#13 Here

"God, this woman is special to me!"

I forced my eyes back to the dinner, buttering the insides of the buns and tossing those onto the skillet. I grabbed plates out the cabinet, and dug into my pantry for my old package of real napkins. I pulled out the napkins, popcorn salt, and my own pre-mix for hamburgers, which was black pepper, some salt, garlic powder, and onion powder.

She grinned, "You just need a bib to look like a pro!"

I laughed, opened the washing machine closet, grabbed my bib, slipped it over my head and then tied it.

She laughed, and clapped. That laugh was best thing I had heard in days.

I pulled the grilled buns off, put the burgers in the skillet, and turned on the range hood fan.

"Yum!" she said and erotically licked her lips, as the smell emanated. I just grinned back at her.

As the juices came to the top of the burgers, I added my seasoning, and flipped them over. I got my thermometer from the drawer and checked the temps. Only around 115 degrees, so I left them. I pulled out the fries, set them on the unused burners, and put popcorn salt over them.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Popcorn salt."

"What is popcorn salt?"

"It is very finely ground," I answered

She came over, picked up the small salt container, and taste tested it on her finger. "Cool!" she chirped, and sat back down.

Checking the burger temps, they were at 128 degrees, so I put the cheese on to melt, and turned off the burner. I grabbed a spatula from the drawer, and put it under the fries.

"Just about ready," I said, "You ready?"

"Absolutely, she said, with a bright smile.

"You want ketchup, mustard, mayo?" I asked.

"Ketchup and mayo."

I grabbed them from the fridge door and set them out. I removed the burgers, set them on the buns on the plates, and stepped back. "Serve yourself," I offered.

She stepped up and started choosing her toppings, which was nearly everything. She looked over her shoulder at me, she grinned, "Mind if I have onions?"

"No problem," I automatically responded, then asked what she wanted to drink, "I have Coke, Margarita wine coolers, wine...even Tequila Middays.

She chuckled, and said, "I'll try the Margarita cooler."

As I moved a few things in the packed fridge to get to the coolers, I suddenly wondered if the "onion" question of hers was just about onion breath, or might she be indicating the potential for kissing?

She now had a stacked burger and a pile of fries, as I handed her the Margarita cooler. "Patio?" she asked.

"Sure" I said. I draped a kitchen towel over her arm, "For your lap." With both her hands full, I scooted around her and opened the patio door.

As she passed me, she mouthed, "Thank you."

I quickly dressed my burger, added fries, got my Margarita cooler, and then moved to the patio. Despite Ciara's appearance, and the few smiles and the laugh, her personality still seemed subdued.

"To the lucky 13's," I said, raising my drink.

"Well, at least to the 13's, anyway," she said, and clinked bottles. After she sipped, she took her first bite of the hamburger, and issued a long groan of pleasure. "This is great! And the popcorn salt is perfect. This is IOU #5, again!"

"Stop the IOU's," I said.

As her mouth was full again, she did her best to smile, and then shook her head.

"I mean it!" I insisted.

She swallowed, and laughed, "Shut up and let me eat this great food!"

That sounded like my Ciara, and I chuckled. As I chewed my next bite, those words replayed in me, "My Ciara?"

When I had finished my food, and she was down to a few bites, I asked, "Popcorn?"

"Geez," she squealed, "I'm stuffed! I can't even think about more food right now!"

"The puzzle is nearly done," I announced, "Want to help me finish it?"

She replied, "I'd like that, but can we just sit out here and watch the sunset first?"

"Perfect," I said, "but that wine cooler is almost empty. Want something else?"

"Was that your whole list earlier, or do you have any other liquors?"

"Besides Tequila, I have Meyer's Rum, some straight vodka, and Sambuca."

"Pray tell, my talented, handsome host, what is this Sambuca?"

I enjoyed the playful form of the question, but particularly hoped she meant the "handsome" part! I answered, "Well, do you like liquorice?"

"Love liquorice!"

"Then, let me bring it out for you to try," I smirked. I went inside and got out two snifter glasses, which were the only two I had. I had gotten them when I got all the glassware, actually all of the kitchen items, when my parents sold their second home in Payson, Arizona. They thought to "restock" me after my divorce.

I took the glasses and the bottle of Sambuca outside, and she watched as I set it all down, and then poured a bit into the wide snifters.

