The Weekend Pt. 02

Rick apologizes. He says he hired a new bartender, a young gal- still in college, but she's a hard worker- and she doesn't know how to spot 'em yet. By the time Rick came into the bar- he lets her open and he always closes (doesn't feel safe to let a gal lock up alone at 3 am), this young man was clearly three sheets to the wind. But even if she didn't notice your bloodshot eyes and the shaking in your hands, he figures you charmed the pants of the gal and she just kept pouring your drinks. When it got busier- it always gets a little rowdy on a Friday night- he noticed that you moved to the far end of the bar, keeping to yourself. He saw your scars and your tattoos; he recognizes a fellow vet when he sees it. And then he saw you staring at your phone for hours, he saw you drink like you had regrets. He knows what it feels like to have regrets. He caught a glimpse of your screen and saw my photo. He asked about the girl in the photo. You tried to say it was just a girl, and Rick didn't buy it. He said that you seemed awful sad for just some girl. Now he doesn't want to get too personal, but if I know this young man, it seems like the young man should consider himself lucky. 'Cause not many girls would drive to a bar at midnight to pick up the drunken ass of just some man. Especially when they are as pretty as I am, and I didn't even get a drink out of it.

I try not to cry at this tale, and thank Rick for his kindness. He gives me his personal cell phone number and tells me to call him anytime if I need help; if he can't help me, he knows people. He helps me get you up on your feet and we shuffle out to my car. You mumble my name and mumble something about your car. I was planning on coming back for your car later, but it's another vintage, another one you've been working on and fixing up. Another baby to take care of. Rick sees me debating, and gives me your keys. He agrees with my decision to leave behind my boring compact Nissan, and says he'll keep an eye on it till I come back for it.

It's not until I'm sitting in your driver's seat that I realize your car is a manual. I can barely drive a stick shift, and that's only because you patiently tried to teach me so many years ago. This will be a fun drive home. Oh, and I don't even know where the hell you live! I have to dig out your wallet and look at your driver's license. Hopefully, the address listed is up to date.

With much grinding of gears and stalling of the engine, I make it to your apartment; it's in Lemon Grove, about 20 minutes from me. The building is old and run down, a two story design that looks like an old motel with outdoor stairwells. Your neighbors are loudly partying in an open courtyard between the buildings, and I really don't want to draw their attention with your stumbling.

I shake you awake, and tell you need to walk. I can't carry you, and you live on the second story. You smack your lips, briefly coming to, but then tilt your head back lazily. I say your name again and your eyes stay open. You slowly tilt your head and realize it's me. I don't have time to explain things, I just need you to get up and walk. You nod your head and promise you can at least do that.

We carefully maneuver you out of your car and up the stairwell. You only slip a few times, and luckily your neighbors ignore us. We make it into your apartment and I'm relieved, and then I'm horrified.

You have almost no furniture. You have no TV. You have no couch. There is a small, round dining table that is stained, and a pair of mismatched chairs to go with it. I get you settled into a chair and make a quick tour. It's a one-bedroom unit. A tiny one at that, but at least you have a bed.

I sit you down at your table, and inspect your fridge. Ketchup, milk, and moldy cheese. Your cupboards are equally Spartan: corn flakes, instant coffee, and peanut butter. Wedged in the back is a bag of tortilla chips that is mostly crumbs. I give you some water and sit down across from you.

I explain how the bartender called me, how he saw my text. I don't tell you all the details, I don't include the bit about how Rick saw you staring at my picture. You keep silent, nodding while you sip the water.

You have dark circles under your blurry eyes. You're scruffy. You reek of alcohol and car exhaust, and cigarette smoke. You see my eyes going over you with concern; you say you want to take a shower and I should go home and get some sleep. Sure, I say, waiting for you to stand up. As soon as you wobble forward, I put my arm around your shoulders and guide you to the bathroom. The motion gets to you, and you at least warn me with a loud gag.

One large puke, and you are done. I lean your back against the side of the tub and wipe your face off. You're too weak to get up; you'll have to sleep on the floor. I grab your pillow and some blankets, I make a bed in your bathroom. You mumble I don't have to stay, you mumble an apology, and then your eyes close. I sit down beside you and gaze at you without your eyes looking back. I stroke your hair, running my hands over your curls matted with sweat. Without the defensive frown on your face, you still look quite young. Clean-shaven and you'd look even younger.

