Calling Him Out

“Jesus,” he said, exasperated as he rolled his eyes, “Are you that **** for validation that you’ll just demand it? God, you must be an absolute peach to be around.”

He moved to turn and I took it as a mark of cowardice on his part, taking a step in to close the gap between us a little bit more, my next line already chosen as I stepped up to the plate ready to hit a home run.

Eddie was underestimating me. Eddie didn’t know that I knew him as well as I did. He had no idea that I had a whole host of dirt on him, that I knew precisely how he operated.

And I, apparently, forgot how to properly move for just a minute.

The dance was anything but. It was a stumble as I stepped forward and Eddie, no doubt sensing my presence, turned around to meet me. I was raising my hand as he turned and it was just the merest brush of my finger on his, the barest little sensation that was enough to spark off the connection again.

The same one I’d had twice already, first with Rachel and then with Blake. The scent of incense and the feel like I was being pulled and the passage of time that ran too fast, because in the blink of an eye I was somewhere else once more.

Gasp and gulp in air and wait, staring at myself in the mirror. Heavy coat over my body cinched tight, tight enough that I can’t see anything beneath but I know what’s hiding. It’s all leather and lace and clinging to my body and I can feel it all and know what’s there, even if the only part of it that’s visible is the collar around my neck.

I look good right now but I don’t really get to see. The mirror I’m looking in is cracked and stained and I don’t have enough time to properly check it out anyways. It’s more that I get a sense of it like I did before I left home tonight but then the elevator I’m standing in dings and I’m **** to turn and step off of it.

I don’t like this floor and I don’t like this hall and I don’t like this building and I don’t like this neighborhood but I have little choice and even less say in the matter. I’m here for a purpose. I’m here not because I chose to be here but because I have to be here. I’m here, on my birthday, to do what I always do because I made a promise oh so long ago that I would.

So I step out into the hallway, wrinkling my nose at the smell. Teetering on heels that make me feel uncomfortably tall but grateful at least that they rise me that little bit extra above the stained carpet beneath me. I try to ignore the scent of sweat and humanity, the stale beer and the spilled tears in this place, as I make my way quickly down the hall and stop at the door I always stop at.

I knock lightly. I wait long for him to answer, hearing the shuffle behind it as he steps up to the door and then the repetitive sound of him unlatching lock after lock before the door pops open.

Note the wording there. It pops open. He doesn’t open it for me. He doesn’t even wait for me there he just unlocks and leaves it hanging like a gap for me to push through but I know the deal and I do and I close it behind me, going through the rhythms of latching all the locks as my heart starts to pound a whole lot faster and a whole lot harder with the thought of what I’m about to do.

This is always hard, though it gets easier as the night grows longer. I don’t want to be here, not exactly, but I know that I need to and I convince myself over and over that it’s not so bad or at least that it’ll get better.

I tell myself over and over again that we’re reaching the bottom, that soon we’ll start to rise. But I don’t know if I believe it anymore.

As I turn I give a sigh of relief at the fact that he’s cleaned this time. Maybe that’s my birthday present because I certainly won’t get another one but I’m grateful for that, happy for the small blessings that I’m given.

And as I step into the apartment in search of him I find my apprehension melts away as I remember the reason that I’m doing this. I remember why I’ve given myself over to this moment.

This isn’t a choice. This is a necessity. One that in my heart of hearts I will admit I enjoy.

I find him standing in the kitchen, a half empty bottle in his hands and he pushes his hair out of his eyes and stares at me. No he glares at me, wondering why I’ve come.

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