The Weekend

The kids are watching, enjoying the show, snickering. I let them snicker and take a long pull of my beer. You set up to take another shot; you've only got two balls left. However, your shot must be taken from the side of the table nearest the kids. I know there will be trouble. I can feel it in my chest as one of the boys watches you. He also needs to take his shot, but he's got options on where to aim from. But he chooses to put himself right next to you.

I can see the little moron's game before he does, and remain standing. You see me watching him, you can see my breathing change. You say something cute, trying to distract me. I let the boy pretend to line up, and sure enough, he tries to get the cue between your legs. It gives me immense satisfaction that you also catch this, and say something. But he's not going to let it go that easily, so now he's forced to say something snide. You roll your eyes at him, and you give me a warning look that he's not worth it. And while that may be true, you will always be worth it. Every time.

I get between the two of you, and come not so much nose to nose with him since I'm about half a foot taller than him. He looks fit and strong, he's cocky because he's got a friend there. The friend doesn't look so sure; he's smaller and leaner, and seems smart enough to stay out of whatever crap his buddy tries to drag him into. I know I'm older by a decade, but I know all the places to hurt him. And disable him.

He says another snide insult, a cheap shot about you. I know I shouldn't let this dipshit get the best of me, but I'm angry that our night is about to be ruined by yet another thing I can't control. I'm angry that we can't have one night without something setting me off. I'm angry that the world keeps making me angry, even when I try so hard not to let it.

You see me at my boiling point, and so does Rick. However, you are already switching into emergency mode. I know you pulled the cue out of my hand, I know you already grabbed my coat and have my keys. The kid really wants a fight, so he spouts off another low blow. I laugh, letting him think this is fun. I tell him to go back to his game, and mean it.

When his back is turned, I yank his arm behind his back and slam him face down into the pool table. I keep him pinned down with my other arm across his neck. He barely squirms in protest when I have solidly used all my weight to crush his airway. I know just how long I can keep him like this before he'll black out.

The bar regulars groan while the girls scream in fright. Rick has come out from behind the bar, and I can smell the oily fragrance from Carlos, the line cook who has also come out to help. They know it will take both of them to get me off the kid. They know a very important fact about me that this kid doesn't. Something you know too.

Your voice is very calm when you tell me to let him go. You say my name in this placid tone like a lion tamer instructing their large cat to release someone's head from their jaws. I give it a second longer, feeling Rick and Carlos gently take hold of my arms, letting the little shit suffer before I finally release him. He stays slumped over the table, coughing and sputtering as I step back.

You are telling Rick to close out our tab and shoving me towards the door, you are ignoring the girl who's screaming at me and calling me a fucking psycho. I think one of them may have called the police on me. Won't be the first time, or the last.

I get into the driver's side before you can stop me and demand my keys. You briefly hesitate, then hand them over. I slam it into gear and squeal out of the parking lot. I'm racing down the highway while the blood pumps through my ears. My heart is in my throat, while my body feels detached from my head. You're talking to me, telling me to slow down. I can't.

My body is now in its own emergency mode. The mode I was trained for and lived for the better part of my twenties. The mode that comes in handy when you are fully expecting to be blown away at any second. But that's not what's happening. The world is no longer a battlefield, except that it is. Every day, every night. It's a battlefield when a kid screams out unexpectedly, or when the booming thud comes from a garbage truck emptying a dumpster.

You again tell me to slow down, and then you shout at me to pull the fuck over. This time you mean it. When you yell, it's the only thing that breaks the hold on my adrenaline fueled brain.

I pull over onto the shoulder of the road, sending gravel into the air. Once we're stopped, you reach over and turn the engine off, and take the key out. My hands are still locked on the steering wheel when you lean over and kiss me. You pull my face towards you, both hands keeping hold of me, kissing me with persistence. I can smell your sweet cookie-like perfume, I can feel the strands of your hair brushing my arms. It is only this that takes my mind away from the racing bullet in my brain.

When I slowly begin to kiss back, you unbuckle your seatbelt. And then you unbuckle mine. Your mouth opens, your tongue flicking at mine, and then you tell me to get out of the car. I nod my head, and let you separate.

