The Weekend Pt. 02

One day I'm waiting for my lunch, standing in line at the taco truck on the corner near my 2^nd salon job. I'm immersed in my phone, going through my jam-packed calendar when I hear someone say my name. It takes me a second to acknowledge it, because my stomach in is my throat. My heart knows who the voice belongs to before my brain does.

I fix my face into something calm, shake my hair out and make sure my shirt isn't sagging down my boobs. Then I turn around to face you. Meeting your eyes is like being hit by a shovel. We are so much older and yet not. The twinkle in your eyes is still there. The curls of your soft brown hair still tuck around your ears in a way that tells me whoever is trimming them has no idea what they are doing. You step forward with a hitch in your gait, but you look strong, healthy. It's hard for me to think straight and yet words are dribbling out of my mouth. I'm bullshitting you in the way I do with my clients. I'm telling you all the standard facts about my son.

You listen with a relaxed smile and nod. I'm sure you know most of these facts through the grapevine of your sister-in-law. My name is called again when my food is done. I tell you I need to go but it was good to see you. I'm stepping away when I can see you falter. You want to say something else, but you chicken out. You smile with just enough regret in your eyes that for five seconds I want to come smack you in the face. And then I'd want to throw myself into your arms.

I'm thoroughly distracted for the rest of the day. For the rest of the week. When the weekend comes, I ask my boyfriend to go to the pier, so we can take my son to the carnival. It's such a painful happiness to walk that old boardwalk, to reimagine the ghost of our days together. My son is so curious and wants to know about everything. He even notices that mommy looks sad. I tell him that mommy just really loves the pier because she went there a long time ago. He helpfully tells me maybe mommy needs to come there more often. I tell him maybe he is right.

I'm not surprised when I see you at the taco truck again, just a week later. We are so silly. One chance meeting and we are already making this something even though we pretend we aren't.

This time you ask to sit and eat with me. We chat while sitting on the scratchy wood picnic table on the curb by the taco truck. The loud traffic rushing past us makes it hard for me to hear you. And I think of our fateful chance meeting in the noisy bar. You see me chuckling at nothing, and ask what's so funny. I can't tell you, otherwise I know I'll start to cry. Your eyes are more perceptive now, a recognition shining through as you smile back sadly.

You suddenly tell me what an idiot you've been. You explain coming home and realizing you had no one here. No friends, no family. The only contact you'd had before, was me. I didn't know that you tried to find me when you got back; you didn't know where I lived after I moved from my roommate's apartment. But you didn't call me either. You gave up; you were trying to let me "live my life". I tell you to stop talking like this and get up to throw away the rest of my food that I can no longer stomach. I feel you come up behind me as I stand at the garbage can, trying to collect myself. I feel your hands on my arms, turning me around, then surrounding me so I can't escape. I fall into your chest and cry. You can't hear my sobs over the drone of cars, but you can feel my shaking form as you hold it.

It's minutes before I can tip my head up and look at you. To see the boy I loved that is now a man who is filled with regret. To see his eyes filled with longing. To see him want me as much as I've ever wanted him. The pull of desire between us is something next to agony, the terrible debate I'm having with myself when I decide that I absolutely should not kiss you. And you struggle to agree, your eyes locked on mine as you cradle my face in your hands. I know this is dangerous, but I don't stop you. My trembling lips feel your kiss and everything inside me screams to accept this.

You pull away with an apologetic exhale, surprised by your own boldness. You say you're sorry, and I stop you. I ask you if you drove there. Confused for only a scant second, your eyes narrow. You say my name, questioning my judgement. I give you the most serious of looks I have ever given you. I say not one word, refusing to explain myself to you because if you pass up what I am offering you, I'm never, ever going to speak to you again. I simply hold onto your shirt, both hands clinging to that snug Henley in combat green.

Your eyes simmer with agreement, your lips pulled tight as they try not to grin. Silently you separate and lead me to your car. Another vintage model, not in good shape. I chuckle when you say you're working on it. Uh huh. Unwilling to throw away old things, hoping to revitalize the life within them.