Picking up the snifter, she said, "Fancy!" and sipped. Her eyes got bigger. "This stuff is dangerous!" she exclaimed, "Thick, rich, and delicious! More, please!"

I poured her a decent serving, and she went right to drinking it.

"This is way to endure isolation!" she chimed, as she raised her glass, "Good company, good food, a beautiful sunset, and great booze!"

"I agree," I added.

It wasn't long before she was showing the effects of the Sambuca. She slouched a bit in her chair, and became more animated, which I found amusing. She had been talking about a few of her friends, but the conversation shifted abruptly, "So, here I am a broke college grad, who gets her first private apartment and then loses it three months later. My 'wonderful' father at least paid for my college and car. My life is going in boxes, and I have nowhere to go except back to my parents, because my nurse friend let someone else have that spare room!"

I watched with concern as Ciara poured herself more Sambuca, took a big gulp of it, and continued with a bit of slurring, "No money, no job, no f'n home!. And then I meet a great guy just when I have to leave! Wonderful fuckin' timing! Ciara Byrne must look like the booby prize to you?"

I was glad that drunken Ciara thought I was a great guy, and was talking like I could be more than a neighbor and companion, but all this sudden self-loathing was worrying me. I was hurriedly trying to think of how to redirect the conversation back to a happier place. I didn't succeed, as I wasn't fast enough.

Ciara stood, wobbled, and then straddled my lap. She downed the Sambuca in her glass, and set the snifter down with a clank. Then she kissed me, hard. Her weight was falling against me, and it was more of a smothering than kissing. Her lips were perfect and her breasts were soft and warm. But, this mauling kiss was not the kiss I wanted to give her, let alone receive. I'd dreamed of cupping her neck and gently pulling her to me, and watching those beautiful eyes slowly close.

I was hoping she would let up soon, and we could slow this down. Wrong again. She finally pulled her lips free, and kind of smeared her cheek along mine. "Come on," she purred in my ear, "Take me to bed and collect your IOU's! At least this 'booby prize' can give you one good fuck before she disappears!"

I had so wanted the contact with the charming, witty lass with the bottomless eyes, but not as this drunken, almost crude version, despite her delectable body. Really, I had wanted to make love to her mind, but it didn't seem to be here right now.

"Ciara!" I pleaded, then added, "Damn the IOU's!"

"What?" she grinned, lecherously.

"Your drunk. This isn't the way I wanted it between us!"

"Aren't my tits tempting enough," she slurred seductively, and shook them in front of my face.

"Please, Ciara. NO! Not like this!"

She seemed a bit put off, and stood up. Glancing past me, she caught her reflection in the window. Her face seemed to lose color, except for the smeared lipstick.

"Oh, no!.. Oh, God!" she suddenly wailed. Tears slid down her cheeks. "I've ruined everything!"

"Ciara!" I pleaded, sharply.

"I'm a slut now...a whore! I have nothing now! I've lost your respect, and your friendship is the only thing I had left. It's all RUINED!!" She grabbed the patio door and flung it open, with a crashing "Wham" behind me. Before I could even get off the patio, she had grabbed her purse and opened the front door.

"CIARA!" I shouted.

She let out a sobbing scream of, "Forget you ever met me!" and then slammed the door closed. I raced to the door, threw it open and looked up the stairs to see her turning at the first landing. I could hear her sobs over her rapid, erratic steps. I ran after her. Just as I got to the top landing, her door closed. I knocked furiously, and then I pattered on the chime in the center of the door.

Her distant, loud voice cried, "Go away! I Don't Deserve You." I could hear her sobbing. Then there was a loud crash, a scream of "FUCK" and then a huge thud against the door.

"Ciara?" I wailed in desperation.

"Go...JUST GO!" she sobbed.

Replete with sadness, I leaned against the railing for several minutes, and then tried again.

"NO!" she cried.

I repeated my approach many times over the next hour, but the result was always the same. Fully dejected, I went back to my unit. I could occasionally hear a faint wail or sob through the ceiling. Finally I picked up my cell phone, and composed a text.

"Dear Ciara. I still respect you, care about, and want to be with, YOU. Don't treat yourself this way! You're wonderful! Your job and your home are not who you are inside. Please let me in, or come down."

Some minutes after I sent that, I got her reply, "I'm shit, just SHIT! Forget me. I'm not for you!"

I wanted to pound out a text that listed of all the great things about her. But, I decided for one more, simple plea first, "Please, Ciara. Just talk to me. We're still okay."

