surrounding her so it gave the illusion of less
space, less emptiness. How can my bed feel even emptier after someone
has shared it than in all the preceding nights? It was a paradox for which
she had no explanatory theories. And she was rarely lacking an explanatory
theory.
Two days after his
visit, it was Monday and the rat race was back on. Sarah was mildly
irritated that she hadn’t heard back from James, but she wasn’t overly worried.
She continued to periodically glance at her phone, willing it to chime, but
there was nothing. She went to bed that night hopeful that tomorrow would be
the day.
After three days, on
Tuesday, she felt silly, like she had completely misread everything. She
made a living reading people and understanding behavior and motivations, yet
she had been dead wrong about his interest in her, about their connection, about
everything. That night in her lonely bed she once again examined the
ridiculously strong sexual chemistry she felt with him. Or at least what
she thought she had felt. Have I been out of the game so long that I no
longer know what good sex is? Why did I let my expectations get so out of
control? She wrapped herself snuggly in the sheets and threw her arm around
a pillow as if it was a body and sobbed a few times before finally surrendering
to sleep. When she awoke, she was angry with herself for being upset. She hated
feeling out of control or too heavily influenced by someone else’s actions or
lack thereof. Why am I letting someone else control my feelings? she
begged for answers.
She threw herself back
into her work and vowed to let him come to her. I’m not chasing a 29
year old guy, she resolved. When Rachel asked her how the night went,
that was precisely the answer she received. She refused to provide any
other details about their encounter. Rachel was disappointed but she knew better
than to push her friend. Instead, she offered a diversion: “Come out with Mark
and me this weekend. We’re going to the new club.” Sarah agreed. A
distraction was in order.
Not only did she need a
distraction from the disaster that James McAllister turned out to be, but what
was shaping up to be an intense semester at work as well. She had just accepted
an editorial position for a fairly prestigious journal and article submissions
were coming at her left and right. Added to that was an appointment to a search
committee for a new faculty member in their department, plus the first wave of
exams were starting now that they were a few weeks into the semester. The
kids had gotten into the thick of their busy season as well. Owen had
soccer practice twice a week with games on Saturday mornings, and Abby had
violin lessons plus cross country, which she complained about so much that
Sarah was tempted to let her quit.
And there was a
situation with Abby. Sarah hadn’t been able to shake her disconcerted feeling
about her daughter ever since she found condoms stashed under her bed, two
still sealed in their packets, the other opened and stretched out, but thank
the gods, seemingly empty. Sarah was taken aback. That was something she
had expected to find in her teenage son’s room, not her daughter’s. She wasn’t
upset; concerned was a better description, plus shocked because it seemed so
out of character. And where did she get them? Was she just experimenting or
did she have a reason to need them? Sarah wondered.
On that mundane Tuesday
night, Sarah asked Owen to clear the dinner dishes and invited Abby to come
talk with her in her bedroom. Abby snarkily declined her invitation, but once
Sarah adopted her more insistent maternal tone, her daughter hesitantly
complied. She marched down the hallway to her mother’s room with heavy
footsteps, a performance capped off by hurling her 115 pound body onto the bed
in protest.
Sarah took a deep
breath. Was I this obnoxious when I was her age? she questioned and
pleaded with the gods to grant her patience. She found her calm voice
space, less emptiness. How can my bed feel even emptier after someone
has shared it than in all the preceding nights? It was a paradox for which
she had no explanatory theories. And she was rarely lacking an explanatory
theory.
Two days after his
visit, it was Monday and the rat race was back on. Sarah was mildly
irritated that she hadn’t heard back from James, but she wasn’t overly worried.
She continued to periodically glance at her phone, willing it to chime, but
there was nothing. She went to bed that night hopeful that tomorrow would be
the day.
After three days, on
Tuesday, she felt silly, like she had completely misread everything. She
made a living reading people and understanding behavior and motivations, yet
she had been dead wrong about his interest in her, about their connection, about
everything. That night in her lonely bed she once again examined the
ridiculously strong sexual chemistry she felt with him. Or at least what
she thought she had felt. Have I been out of the game so long that I no
longer know what good sex is? Why did I let my expectations get so out of
control? She wrapped herself snuggly in the sheets and threw her arm around
a pillow as if it was a body and sobbed a few times before finally surrendering
to sleep. When she awoke, she was angry with herself for being upset. She hated
feeling out of control or too heavily influenced by someone else’s actions or
lack thereof. Why am I letting someone else control my feelings? she
begged for answers.
She threw herself back
into her work and vowed to let him come to her. I’m not chasing a 29
year old guy, she resolved. When Rachel asked her how the night went,
that was precisely the answer she received. She refused to provide any
other details about their encounter. Rachel was disappointed but she knew better
than to push her friend. Instead, she offered a diversion: “Come out with Mark
and me this weekend. We’re going to the new club.” Sarah agreed. A
distraction was in order.
Not only did she need a
distraction from the disaster that James McAllister turned out to be, but what
was shaping up to be an intense semester at work as well. She had just accepted
an editorial position for a fairly prestigious journal and article submissions
were coming at her left and right. Added to that was an appointment to a search
committee for a new faculty member in their department, plus the first wave of
exams were starting now that they were a few weeks into the semester. The
kids had gotten into the thick of their busy season as well. Owen had
soccer practice twice a week with games on Saturday mornings, and Abby had
violin lessons plus cross country, which she complained about so much that
Sarah was tempted to let her quit.
And there was a
situation with Abby. Sarah hadn’t been able to shake her disconcerted feeling
about her daughter ever since she found condoms stashed under her bed, two
still sealed in their packets, the other opened and stretched out, but thank
the gods, seemingly empty. Sarah was taken aback. That was something she
had expected to find in her teenage son’s room, not her daughter’s. She wasn’t
upset; concerned was a better description, plus shocked because it seemed so
out of character. And where did she get them? Was she just experimenting or
did she have a reason to need them? Sarah wondered.
On that mundane Tuesday
night, Sarah asked Owen to clear the dinner dishes and invited Abby to come
talk with her in her bedroom. Abby snarkily declined her invitation, but once
Sarah adopted her more insistent maternal tone, her daughter hesitantly
complied. She marched down the hallway to her mother’s room with heavy
footsteps, a performance capped off by hurling her 115 pound body onto the bed
in protest.
Sarah took a deep
breath. Was I this obnoxious when I was her age? she questioned and
pleaded with the gods to grant her patience. She found her calm voice
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