I ride along silently as you drive, waiting to see the surroundings becoming more desolate, waiting to see what spot you will choose for us. Behind a building that looks abandoned, covered in graffiti, you put the car in park. I turn to you as the engine makes a clunking sputter, and jump you as soon as you have turned the ignition key off. I kiss you with open mouthfuls dying to taste you. I grab your hair, keeping hold of your head as I move my body, trying to figure out how I should fuck you. The front seat is too small with the manual shifter blocking my path, but the back seat upholstery is riddled with rips and stains.

Too impatient and too horny to make any other logical decision, I unbuckle and unzip you. I dive down and get my lips on your cock that is satisfyingly hard as ever. I taste your pre-cum after only taking a few hard sucks, teasing you with the tip of my tongue when I say it's been awhile. You breathlessly agree, and somewhere in the back of my mind I am happy to think that maybe you've been waiting for me. To think that this rigid prize has been suffering in abstinence for me all this time. And it only makes me want you more, swallowing you up as you groan in warning. But I need something too.

I sit up and tug down the stretchy rayon fabric of my blouse, pulling it down and off my shoulders. I get it tucked underneath my breasts, not caring that I am wearing one of my more unsexy (but comfortable) bras in a solid beige. You don't seem to care either when I tug my breasts out, and sit up in my seat. No instruction necessary when you dive down to suckle me, tickling my nipples with that perfect tongue of yours. And then you make it even better, sliding a hand down between my legs, going over the thin slacks I'm wearing. You can still find my clit, even through the fabric, pressing down until you can feel the crest of my pussy. I barely separate and shift in my seat, pushing down my panties and getting myself exposed so you can do this properly, fingers lubricated by your tongue, then returned to me and stroking me as I whine for you.

There we are, jerking and fingering each other like a pair of teens. I really want you to fuck me but that little eek of common sense that's running in the background, knows this is safer.

God I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. I don't feel like this with my boyfriend. I don't think I'll ever feel like this with anyone. I'm almost crying when I come, legs spread apart with my panties stretched across my thighs, your fingers pumping frantically, swearing at you in the cuss words I know in Spanish. My wrist is aching like it does after a long day of cutting hair, so I go back to sucking you instead. Having more sense than your younger self, you pause me so you can tug down your pants, clearing the way for the explosive finish I'm about to give you.

And I'm so happy when I make you come. The way you groan as it almost hurts, the way you shudder through it, the way you taste in my mouth. The way you flinch so adorably when I kiss the smooth tip of you, setting you free. I try not to get anything on your seat, but you chuckle you don't fucking care. You pull me up so you can kiss me, laughing with the same mad laugh I have.

We know we have just done something completely insane. We know there will be consequences. But we did it anyway. We did it because we can't take this separation anymore. I cannot partition off the part of myself that wants you. But another part is starving for more than the desire I feel; it's starving for your love. And only then does my brain recede into reality. My orgasmic giddiness fades, and my heart aches to be satisfied as well. I want to be with you for longer. I want a life with you beyond the seat of your car. I look into your eyes and I think I see this reflected back. Why don't you know that about yourself? Why didn't you understand what you wanted was me?

You drive me back to my car. We don't know what else to say to each other, but I ask for your phone number. You hesitate, saying I "don't owe you anything". I agree, I don't owe you a goddamn thing. But you owe me. You owe me a house. You owe me a husband. You owe me a son. You owe me all the things I ever wanted for us, the things that don't belong to you because you never gave us that chance. The guilt is in your brown eyes that can't argue against this. So you give me your phone number.

I leave and pick up my son from daycare. I take him home and make dinner. My boyfriend texts that he'll be home in 30 minutes. When my son finishes his dinner, I set him up in front of the TV and let him watch cartoons. I take a shower, scrubbing off my lusty perspiration. My boyfriend comes home and notices that I'm in a good mood. We go to bed early, and I surprise him with a lacy, sheer bra. He's not unhappy that I want sex, but I can tell he's not used to this version of me. The one who says what she wants, without being asked, without being instructed. I want it harder and faster, I want him to make me feel the way that you do.