The longer I look at you, the less I want to leave. You're safely home and asleep; I could probably leave and you'd be fine. But this little voice argues you could get sick again, and maybe you'd need my help. Maybe I should stay the night and make sure you don't have alcohol poisoning. I can text my boyfriend in the morning, which is only a few hours away at this point. I don't have any clients till the afternoon.

I don't intend to sleep on the floor- my back can't take it. But I take a second to snuggle up next to you, to just wrap my arm around you. And in your sleep, you feel this, and shift onto your side, rolling into me. I kiss the top of your head and try to keep my tears from falling on your face. I stay cramped in the corner of your bathroom, lying on the floor till you grunt and roll over. Then I get up, and go to sleep on your bed, fully clothed.

In the morning, I wake before you. I text my boyfriend as planned, I tell him exactly what has transpired. I don't care if he believes me, but I do care what he tells my son.

I find you sitting up in the bathroom, coughing and cringing at your own rancid breath. I bring you some clean clothes, and you take a shower. I make some coffee and offer you a cup, along with some Advil. I want you to eat, but you don't have any food. You say it doesn't matter; you aren't hungry. You keep staring at the table, avoiding my eyes, rubbing your hand across the back of your neck.

Maybe I expected more gratitude, maybe I expected you to get over this awkwardness. You're lucky I'm too tired to really lay into you, so I slap down my business card in front of you. I tell you I'll be at work till 5pm, my last client is scheduled at 4pm. I want you to get some food. Walk to a mini-mart. And then later tonight we will go back to get my car. But you need to be sober, and that means you need to eat and hydrate. I call an Uber, and leave you to rest.

I go back to the routine of my life; checking on my son, eating, showering, and then going to my salon. My boyfriend was not happy when I said I was going back to check on you. He announced very plainly, and in front of my son, that we will "need to talk" when I get back. I think to myself that there is nothing left to talk about anymore, but I agree to his attempt to reassert himself in our relationship. The one he has already drifted out of long before you came back into my life.

You take a while to answer the door when I return. You wave me in, squinting even though it's already dark outside, a grimace on your face. I ask if you've had anything to eat, and you nod unconvincingly. I ask if you had anything to drink, and you shake your head with a huff. You seem sober, so I believe you, but something else is wrong. What did you eat, I ask? You sarcastically mumble "food". The evidence in your kitchen shows you ate a spoonful of peanut butter and tortilla crumbs. I begin to lecture you about the importance of eating, and you cringe in pain, closing your eyes. Your head hurts, sounds are bothering you. I give you some ibuprofen, and tell you I'm going to walk to the nearest store to get you some food.

When I return from the mini-mart down the street, I discover you left the door unlocked for me, because you are lying in bed with the lights off. You try to tell me it's just a bad headache, you get them sometimes and they get better if you just sleep. You want me to just go; you tell me you just need to sleep and to stop worrying. Rather than argue, I get up and use your bathroom. I finish putting away the groceries I've bought. When I come back into your room, your arms are wrapped around your head, trying to shield yourself from sounds and light. Your eyes won't even open when I speak to you as softly as I can. You don't speak, but only groan through your clenched jaw.

I go to your bathroom and bring you a cool washcloth, but you push it away. This is more than a headache, and it's agony to watch it. I stay on your bed, huddled off to the side, trying to decide what to do. I want to take you to the hospital, but even if you don't resist, I'm not sure you can walk in this state. I consider calling my boyfriend for help. He'd have to bring my son along. I don't want him to see you like this, I don't want to take away that precious image of his hero.

You're curled on your side, a deep grimace on your face while you hold deathly still. I lightly place my hand on your arm, rubbing back and forth over your bicep. I take my hand away when your expression remains furrowed in pain, thinking my contact might aggravate your sensory triggers. With your eyes still closed, your hand reaches out until it hits my thigh. You leave your palm on my leg and gingerly curl your body around my hips. The furrow in your brow lessens ever so slightly, and the grimace softens even more when I wrap my arm around your shoulders. I keep holding you, until your breathing slows and you're asleep.