My body still feels the adrenaline when I stand up. You've come over to my side of the car, and then lead me over to the back of the car. It's a dusky twilight, but we're surrounded by nothing; a smattering of junky buildings on a rocky stretch of road that opens up after you leave the green trees around Rick's tavern. In other words, you can see for miles.

You kiss me hotly, another flick of your tongue, your hands squeezing me through my jeans. I'm dimly aware of you undoing my belt, unzipping me. Then you turn around, peaking over your shoulder as you push down your panties. You're whispering even though there's no one for miles, instructing me as you lean over the trunk, showing me the part of you that's begging me to fuck you.

I barely need to be asked, my brain on autopilot once again as I lift the furled skirt of your dress. I tug your hips backward, forcing you to bend at the waist, feeling your bare skin beneath my feverish hands. I slip between your legs and rub myself across your steaming wetness, hearing you croon for me. You flinch when I slam into you, but you mutter filthy demands, pinioning into my violent thrusts. I lock my hands over your hips, closing my eyes as my mind gives way to the primal motivations of my body.

My mind goes silent, my anger slipping into the lust that simply wants to consume you. I can hear you whimper as I my thrusts become more aggressive, as I yank back on your hair. My hand is threading through your dark strands, up to the back of your neck, and gripping. I don't choke you, but keep hold with my fingers around your slim throat, listening to the gasping shock of your voice. I want to go harder and faster, I want to drill my dick into the core of the earth. I want to fuck the quaking anger within me, I want it to explode.

Your head is tilted back, your body shaking with every violent thrust, and yet you take me in deeper, a vice of sweet torture trapping me within you. It's getting hotter and slicker, the scent of you dripping down your thighs, a primal signature of arousal, while I'm teetering at the edge. Except there is no caressing or thought of pleasing you, there is no consideration of protection or birth control. There is only this madness that wants out. The madness that is fucking like I might break you in two.

But you stay within my grasp, you oblige my madness, you call it forth and cry out just when I erupt. My brain is flooded with relief, blinded as surge after surge is unloaded into your tensing pussy. I make a royal mess of you, feeling my hot cum spill down your legs. You reach back for my cock and give me a few jerks, making sure you have milked every last bit before you pull me out.

I release you and stagger, while you remain leaning over the car, panting. Only then does the red leave my eyes, only then do I breathe without feeling like my heart might explode. And then I see you. Slumped over like a doll I've thrown down, your head in your hands.

I don't know what to say, but I rub your shoulders, I kiss the back of your head. I should say something, apologize, when you roll your head up and glance at me. A little grin on your lips. But your eyes are glossy as they look into mine. I open my mouth to speak and you just sit up. You lean into my chest and wrap your arms around my middle. And I want to cry. I try to, but the anger has boiled up my tears.

I fold my arms around you and kiss the top of your head. I can only say thank you. I say it again, and hope you know I really mean it. We stay like this until a car slowly passes us by. They were watching us, making sure that I was not possibly murdering you. Or maybe they were the kids from the bar. But they keep driving, and leave us in the deepening darkness.

You hold out the keys and ask me if I can be good. I say you can drive, but you say you're too tired to drive stick. And I'm still sober by legal limits after my one and a half beers, more intoxicated by the adrenaline from our sex.

I drive slowly and carefully home. I ask you if you want me to stop for any food, and you smile. I take you through the drive-thru of the old Hasty Burger by my apartment. The food is questionable and greasy, an old favorite from our younger days. But I know it makes you happy, the little hum you make when you take a bite from the cheeseburger before we even get home.

I say home, but it's not your home. All it takes is looking down at your hands to remember this. We go into my apartment, exhausted and relieved. When I come out of the bathroom, you've finished your burger. You are sitting on the floor, and offer up the fries you are munching on when I sit down beside you. I'm not hungry at all, but your pleading expression makes me take a bite. The salty starch is too good to be denied, and I quickly down each bite you feed me. You are beaming from ear to ear as you do this, your salt covered fingers as delicious as each fry. When finished, you lean over to kiss me, giving me a flick of your salty tongue and I want you all over again.