When he falls asleep, I text you. I want to know where you live. The pause in your response knows what I'm asking. You wisely counter my question with your own. When do I work next, and do I want to meet for lunch? For lunch. All I think is that I should eat something more substantial for breakfast since I won't be eating at lunchtime.

We meet two days later; timing that you have orchestrated instead of the immediacy that I wanted. We sit down at a park not far from the taco truck, and you actually want to talk. You ask me about my boyfriend. I don't want to talk about him; I joke and deflect to go back to you. But you won't let me dodge the topic. You want to know how long I've been seeing him. You want to know how long we've lived together. Do I want to marry him? Am I happy with him?

I get angry. Why do you get to ask the questions that you would never answer if I had asked you? What does it matter anymore? You scoff at my belligerence; you give me a look saying it matters because we nearly fucked each other in your car. My anger turns into frustrated tears. Why don't you tell me what YOU want? Why don't you tell me where you're living and who YOU are living with?

You don't want to say it, and I recognize the boy who is still ashamed of his poverty. You finally confess that you are living at the Y. You were discharged and you found a job at a local machine shop. But you hate it. You hate your idiot coworkers and you make peanuts. There's not much else you're good for, your legs and back are messed up from your old injuries. Your brother offered you a job if you move to Sacramento. You could live with him while you save up money. But you don't want to move away.

I tell you to take the job. Go make that money. Go save up for a better life. Because you already left me 5 years ago and it doesn't matter anymore. I'm with someone else. I don't know if I love him. I don't know if I want to get married. I just have to take care of my son. And that means I need to have some kind of relationship with his father. I wish it wasn't like this, but you were MIA. You left me in the dark and I floundered my way to find someone else. Because I was so goddamn lonely and heartbroken that I could barely live with it. Every morning I woke up and fantasized about going to the pier and walking out into the ocean. I thought I'd sink to the bottom and wait for you to meet me there. We'd find each other in the only place we could exist together.

You shake your head with remorseful sorrow. But it quickly turns into anger. I see the deep hatred welling up, the self-loathing that I will come to know so well in the coming years. You tell me you know you messed it up. You don't need to be reminded. You're sorry. And then you stalk off and leave me with another uneaten lunch.

*****

Weeks go by before we speak again. It feels like longer, and I wonder if you've gone to Sacramento when I get a call from my son's grade school. There was an accident. He is being rushed to the hospital and I should meet the ambulance there. I text my boyfriend and I text my mom. And then I text you. I figure you have already moved, but for some reason, I want you to know. Just in case things get worse, just in case this is very bad, I need you.

I get to the ER and my son is already there. I'm being overloaded with information about his status- yes, he's awake but in pain. He might need surgery. A car hit him when he darted out from behind the school bus. I'm still getting the complete story when my boyfriend shows up. His male presence demands more respect, so the nurses talk to him and ignore me. I'm getting frustrated when you show up. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or an incredibly bad thing when I stumble into your arms. You hold me as I sob into your shoulder. I don't care if my boyfriend sees this- which he doesn't because he's too engrossed in being Mr. Father-figure for a change.

You ask what can you do? How can you help? Do I need to call my work? Any other relatives? You are exactly what I need- calm, but intensely focused. I ask you to call my mom and give her more details. And you do. Then you call my son's school and ask if they have the information on the driver who hit my son. You ask if they filed a police report. I am stunned by how professional you are.

Hours later, my son is stable and I can finally see him. He has a concussion, some fractured ribs, and a broken arm. The surgeon tells us that his arm probably saved his life as it took most of the force, but it will need another surgery later on. My boyfriend gives my son a hug and calls him a champ. Then he talks to the surgeon because this is also another important person. I go fetch you from the waiting room; I want you to meet my son. And it's one of the best decisions I ever made.

I introduce you to each other. I tell my son this is mommy's very good friend from when she was a ninita, the one who is a soldier. For a moment, you are without words when you see this little male version of me. He has my coloring- brown hair and hazel eyes, he has my defiant chin. You smile at him and kneel down to his bedside. You ask him about his cast, and he says the doctor put a thing in his arm. Then you show my son the scar on your arm from your own surgery. The long scar that wraps around your wrist, the one that nearly shredded flesh from the bone. You tell my son how brave he was, and how it will get better. He has to do what the doctors tell him to do. He has to listen to his mama and do what she says.

