Brendan, and Justin’s comment to me in the kitchen the morning after about dirty dancing in the corner.
I missed him.
It came over me with a pang of longing in my chest that took my breath away. I missed him. I wanted to be dancing with him now. Or falling into bed with him, stripping off his clothes and feeling his skin against mine.
I wanted to be mad at him. Blame him for making me feel like this and then disappearing. But it wasn’t his fault. I was the one who had invited him in. And kept inviting him in. I’d never asked him for anything more, he’d never offered it.
And if it was just a hot guy’s body I wanted against mine, then I had plenty to choose from here. As if proving something to myself, I turned to the nearest one and gave my best come-hither-stare. I probably failed miserably, but he was drunk enough not to notice. It gave him the message, at least, because he was beside me immediately, his hands on my hips as I writhed and twisted them against him.
I even let him kiss me. I responded at first. But then suddenly his tongue in my mouth felt horribly slug-like; I pulled away abruptly. I mumbled something about the bathroom and escaped, and when I glanced back, pausing at the bathroom door, I could see tongue-guy already grinding with someone else.
I was both disgusted and relieved.
I locked myself in a a cubicle and sat on the closed lid of the toilet with my head slumped down to my knees. But that made me feel dizzy and sick, so I sat up again.
It wasn’t just anybody that I wanted. It was one specific body. And the way I saw it, I had two options — go home now, and go to sleep, hope that he showed up sometime. Or get so drunk right now that I’d just take someone home, anyway, even if I didn’t want to. And then I’d still hope that Brendan showed up someday, just with a lot more shame than the first option, but also more sex.
I blew air out of puffed cheeks. Neither option felt that appealing. Both came with a creeping loneliness, but one also came with an extra-helping of self-loathing. Why did I always lean towards the choice that came with self-loathing?
“Time to go home,” I heard someone say outside the cubicle. For a moment I stared at the closed door, disoriented, like the person had read my thoughts. But then I could hear someone else, crying and jabbering drunken nonsense. “Come on, Livvi,” the first voice said again, in the patient, slightly bored tones of the least drunk friend, her default reward for moderation being the charge of her legless companions.
It made me think of Izzy, and I thought I’d better at least check on her. And then leave. It was like a sign, and I was surprised to find myself not needing much encouragement to actually just go home. Alone. I emerged from my cubicle, gave an empathetic smile to the girl picking Livvi up off the floor, and went out.
Izzy was fine, of course, and when I tried to ask her if she wanted to come home with me she just laughed me off and kept dancing with a guy who was trying to make his move, but being thwarted by her oblivious and enthusiastic movements. Justin was also occupied, so I just made for the door.
It was when I was waiting for the girl in coat-check to find my jacket that I saw him. Just out of the corner of my eye, and then I stayed staring straight ahead in panic. I didn’t know whether to acknowledge him or not; if he just happened to be there, and didn’t want to run into me, I didn’t want to make it anymore painful than it needed to be. If I pretended I hadn’t seen him, then he could sneak past and go on with his life.
And though I was stoically staring at the coat-check window, I could feel his presence getting closer. In my peripheral vision, I could see him staring down at a phone in his hands as he walked. So much for not having one.
He passed behind me, not looking up. It was possible that he actually hadn’t seen me, he seemed so engrossed. A few more steps and he’d be
I missed him.
It came over me with a pang of longing in my chest that took my breath away. I missed him. I wanted to be dancing with him now. Or falling into bed with him, stripping off his clothes and feeling his skin against mine.
I wanted to be mad at him. Blame him for making me feel like this and then disappearing. But it wasn’t his fault. I was the one who had invited him in. And kept inviting him in. I’d never asked him for anything more, he’d never offered it.
And if it was just a hot guy’s body I wanted against mine, then I had plenty to choose from here. As if proving something to myself, I turned to the nearest one and gave my best come-hither-stare. I probably failed miserably, but he was drunk enough not to notice. It gave him the message, at least, because he was beside me immediately, his hands on my hips as I writhed and twisted them against him.
I even let him kiss me. I responded at first. But then suddenly his tongue in my mouth felt horribly slug-like; I pulled away abruptly. I mumbled something about the bathroom and escaped, and when I glanced back, pausing at the bathroom door, I could see tongue-guy already grinding with someone else.
I was both disgusted and relieved.
I locked myself in a a cubicle and sat on the closed lid of the toilet with my head slumped down to my knees. But that made me feel dizzy and sick, so I sat up again.
It wasn’t just anybody that I wanted. It was one specific body. And the way I saw it, I had two options — go home now, and go to sleep, hope that he showed up sometime. Or get so drunk right now that I’d just take someone home, anyway, even if I didn’t want to. And then I’d still hope that Brendan showed up someday, just with a lot more shame than the first option, but also more sex.
I blew air out of puffed cheeks. Neither option felt that appealing. Both came with a creeping loneliness, but one also came with an extra-helping of self-loathing. Why did I always lean towards the choice that came with self-loathing?
“Time to go home,” I heard someone say outside the cubicle. For a moment I stared at the closed door, disoriented, like the person had read my thoughts. But then I could hear someone else, crying and jabbering drunken nonsense. “Come on, Livvi,” the first voice said again, in the patient, slightly bored tones of the least drunk friend, her default reward for moderation being the charge of her legless companions.
It made me think of Izzy, and I thought I’d better at least check on her. And then leave. It was like a sign, and I was surprised to find myself not needing much encouragement to actually just go home. Alone. I emerged from my cubicle, gave an empathetic smile to the girl picking Livvi up off the floor, and went out.
Izzy was fine, of course, and when I tried to ask her if she wanted to come home with me she just laughed me off and kept dancing with a guy who was trying to make his move, but being thwarted by her oblivious and enthusiastic movements. Justin was also occupied, so I just made for the door.
It was when I was waiting for the girl in coat-check to find my jacket that I saw him. Just out of the corner of my eye, and then I stayed staring straight ahead in panic. I didn’t know whether to acknowledge him or not; if he just happened to be there, and didn’t want to run into me, I didn’t want to make it anymore painful than it needed to be. If I pretended I hadn’t seen him, then he could sneak past and go on with his life.
And though I was stoically staring at the coat-check window, I could feel his presence getting closer. In my peripheral vision, I could see him staring down at a phone in his hands as he walked. So much for not having one.
He passed behind me, not looking up. It was possible that he actually hadn’t seen me, he seemed so engrossed. A few more steps and he’d be
Similar Books