I sent it, but I was soon notified that my number was blocked. I wanted to send that phone to hell, but I fought my rampant impulses and simply set it on the kitchen counter.

Saturday - April 4^th

I slept until nearly 10 am, as I had stayed awake for a long time last night thrashing through all the ideas of how to get her back in my life. When I awoke, I lay there, just listening for sounds of life above me. When I heard her toilet flush, the weight that pressed me into the mattress vanished.

I hurriedly dressed, still having no decision, or even clue, of what could put a dent in her defenses. I didn't want her to hear me coming, so I quietly closed my door, and gently went up the stairs in my bare feet. Just as I turned at the first landing, I heard a door open. I paused and a face appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Mornin' Nate!" cheered Carl from #214 as he passed me on the stairs, wearing a mask. I nodded back. He said, "They still haven't rented that unit below me, have they?"

"Nope" was the easiest reply.

"It's got great views, like mine. Maybe it's the virus thing and nobody's moving?"

"Maybe" I sighed.

I didn't know if this noise had blown my cover. I went to Ciara's door, took a deep breath, and forced myself to knock in a very normal and unpanicked way.

I waited. Nothing happened. I knocked again, trying to control my breathing. Nothing again. I pushed the dorky chime. A further nothing. I said, as evenly as I could muster, "I know you're in there Ciara. Please talk to me!?" The silence of this nothing tore at my heart. "Ciara, PLEASE!?" The panic was creeping into my voice. This was bottomless pain. I wandered in a few circles by her door, before I sat on the landing with my feet on the stairs. I was there for...actually I don't know how long.

Carl came back up the stairs, carrying a food back from Carl's Jr. He waved the bag and chuckled, "Don't own it, just like the food!" I chuckled for an acknowledgement of his joke, but it was a mirthless gesture.

"Sorry I forgot my mask," I said.

"No biggie," Carl replied, with less cheer, as he stopped near his door. "What ya doin up here, anyway? You, okay?"

"Nothin. I'm fine." I lied.

"Well...alright. Ya have a good day."

My emotionally drained brain didn't have the energy to enunciate the word "Bye" before Carl had closed his door. I got up, looked at the door to #213, could think of nothing better to try that might bring her out. And thus, I just drifted down the stairs and back into my apartment.

I heated a frozen burrito, and grabbed the Fritos and a Coke. I went to my patio door, loudly let it thump open and close. I landed in my patio chair, making sure it slid and screeched out my arrival. Ciara was going to know I was here.

"How could she be this despondent?" I asked myself, "Could it have been the unsupportive father that might have instilled the fear of failure in her as her primary hurdle in life? Maybe it was an ex-boyfriend, even childhood classmates?"

I had to stop myself from being a mindless conveyor belt and emptying the Fritos bag.

I wanted to help her, but I did not want to try to "fix" her. I knew she had to do whatever it was that would bring her out of this. I just wanted to be with her to offer comfort, advice, even a helping hand. And to tell her I would be there for her. But, then again, if she was moving over 1,500 miles away, how could I "be there"?

The Coke and burrito were gone, and I didn't remember consuming them.

If it weren't for the Stay-At-Home rule, and the real risk of the virus, I would have gone for a long drive to try and clear my head, and focus on what I could do for her. Maybe I'd have driven the full 80 miles to Payson, just to see the mountain vacation home that held so many memories from my childhood. But, I was going nowhere, literally and figuratively.

The rest of the day I buried my consciousness in another paperback, reading nearly half. Yet, I can't even tell you the author or the main character.

Sunday -- April 5^th

This was loneliness I had never known. It was so much more than just isolation from humanity. It wasn't even like this after the failure of my marriage to my high school sweetheart, when she left me for another man that offered more "excitement".

This was isolation - no a prison - that barred me from the woman that had captured my every thought. To hear her footsteps above me, water running, cabinets thudding; to hear her washing machine wobble from imbalance, was agonizing. If I reached towards the ceiling, she might be only a few feet away.

Yet, my heart told me that that would always be too far away from me. I needed her against me, in my arms...in my life, for she was already in my soul. It was then I knew the solution. But how to get her to listen? My knocks at her door during the day had still gone unanswered.

Monday -- April 6^th

Another round of knocking was met with silence, except that I thought that I heard footsteps approach the door. Could she be looking out the peephole? I gave a cheerful smile, in case she was looking, even though it grated against the turmoil of my desire for her.

