The Experiment Pt. 03

I stop at the hedges, staring out at the mirrored skyscrapers that sparkle in the sunlight, surrounded by the large Victorian homes that march up the hillside. He comments how beautiful it is, how it is unlike anything else. I think I'm being conceited when I suspect he's also talking about something else; the way he takes my hand and holds it as he says it. The wind gusts across the open lawn and I shiver in my thin windbreaker.

Damian sees this and lifts up the side of his jacket, then wraps an arm around me, essentially tucking me under his leather jacket. I try not to elbow him, but stay snuggled up close so we can maintain the warmth of this somewhat awkward position. He smells like the buttery pancakes he cooked, and some cologne that is a deep note of masculine sweetness. The wind keeps gusting, so I keep clinging to him, finding it harder to let go even when the wind dies down. He kisses the side of my forehead, and I squeeze him in response. Suddenly I feel very emotional again, a weepiness that threatens to emerge until I take a deep breath. I don't like that I like this. And I don't know why part of me is upset that he would dare to make me feel this way.

Slowly, I pull away, and turn to walk back. He snags my hand again, and keeps holding it. I take another deep breath, hoping he doesn't notice this inner dilemma I'm fighting. I need distraction from my emotions, I need to talk. Something I could barely manage with Eric, something I failed at.

"Where did you live...before coming here?" I ask, trying to make it sound casual and not bigoted.

Now it's his turn to take a deep breath; there's a story here.

"If you don't want to talk about it-" I begin, but he interrupts me with a shake of his head.

"No, it is alright to ask such a thing. And understandable," he politely states. "My family is from Armenia."

He proceeds to tell me how his family left Armenia on a boat with hundreds of other people, headed for England. They were allowed to stay temporarily, living in London for almost a year. He learned English watching TV and listening to the radio. His uncle sent them money so they could come to America to live with him. The uncle owns a restaurant that his mother and siblings also work at. And he has four siblings: two sisters and two brothers.             

"Big family," is my astute comment.

"My mother is one of eight children," he counters.

"Where do you fit in the lineup? Who's the oldest of your siblings?"

"My brother Davit is the oldest, then my sister Maral, then my brother Artem, then it is me, then my baby sister Anna."

"So you're the second to the youngest," I observe.

"I am...now."

There's a change in his tone, and I glance to see his face still turned down to the sidewalk.

"I had another brother, younger than me, before my little sister was born. He died when he was just a baby," he explains quietly.

"I'm so sorry-" I begin, but he waves my sympathy off.

"I do not even remember him, I was so young. I only remember how sad my mother was and that was when she wanted to leave Armenia."

"Still, that's just hard on a family. It changes you afterwards."

He gives me a weak smile and only nods. I squeeze his hand and want to say more, but don't. I could even tell him how I lost my own brother when I was eight, and that I don't have any other siblings now. I could tell him how sad my mother was and then how angry she became. How she was always upset with my dad or me over something. But I don't. Just like I never tell anyone this because it's depressing and pointless.

"My mother, she is a very strong woman. No matter what, she always took care of us. At each place we moved to or lived, she did everything for us. She would give me her heart if I said I needed it," he states with some defensiveness. I get it; moms blame themselves for what happens to their kids, and he's probably seen this.             

"She sounds like she really loves her children," I offer gently. He glances over at me, gauging the sincerity of my compliment. Convinced, he smiles a little.

We keep trudging down the hillside, trying to match each other's rhythm to keep an even walking pace. I still want to say more, I want to comfort him, but I still don't bring up my brother. Damian being the superior conversationalist, changes the subject to his uncle's restaurant. His mom cooks there, his oldest sister used to cook but mostly manages their supplies, while his oldest brother does the bookkeeping. His brother Artem isn't good enough to cook, but they let him wait tables. He likes to get tips from women. I'm laughing at his description of his scheming and schmoozing brother, suddenly wondering if he also waits tables as he is certainly charming enough. Damian is slightly offended at my assumption.

"Oh, no. I AM a cook."

"Obviously," I chuckle. "A very good one."

He is back to the charming and confident Damian, grinning as I grin at him. The boyishness is still there, especially in the daylight that makes his hair seem even more tawny and red. I notice his dark eyebrows and dark eyelashes, and suddenly wonder if he dyes his hair. If he does, it's professionally done. But even with all that polish, I'm most taken with his enthusiastic grin and his sweet, round eyes. I'm staring at him when we've returned to my building and he's waiting for me to get my keys out.

"Sorry," I mumble as I dig them out of my jacket pocket. "I was distracted. By you."

"I should not distract you," he muses sarcastically.

We both know damn well how much I like to be distracted by him, as I shake my head while unlocking the door to my building. Once again, the stairwell holds some naughty type of appeal where we nearly race each other up the steps, just so we can arrive breathless at my front door. Once inside, I toss my keys down on my little table then turn and quickly excuse myself so I can go to the bathroom. After I wash my hands, I use some mouthwash, run my fingers through my hair, and cinch up my bra.

When I leave the bathroom, I find him in the living room holding his motorcycle helmet. He's getting ready to go.             

"What time do you need to be at work?" I ask as I walk up to him.

"Soon," he answers quietly. "The restaurant opens at 5."

"Do you cook there every Saturday?"

"Every weekend."