Before I can do anything, you tell me you need a shower. And you say I need one too. My shower is not big enough for us to both fit comfortably, but hell if we won't make it work. I let you stay under the water, rinsing and lathering up first. Your body is only more tempting when it's covered in a sheen of water, but I try to behave myself. And you know this, rubbing your plump and perfect breasts in slow, foamy circles. The intention of cleansing gives way to more sensuous movements, and before long, I have you in my arms, pressed into the wall. This time I stroke and please you, I ask what my baby wants and deliver as asked.

I wash you clean with my hands, and then kneel to give you a thorough cleansing with my mouth. God, I love the taste of you. You are tart and spicy, warm and soft. I enjoy this more than anything, forgetting how sensitive you are when I suckle until you squeal for me to ease up. I love how you run your hands through my hair, I love hearing the sound of your voice moaning and whimpering as I give you my tongue. I love hearing how you say my name like you're going to faint, the desperate plea just as you come. I love taking you over the edge, feeling you shudder, holding you steady as I ease off. Holding you afterwards when you blush like the girl I met so many years ago, like a girl I've kissed for the very first time.

The squeeze in my throat knows what I feel deep inside, and yet won't admit. It knows the simple math that adds up what all these things mean. It knows what any dummy would know in about ten seconds of seeing me with you. And yet I am the biggest fool of all.

I avoid our reflection in the mirror when we towel off. I know what I'll see and even if there is you in that image, I still don't want to see myself. I don't want to see the smattering of tattoos I earned one drunken night at a time, I don't want to see my scars from shrapnel and bullets. But mostly I don't want to see the dumb grin on my stupid face. That lovesick look that is only a few hours away from heartbreak.

We fall asleep naked, coiled around each other. Usually you get cold and want at least a t-shirt or tank-top to wear, but if you're tired enough, you'll sleep naked. Just for me. Just because it's my favorite way to hold you. To feel your bare skin next to mine, to feel the contours of every curve. To feel like you belong to me.

In the morning, you make me breakfast. Sunday is always the biggest production; eggs and bacon, toast with jam, hot coffee and OJ. You silently gesture for me to sit and to eat, cutting off any protests with a warning look. I take one bite and I am starving. I inhale two eggs, four strips of bacon, two pieces of toast, and half a cheese quesadilla that you fry in the bacon grease. You are a more than capable cook, even if I can't always enjoy it. Because my body fights me at every turn, cutting off anything that would nourish or sustain me.

Warding off the urge to pass out in a food induced coma, I help you clean the dishes. I put away the leftovers you have cleverly planned to leave me, and watch you wipe down my kitchen until it's spotless. Then you tell me to go relax and watch TV while you "do chores". You strip my sheets off and replace them with a fresh set (apparently there was a clean set in the closet), then you take a loaded basket of dirty clothes, along with the used sheets, down to the laundry room of my complex.

When you get back, you set out the quarters for the dryer and tell me to set a timer for an hour on my phone, which I do. Then you tidy up some more, putting away items that I have invariably let pile up around my squalid interior. You go through my stack of mail and sort it. You toss out the junk mail and stack up the important bills and letters. I can see you making notes on a few, underlining things.

Then you go into the bathroom and come out changed from my old t-shirt and leggings into a pair of jeans and a slouchy hoody. Regular clothes. You go over to the kitchen and take a bottled water out of my fridge. You take a drink and catch my eyes watching you. The black duffle bag is sitting on the floor by your feet.

We go over the details we do each time before you leave. You've transferred money from my checking into my savings, per our plan, and left the requisite amount I need to survive until my next paycheck. You noticed my car insurance has gone up ten dollars, because I didn't pay it last month. You've set up automatic payments from now on, which is what I need for every bill or debt I owe. There's also a bill from the V.A. Another one that I've ignored. You offer to call them, and I say no. I have to promise to be a big boy and do it myself. I chuckle, but I know you are deadly serious.