I took much of the rest of the warm morning contacting the apartment offices via email. I had a lot of questions, but it all worked out, though it cost a bit more of my savings than I had hoped. I opened my patio door, leaving the screen closed, and I looked around my apartment, thinking of everything that would have to be done. I sagged at all the upheaval it would mean. But she was worth it. So, I went and picked up the keys at the drop.

Then it happened. Her patio door opened and her plastic chair moved. I quietly opened my screen, and went out. I sat on the railing, leaned back, and looked up. "Ciara?"..."Ciara, please!?"

"STOP!" she said. Her voice at that moment rang like the glory of a plethora of real church bells. "Should I ask again? Could that make it worse?" "DAMN!" I cursed in a whisper. Then the light went off in me. I ran to the kitchen, and threw the skillet on the stove, set to high. "If only she will be up their long enough!" I pleaded in thought.

I grabbed two hot pads, and put them on my side table on the patio. Then I took the water dish from under the potted Bougainvillea, and put it on top of the hot pads. I ran back to the kitchen, found the skillet was not quite hot enough, so I grabbed the Costco burger from the freezer, and put it in the microwave. A minute later, the micro chimed, and I tossed it in the skillet. I left the range hood off and let that sucker char.

When I thought it was smoking its best, I grabbed my oven mitt, and carried the skillet to the patio, and set it on the water dish/hot pad stack. I jumped inside, and grabbed the Harbor Freight catalog from yesterday's mail. On the patio I fanned the smoke of my destroyed burger outwards.

Her reaction was even faster than I expected, "Damn it, Nate! That's cruel! How could you!!" Then the patio door closed. I smiled with success. I put everything back where it belonged, and trashed that sacrificial burger. It had given its life for a good cause.

On the porch, with the door open to air out the smoke, I went to reading whatever paperback it was I had. I dreamed of just hearing one more word from her voice above. Nothing.

Except

Near 4 pm, my phone chimed the arrival of a message. I had already had three today that had made me jump; for CBD oil, bargain health insurance, and a restaurant specifying the family package of the day. This one said, "#13 here."

My mind raced through the maze of ways to respond, "Should it be long, short, cute, sincere, concerned, affectionate, or simply friendly?!" Desperate, my shaking fingers typed only, "I have a solution."

Whatever length of time it took for her answer, it was terrifying, for I only assumed she was no longer blocking my phone.

"To what?"

"A lot" I replied.

More terror.

"Stairs in 5. 13 out" came her reply.

I grabbed two bottles of water and waited at the bottom of the stairs. In a few minutes, she came out, and cliché as it is, all the sun's shadows in that hallway disappeared in the light of her presence. She sat on the top landing, where I had sat many times over the last few days. Ciara was dressed in a loose T-shirt and jeans. I slowly started up the stairs. At the mid-point landing, she said, "That's far enough."

"Water?"

"Okay," she sighed, after a long moment. I tossed it and she caught it. I sat down and leaned back on the railing, looking up at her.

Her head dropped, and her hair hid those eyes I treasured. "Look...I'm sorry! I fucked everything up," she opened with.

"No, I..."

Her upraised, flat hand at the end of her straight arm stopped me. I dreaded that minefield to come, of avoiding the bombs of what to say, and when. But it was inevitable now, and the only path to our happiness.

"I can get pretty horny when I am drunk and that Sambuca shit was sneaky. That's why I don't drink to excess...usually...anymore. There have been a number of 'leprechauns' -- too many - that got lucky with me, in the days I drank too much, too often. Maybe those stereotypes of Irish and drinking are well founded."

"I will probably enjoy that horny you," I offered, "There just needs to be more of a relationship established between us for it to contrast with."

She chuckled once, and her hair bounced, "Here comes mister dictionary!" Then any humor flushed away, as her voice sagged, "Well...I made a mess of our friendship, made you uncomfortable, and showed you that I wasn't the 'nice" girl you thought I was.

Her hand went up again as she paused, and I bit my words back.

"A few more days packing and I will be finished screwing up your life. Then I'll be on my way back, hat-in-hand, to dear ol' mum & dad, bless their chilly hearts, in shitty Chicago.

"Ciara..." Just that word triggered her hand again, but I didn't stop, "...I have a solution that means you don't have to leave!"