He nods obediently, and asks if you were still a soldier after you hurt your arm. You tell him that soldiers can get hurt alot worse than you were, and still be soldiers. I can feel my eyes tearing up as you two talk. You are so good with him, sweet, but not condescending. You tell him that it still hurts a little and you've learned to live with the pain, but it gets easier. I wonder how long you have told yourself that, if you believe that.

It is only when you stand to leave after you've made my son giggle with a joke, that my boyfriend notices this other man in the room. And then you finally size each other up. I can see you want to intimidate him, I can see how you stretch yourself up taller. But my boyfriend just shakes your hand. It's only after you leave that he asks me questions, finally listening to the stories I've told him before about you. And my son is so taken with you, he wants to know when the soldier will come back. That, bothers my boyfriend. Of all the things, he doesn't want you to steal daddy's spotlight.

I call you when my son is released from the hospital, and you tell me you've accepted your brother's job offer. You're driving to Sacramento tomorrow. I gulp back my feelings; I congratulate you and tell you I think that will be really good for you. I thank you profusely for helping me at the hospital. I tell you I couldn't have gotten through it without you. You demurely tell me it was nothing. No, I argue, it was far from nothing. And I try to hide the tears in my voice when we say goodbye, when we make casual promises to call and text each other.

I park in my driveway and wipe off my tears, concealing my feelings from my boyfriend. I go to bed and know the man beside me is not the man I love. I'm not sure if I can love anyone else after you. And I wonder if you will try to find someone else, and what she would be like. I hate the idea so much it makes my skin itch.

*****

Things get worse between my boyfriend and I. My son's medical care creates debate, decisions for us to fight over, decisions he wants to make without my input. And then, I notice he is more engrossed in his phone. He keeps it on silent, but I can see messages pop up. Messages he chuckles at and smiles at. There's another woman, I'm almost certain of it.

A few months of this has gone by with just a handful of texts from you. The texts relay the requisite details about your job and life in Sacramento. But not about you. One night you call me after I've gone to bed, but I don't hear it; my phone's on vibrate. When I wake up the next morning, I see the missed call, but there's no voicemail. I text you and you don't reply till a day later. You say it was a butt dial. I don't believe you.

As soon as I get the opportunity- and excuse, to travel north, I take it. There is a hair stylist conference of sorts in Sacramento, and I sign up to go. A coworker offers to stay with me and split the hotel room, but I lie and tell her my boyfriend is coming along for the weekend. I feel guilty, but I don't want a roommate when I come to see you.

We make arrangements for me to have dinner at your brother's house. The conference is only on Friday and part of Saturday, so my Saturday evening is free. It's a beautiful house in the suburbs with a big yard and a little playground. Your brother is older, his hair thinning and carrying extra weight around his middle. His bristly mustache barely makes a smile at me. I wish I knew why he never liked me, why he thought I was bad for you.

When I see you, I'm a little shocked. You shuffle into the house, wearing jeans and a grubby t-shirt. You've lost weight, a leanness in your face that looks unhealthy. Your hair is much longer, the wavy curls almost to your chin and hanging over your eyes, allowing you to avoid my gaze. Your demeanor is also different; the confidence of the marine is now quiet and hushed.

Your sister-in-law is now an adept hostess, keeping everyone talking with open-ended questions, but even she struggles to get you chatting. I announce that I'll be done with school in a few months, and I'm opening my own salon. Your brother grumbles how hard it is to run a business, that it takes alot of work. I ignore his patronizing words, and you quietly congratulate me. You mumble like your brother does, replying to him in Spanish. In two months, you've regressed back to the teen version of you. It's only when your little niece, who is a few years older than my son, asks you to play with her that you brighten up. You chase her around the backyard, making her squeal with excitement as you stalk her with hands outstretched, ready to tickle her. I watch this and feel a bittersweet joy to see how you interact with her. You catch me watching you, and your playful grin dissolves.