You gather your purse and get your little duffle bag. You remind me to get my clothes out of the dryer when the timer goes off. And then you ask me if I need anything else before you go. It's a rote question, one that I can't answer truthfully. I shake my head, trying to smile through my pain. You smile back, a much better smile that also pretends.

When you go to the door, my heart screams in my chest to say something. To say anything. But I can't. Instead, you tell me you're proud of me. You say that you talked to Juan, my sponsor, and he said I've "been good". I can tell you want to say more, but you know better. I've been an asshole too many times, too defensive. We've taken small steps to get to where we are now, a fragile place that barely holds.

I can only say thank you again. Thank you for everything. You chuckle when I say 'everything'; you know what I mean. Although, you don't really. You give me the saddest and most beautiful smile. You say my name and tell me to take care of myself.

"I'll try."

You tell me you'll text me later, and then you go.

I'm used to this routine we've developed, but the grief of your departure is still potent. I have to distract myself- thus why you do the laundry, timing it to near perfection when my phone starts beeping a few minutes later. I go get my clothes and sheets; I fold them neatly and put them away. I vacuum my living room next, and decide I should clean my bathroom. The toilet is scrubbed and the sink gets wiped out, but when I get to the shower, I hesitate. I see a strand of your long silky hair clinging to the tub, and I don't want to rinse it away. Left to my own devices, I would have kept those dirty sheets on my bed until they threatened to get up and walk away. I would have inhaled the scent of you night after night until I couldn't smell it anymore.

Regretfully, I rinse down the tub and scrub it with some bleach. I feel productive and then I feel like a jerk. Like I've used up this woman and now I'm blithely washing her away. Erasing our sin that we committed in my shower. To cleanse away our cheating infidelity with a bottle of bleach.

The anger always comes first, so I try to appease it by working out. I do some sit-ups and push-ups; I do multiple sets of reps with the free weights I have. It helps a little, and then I find I'm sleepy. I lay down on my couch and conk out to the basketball game on TV. I'll be sleeping on my couch for the next few days, a ritual I've created whenever you leave.

I awake hours later, and find a text message from you. It says you made it home safely, with a smiling emoji face. I stare at my phone, and the anger boils up. I hate myself for what I've done to you. I hate that I couldn't stop myself when I should have. That I couldn't do the things that you asked me to. That I indulged my hurt and my anger by poisoning myself. Trying to kill myself slowly, piece by piece, and made you watch it. I broke your heart over and over. And I'm still breaking it.

I need to let you go. But I always chicken out. Somehow I can't pull the trigger to end this, and I can't down enough booze to forget you. So instead, we continue in this vicious circle. We continue to extend the pain for these fleeting moments of pleasure. I let you lie to your boyfriend and your son. I force you to concoct stories and cover-ups. I complicate your life and cause you worry. And why? Why do you let me hurt you over and over?

The anger needs out, so I go to my couch. I kneel on the floor and slam my fist into it, sinking into the lumpy cushion until I feel the rigid wood of the base. I do this over and over until my knuckles ache, until my old injured thumb reminds me that I can't work if I dislocate another finger. But my trick has worked. And I've done it without putting any holes in my walls, or putting my fist through someone's head.

And then the tears come. I weep like a baby till I'm drenched in sweat and snot. I think of all I've lost and wish for so much more for you. But I still can't stop you from coming over, because I don't want you to stop. I need to see you because you are the only reason I am alive. You are the only reason for living my miserable version of sobriety. And yet I make such a terrible mess of living that I don't know why we do this. But a nagging ache in my chest knows why.

I wipe off my snot and grab my phone. It's late. Nearly 22:00. You're probably in bed, if not already asleep. Tomorrow, you'll need to get your son to school and you'll have to work. My freak-out can wait. An hour later, I've eaten some leftover bacon and feeling a little steadier. But I almost call you. Then I think of his face glowering at you and don't want any reason for him to be a bigger dick to you than he already is. So I put my phone away.

I can't sleep, but I lay down anyway. I think of you and make my plan. At 6:00 I shower, by 6:30 I leave my apartment. I drive to your house and park down the block, able to still view your driveway. The little white bungalow you worked so hard for, the one you wanted for us.