completely mortified, taking in the look in his eyes.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God.
I’d just kissed him.
I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”
“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.
“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”
Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.
But my feet had a mind of their own.
They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.
I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.
I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!
I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.
The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.
I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.
I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.
This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself and him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.
I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.
I didn’t think.
But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.
I didn’t move.
The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.
And I didn’t move.
I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.
The doorbell didn’t ring again.
After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.
And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.
I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.
I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.
But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.
I had a talent with that.
It was the only talent I had.
And I didn’t want it.
I just had no idea how to get rid of it.
It was the only part of me I knew was real.
So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hysterically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.
And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.
* * * * *
The next evening, I was sitting on my couch in the sunken living room, feet to the seat, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, eyes to the darkening sky over the
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God.
I’d just kissed him.
I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”
“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.
“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”
Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.
But my feet had a mind of their own.
They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.
I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.
I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!
I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.
The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.
I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.
I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.
This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself and him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.
I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.
I didn’t think.
But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.
I didn’t move.
The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.
And I didn’t move.
I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.
The doorbell didn’t ring again.
After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.
And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.
I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.
I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.
But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.
I had a talent with that.
It was the only talent I had.
And I didn’t want it.
I just had no idea how to get rid of it.
It was the only part of me I knew was real.
So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hysterically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.
And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.
* * * * *
The next evening, I was sitting on my couch in the sunken living room, feet to the seat, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, eyes to the darkening sky over the
Similar Books
