never forget it.

I clicked reply:

Thanks for the sentment, Willy, but we both no that her not knowin doesn't make anybody ducking faultless. Don't even talk to me about forgetting. I'd finally managed to stop reliving my moments with you on a ducking dayly basis, but now I started reading your damn book and I'm lying here naked after drinking too mcuh Hose Curvo tequila and I can't stop remembering. And I could never stop hating her for having what I coudn't. I hate her still, even though I kno she's dead. Go ahead and juge me for that. Write another ducking book. About my life this time. You can call it The Pathetic.

I sent it. And then I wanted to stop it, but it was too late. I re-read it from the sent file, but it took quite a bit of concentration to do so. I had some spelling errors, I thought. Did it say "ducking"? Oh hell, the auto correct filter had modified my curse words. That was a nice feature to keep accidental typo curses out of presentations but it interfered now that I was trying to make a Facebook point.

Ducking.

I started to giggle, then I was full fledged laughing. I had to roll onto my back to breathe and I held my sides as I laughed some more. Drinking alone was such a bad idea... Another fit of giggles struck me.

***

Flicking around the cable channels in the early hours is no substitute for having a life. Still, tonight I'd happened across a strange, violent, sexy David Lynch movie and I was hooked. Naomi Watts was doing bad, bad things to herself in cut-off denim shorts. I was having no problem staying awake.

Intermittently, during the ad breaks, I was also checking my laptop, messaging friends real and virtual around the world. There was a serious possibility of visiting some adult sites soon, I realized, but I was trying to be high-minded and put that off for a while. After the movie, when I needed to crash out and sleep, I'd trawl a few favorites, then drink and toss myself off into a blackout. I didn't have another appointment until late afternoon the next day: some reading in The Village. I could sleep until then.

What I hadn't expected, though, was a message, this late, from Sheila. As I read it, I began to smile. I even laughed. It wasn't the resentment and bile -- another day, after less beer and whiskey, I'd no doubt feel sad about that all. Well, maybe. Actually, it was the typos and her arrogance: who did she think she was talking to?! I wrote the book on that shit: literally! So before I could bring myself to do the sensible thing -- log off, finish watching Miss Watts, surf for something naughty then sleep - I wrote back:

"Hey, how about I call my next book Ducking Responsibility?

Will(y)

P. S. Lying naked on the bed at 1am with a glass of Cuervo in one hand and with your other, presumably, tucked inside your panties, while messaging back and forth with an old flame? Tut tut, Shirty Sheila. What would hubby say?

P. P. S. I've never judged you, and I never would. As if. Once upon a time, you'd never have judged me either. But I guess you've changed. Now please go back to being naked, feisty and tipsy. Definitely more like the Sheila I remember. And for what it's worth, have a nice life.

P. P. S. S or whatever. I remember that tipsy potty mouth well, by the way -- what was it you said, that one time, when I said we should leave the bar, because I was worried about getting wet in the rain...? Never mind. So long ago. Nighty night and hasta la vista. Have a happy life; yeah, I think I mentioned that already. I also recommend Ibuprofen tomorrow morning. And that we definitely, once and for all, stop writing to each other right now."

I turned back to the film, grinning, and knowing that stopping this exchange would be the very last thing she could bring herself to do, if there were vestiges of Sheila -- the woman I'd known -- beneath that shell of indignation and fury.

And suddenly it struck me: I was having fun. And I hadn't had fun, quite like this, in a long, long time.

At the end of the Lynch film, incidentally, every character transformed into someone else. Maybe there was hope for Sheila yet.

***

He wrote me back. Promptly. More promptly than I found it. I turned the sound on my computer so it would chime when I had a message.

I laughed as I read his reply, but the more I looked at it, the less funny it became.

What would hubby say?

I looked at that line for a long time. I didn't know what he would say. I didn't even know where the hell he was. A good wife would be worried if her husband left in a huff and didn't come home.

I wasn't good.

Who did Will think he was? Asking me something like that? Didn't he know that I didn't want to think about my fucked up excuse for a marriage or I wouldn't be downing shots of tequila by myself? That I wouldn't be laying in bed alone...and so fucking horny I could hardly stand it if my marriage was good and I could ask my husband for a good fucking without him asking me if that meant that I was ready to have a goddamn baby?

I hit reply.

First. Don't make me think about shit I don't want to, Will. You dont ask me about hubby and I won't ask you what Ema-Louise woud have said about us if she had knon. We might have only screwed once in an ally, but the emotonal afair lasted a hell of alot longer then that. Unless you want to go down that f-ucking (not durcks) road, but I think I'll need more tequilla for that and the stairs are really high—long—tall.

2nd. Don't tell me wat to do. I don't take orders form the likes of you. I'll write you back as mnay times as I want. I you better read evry goddamn message.

3ird. Look up naked. I dont have on panties.

4th. I said I didnt have to go outside to get wet. One of the f-ucking benefets of being a woman. And when I said it I was already so f-ucking wet...I just wanted you to touch me. That's what I rember.

I sent it.

Then I rolled over on my back as I kept remembering... I slid my hand down over my stomach, my pelvis, until I was cupping my mound, the tips of my fingers barely grazing my pussy lips. "I just wanted you to touch me, Will," I whispered as I eased my middle finger between my lips, finding the hot moisture there and slowly spreading it around. "Like this..."

***

Wow. This woman was drunk. Either that or she'd had some kind of stroke. No memory impairment though. By the time I got to point four of my response, I was hard.

First. It is literally impossible to make anyone else think anything. Well not impossible. But your thoughts are your business, not mine, Shirty.

2nd. Giving orders? What, when I said 'have a nice life'? Sweet Lord. OK: pretty please, with sugar on top, if you would be so kind: might you consider having a nice fucking life?

3rd. OK. You got me. But it was worth it just to read you type the line 'I dont have on panties'. For what it's worth, neither do I.

4th. And I you. Would you like me to touch you right now? Should I tell you what to do? Sorry: invite you to do certain things? Typing is ceasing to be your strong point. Maybe we should give your fingers something else to do. Hey, if you want to, add me on MSN. I can offer you advice on your what to do with your digital predicament, and you can switch on your webcam - you'll soon be too busy to type.

I added my e-mail address, hit send, and then wondered if she'd be able to type straight enough to enter it.

And then I asked myself: what the hell are you doing, Will? She's obviously in all kinds of pain. Some of it may relate to your book, much of it probably has more contemporary sources. (To whit: what the hell is she alone for this late on a Friday night? Why isn't someone there helping her fingers do something more interesting than key strokes?) Are you enjoying the rush? The cruelty? Are you pissed off with her still? Do you want to hurt her? Humiliate her? What?

What I wanted was a sign of authenticity. This wasn't the woman I'd known. I figured some over the top suggestions would either, finally, prompt her to let down the defences and say something meaningful - or maybe this would all just make her laugh. I didn't seriously consider the possibility that she was actually naked and turned on, and that the release she was going to show me would be something so unexpected. And when it was all over, I would think, long and hard, about the ramifications of her subsequent actions: their peculiar mix of empowerment and utter desperation. The Sheila I'd known - the woman I'd spent every lunchtime with for two years, who had shared her innermost ideals and beliefs with me, who had helped me through the early stages of the troubles ahead with Emma-Louise, and who had been so liberated in thought, if not always in deed, given the corporate world we were both working in at the time, and her need to keep up appearances.