My face shows my shock that he essentially works seven days a week.

"I do not mind the work. It is time I spend with my family," he says before adding, "But I am sorry it cuts our time short."

He brushes a hand over my hair, an apologetic smile on his face. The lusty fervor I was planning for just minutes ago is replaced by a swift and sudden sorrow. I throw my arms around his neck, clinging to him. He tries to hug me with just one arm, but eventually his helmet lands on the floor with a thud when I won't release him.

My body will not listen to me, it does not want to be separated from him. I'm still latched on, my face buried into his shoulder when he says something in what I assume is Armenian. He kisses the top of my head, and I seize the moment to turn my head up to kiss him. A passionate and long kiss, one that ends with us equally breathless. He's brought a hand up to the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair until he gently keeps his grip on my skull so that we'll separate.

When I meet his eyes, I think that I feel pain in my chest. An actual physical pain. His eyes are filled with something beautiful and pure, something beyond lust. He's scanning my face, he's looking at me and into me. I'm gazing back, silently willing him not to go, trying to tell him I would do anything for him to stay. Anything.

"I wish you didn't have to go," I mutter childishly, trying to ignore the trembling I feel.

He smiles sadly. "I know."

I kiss him again, almost whimpering, trying to muster up desire instead of the other things that I feel. Instead of the ache inside me that needs something besides what I think I want.

He kisses me back tenderly, then puts a hand on my cheek, locking eyes with me. And only with this solemn look, I'm able to finally separate myself.

Damian leaves with a promise to call me after he's done with work, but it will be late. Probably after midnight. I don't care, I say. Call me or text me. Wake me up.

When the sounds of his motorcycle fade into the distance, I try to go back to my life and have absolutely zero will to do so. I manage to sullenly sort through my hamper and gather up my laundry basket to take down to my complex's laundry room, but stop short of leaving my apartment. I think of how he snatched my pair of panties that first night he came over, and wish that I had something of his. A shirt of his, or his belt. Then I remember my flowers.

I go back to the dining room to look at them. The blooms are already drooping a bit; I need to add more water to the vase. I grab them and take the vase over to my sink, cursing at myself for being forgetful and letting them get dehydrated. I used to work at a nursery for fuck's sake! I'm so irritated and worried that Damian would come back and see that I let his flowers die. So irritated that I feel shaky and almost... panicky. A panic that is making me nauseous.

I've had panic attacks before. Mostly in school, or before a crew race. A few times when I've had my parents come to visit. And before my very first date with Eric. I almost didn't go.

But this feels different. The panic is more dire. It's not the panic that comes with me feeling like an embarrassment, or being ashamed. It's that something is going away, something is going to be lost unless I pay attention.

The only thing I can compare it to is when my mom decided to turn my brother's room into a guest room. One year after he'd died, she boxed up all his old toys and soccer trophies, she emptied his closet of all his clothes and shoes. She got rid of his old twin bed and painted the walls. And even though I complimented her choice of colors and helped her carry his things up to the attic, I was still upset. So upset that she found me one night, hysterically digging through the old boxes, trying to look for things that I didn't want to forget.

I make myself some tea and huddle under a blanket on my couch. I keep looking at my flowers and thinking of him. And I think of my brother, I think of all the flowers they brought over from the funeral home after he died. The panic finally subsides, and I begin to cry. I cry for the grief that has been carefully contained for years, only to burst out when something else upsets the equilibrium.

My emotional outburst has made me sleepy, and it's not until I hear my phone ringing that I realize I'd fallen asleep on my couch. It's just after 1:00 AM according to my phone.

"Siena?" his voice nearly shouts over the noise in the background of dishes clinking, people talking loudly in another language. A woman's cackle in the distance.

"Hi," I reply with a yawn. "Sorry I fell asleep."

"No, no. I am sorry," his voice quiets down as he steps away from the noise, the sound of a door closing. "I should not have woken you."

"But I wanted you to," I reply, feeling sleepily conflicted. There's a pause; he's conflicted too.

"It is late, but I did not want you to think I had forgotten," he explains anxiously. It is unusual to hear the voice of Mr. Damian so uncertain, questioning himself. Another pause.

"I'm glad you called," I state, feeling the affection that wants to see him, but doesn't want him to feel guilty. "You worked though... it's been a long day."

"Not long enough."

His statement hits my emotional trigger point again. Neither of us seem to want a booty call, and I am surprised that I am not upset about this, that my body has accepted sex will not be happening tonight.

"I'm sure you're exhausted after cooking professionally and for me."

He chuckles lightly. "I will cook for you anytime you should need it."

The sultriness in his voice awakens my selfish body. "You better hang up so I don't try to get your cooking services right now."

Another pause as we tilt towards the debauchery we're so good at.

"I would happily come if you want me to."

A visceral ache in my body, images in my head of things we'd do... but I cut myself off. This man has been on his feet for 8 hours already.

"I know you would, but really, it's ok. Sleep is important. I want you rested."

"Yes, Miss Siena."

He's never said that before. I can feel my body tightening and squirming, the words trying to force their way out of my mouth. I close my eyes, I will myself to behave; to keep my desires under control. The control that I'm tired of fighting, that I want to relief from. My experiment has exceeded its boundaries; my solution more than an addiction.

"Goodnight, Damian."

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To be continued...