I remain in your bedroom for another hour, making sure you stay asleep, making sure you don't get worse. After a fierce internal debate with myself, I call another Uber and leave your apartment. I hated myself for kowtowing to my boyfriend's disdain, for worrying about what he'd tell my son. But there was no way to convince him that my actions were based on love, not lust. Whereas you have seen the evolution of who I am, you respect the person I've become; he never saw that. My boyfriend only sees the insecure woman he dated, the one who needed him to fill the hole in her heart. He doesn't believe that love could be that selfless, or that strong. That love gives when it receives nothing in return. Just because it's what our heart tells us we must do.

My boyfriend has "the talk" with me the next morning. He's found a condo about 10 minutes away, it's a good deal. He tells me I "can't keep doing this" to him. I resent his sanctimonious act and tell him I endured his many obvious dalliances- the sexts, the lunches, and his convenient business trips. I know I'm not perfect, I know what we did in your car was unfaithful to him. But I tried to be a united couple for my son, all to the deficit. He levels me with the one thing I cannot deny: I never had room for him in my heart. Not when you already occupied the space.

Later that afternoon, I come back to your apartment. I have to bring my son with me, but I don't tell him where we're going. I tell him we need to run some errands, and make an adventure of taking another Uber. You look a little better when you open the door, but I can tell the light hurts your eyes. I warn you with my professional voice that my son is with us, and you need to behave. You nod, and we wait outside on the steps of the stairwell while you make yourself presentable. In five minutes we leave in your car, to go back to Rick's for my car.

My son is excited to see you again, and even more excited to ride in your car. He cracks you up when he says how "everything is so shiny". You explain what kind of car it is, what a manual transmission is and how it works, which my son listens to with rapt attention. It's making me weepy again to watch this; the confident marine is coming back, the man who holds his head up proudly. My son has never seen you as anything but this, and it makes me beyond happy that now he considers you much more than his stepfather.

Rick comes out of the bar when we return; he introduces himself to my son and to you. I can tell you're embarrassed, but Rick makes it seem like we are all old friends (which we will be soon enough). He doesn't betray your confidence to my son, he just says he was watching my car. He waves goodbye from the parking lot as we drive off, and my son waves to you repeatedly as your car veers away to take the exit to Lemon Grove. We both feel the absence of your presence, a resigned calm settling over him, and a resigned sadness settling over me.

Later that night, I text to see how you're doing. You reply you're fine, and not to worry. I tell you I won't worry if you do what I ask you to do. Tomorrow you're going to call the VA, and you're going to make an appointment with a doctor. I will come with you. You can't ignore this anymore. Your text back is a simple "OK".

*****

Slowly and painfully, you crawl forward to sobriety. You see a specialist who quickly determines that you've suffered multiple concussions. Drinking will only make it worse. They refer you to therapists for your physical pain and your mental pain. You follow their advice, but then you'll get stubborn. You stop drinking and then start again; we fight and then you apologize. I can tell you want me in your life, but the drinking is a devilish lure when you're in pain. The vicious cycle is finally disrupted when you meet a fellow vet named Juan. He is Chicano like you, he grew up in Oakland. He knocked out his front teeth in a bar fight, and put his opponent in a coma. Juan becomes your sponsor. He helps you get past the shame and he helps me understand you better. He knows how to explain the things you can't. I'm very grateful for him, and even more grateful that, at last, you and I are nearly becoming something more than ex-lovers.

One Friday evening, I come over with some groceries to make you dinner. As I'm walking up the staircase, I find you at the door of one of your neighbors. You are yelling at him in Spanish, and he's yelling right back over the top of booming music that's coming from within his apartment. Things are getting heated, so I sidle up to you, pulling you away as I say your name in my coy, bimbo voice. You are furious, but my act is working. Nothing distracts a man faster than a girl with big tits acting like she needs the help of his big, strong hands.

When we get back in your apartment, I begin to make dinner. You're still pissed off, grumbling and slamming things. You tell me you're not hungry. I say that I am. You tell me I don't cook. I say that I do now. Unable to rattle my persistence to feed you, you silently watch me chopping garlic and cilantro. I'm waiting for you to make some crack about making your apartment smell, but you don't.

I then slice up some green peppers- not the spicy kind. You are doubtful, all peppers are spicy and you thought I didn't like spicy. I don't, which is why I make a point of taking a piece of pepper- a long, narrow slice- and slowly put my lips around it. I playfully drag my tongue down the length of it, puckering my lips, closing my eyes. When I open my eyes, you are taking a charged breath. Are you hungry yet, I ask. You take a step closer, hooking a finger into the v-neck opening of my t-shirt. I offer you a piece of pepper, and you close your lips around my fingers, carefully taking the pepper in your teeth as you draw my finger from your mouth. You lock eyes with me as you slowly chew, still holding my extended hand with yours. You swallow, and wait.

My body is already telling me what to do, but I also wait. It's been a long time. Years of separation. Years of hurt. Years of longing and waiting. I can't go through this again. If I kiss you, I want the waiting to be over. If I kiss you, I need you to change. I need you to be strong enough to let us be a thing. To be together. My heart is running through its list of demands, but your simmering eyes are making me ache with want.

You slowly lean down and gently kiss me. It's a test, a brief kiss that ends with you pulling away. You assess my expression and reaction, cupping my face in your hand. I place my hand on your chest, knotting your shirt between my fingers. I think you can see that I'm starving, that I've hungered for this. That I've hungered for you. I tip my face up and kiss you. And I kiss you again, a little sigh as I whisper your name. I'm holding onto you with both hands, I'm trying to get closer as I feel you taking a deep breath in. You say my name in a low voice. The voice that is warning me you're about to lose control. Yes, I whisper back. Please, let us have this. Please, just relinquish any control before my body shuts down.

You begin to kiss me ferociously. You kiss me like a starving man. You coil a sturdy arm around my waist and get another hand on the back of my head. Those strong, calloused fingers thread through my hair, down my throat, onto my shoulder. I think your fingers are remembering my old sundress and the way you had to pull my cap sleeves down in order to get my breasts exposed. I separate to show you my t-shirt must come up from the bottom. You chuckle with boyish glee when I'm topless, and I get your shirt off next. Your fingers are already trying to get my bra off, but I want to tease you a little before I give you that prize.

I quickly undo your pants because I want to stroke you. I want to feel how hot and hard you are. But most of all, I want to see how you react. I want to see your eyes flutter and your mouth become a little whimper. I want to see that you are all mine. You say my name as I dive down to lick you. Just a few good firm licks, being sure to stay bent at the waist, letting you peer down at my shaking tits. I taste a little pre-cum, I feel you twitch. I wonder if I should suck you off first to make you last longer, but I decide it's been far too long since you've cummed inside me.

Your hands are trying to pull my jeans off, getting my panties tangled up as you tug down impatiently. I'm chuckling till you slide your fingers between my legs, stroking across my labia. And it makes me happy; you want to see how much you I want you, your fingers gliding through my wetness. Your middle finger curls up with a probing tease, forcing me to gasp with pleasure. I see you want a little control, too. Fine. I start to rock over the finger, biting my lip. If you want my pussy, then you better make her happy.

I back into the counter, my bare bottom against the cheap pressboard cupboards while you give me two fingers. Your other hand has pulled out one of my breasts, mauling it and then licking it. That tongue that knows how to circle around my nipple and flick it and then suck, just in that order. I see that you seem determined to make me come like this, that you finger me with more diligence as I moan louder. But I want your cock, so I reach down to stroke you at the same time. Don't you want to do something with that, I tease. Maybe, you tease back in an infuriatingly sexy whisper.

You're going to make me come first, and you're going to make me beg for you. Your knuckles are up against my clit, rubbing persistently, rubbing until I start to cry out. It's a good orgasm, a nice tight pull that I can get with my vibrator at home. But I want that deep, hard orgasm I get from your cock. I want that cock so badly and you know it. I say your name, whining. You kiss me with a grin on your lips. Yes? you whisper back. Fuck me, goddamit. Fuck me right the fuck now, I demand.