Jan 16, 1997/ March 15, 1999/ Feb 04, 2002

Dressing for breakfast...hmmm. How do you do that when you barely know the person who is wrapped in the floral print sheets next to you? I’m not exactly sure whose body is pressed up against mine right now. A quick look around the room assures me I’m in my own bedroom, but who is this with me? I wish now that I didn’t have my contacts in, wish that I couldn’t really see what is going on here. I would love to have opened my eyes and had it be too blurry to figure out and gone back to sleep. My head is pounding…

Now it all comes back to me; at least I know his name...Billy. I recall it seemed a juvenile name for a man of his stature, but maybe that’s a part of what attracted me. I glance at the arm on the sheet beside me. Light hair sprinkled up the arm, no hairy knuckles or backs of hands, which is a good sign. Damn, I can only see his right hand, I can’t tell if there’s a wedding band or not. How could I have forgotten to check last night? I glance over barely pivoting my neck. I can see a bit of his leg peeking out from under the sheets, covers. Maybe they are called covers because even in the most intimate of situations they cover what you want them to. Look at me now, covers arranged tightly across my sagging breasts to hold them up. 29 years old, who would have thought I would still be finding myself in situations like this when I can’t be so careless about my body anymore. Even 10 years ago I couldn’t be careless with my body. Really, who can be except those extraordinarily beautiful people, and I’ll never be one of them.

At least 10 years ago this is what was expected of me. By now I should be settled down--or so all of my ‘respectable’ friends say. They are married now, every last one of them. However, they have this amazing ability to turn off their consciences, the mini tape recorders in their minds that should constantly spew forth vows of the sanctity of marriage every time they cheat. At least the only one I’m cheating is myself, out of a chance of long-term happiness.

It’s been like this since you left. It still itches like an old scar. The thought that I could still be loving you, that part of me probably always will, if only you hadn’t decided that it should all be over. It’s still your fault. We could still be together if you hadn’t made the big mistake. IF. So hopeful a word. So hopeless a word.

I stealthily climb out of the bed and pad across the soft carpet to the closet. This is a first, in my room, in my apartment. The room is newly christened. Strange, it is usually at the guy’s place and usually in a more exotic locale than the bedroom. You were the only one to grace this room before now. In their places I can remain a little more detached. I can escape if I want to. Right now there is a man in my bed so I can’t really disappear. Can’t forget the night that easily. Might this be a good lesson? At the random man’s house I can just put on last night’s clothes and stumble into the kitchen where the respective man stands making coffee. I can mumble an excuse and head down the street to the nearest restaurant grab a coffee and start to relive the night. Now it is my turn to play hostess. A skirt? A loose flowing dress? Jeans? Yeah, that will be natural looking, jeans and a T.

I never used to be one of those people who could go somewhere alone. I never would have been alone at the movies, the mall, a restaurant, or out walking. I was unable to face any situation solo. Now after you, I can do anything. I know I could live my entire life solo and probably will, because aside from indulging in pleasures of random flesh, my heart is dead. My will to find ‘the one’ is dead. I had him, it was you, and you managed to ruin it all. I still feel as if being alone will prove something to you. If someday I should see you out and you glance at my finger you will know I am strong enough that I can be on my own. I still live to prove things to you. So how strong does that make me really? Little do you know I have as many random guys now as you had girls while you were with me. I forgave you all that but still you left me and still sometimes I feel it was my fault. I know you gained 50 pounds. I know you aren’t happy. Why don’t you call? Are you afraid I am not waiting anymore? I shouldn’t be, but I am.

The women’s magazines all tell me it was your fault and to get over you. They tell me I did the best I could do with you, that you are the flawed one and that I worked your stupid selfish ball of flesh as close to an adult as I could. Somehow I still feel I was so close to having you and that the break didn’t spare me as you said it would. It sent me off into a spiral of never getting to see our dreams come true. Here I am still alone. Really, not so solo I guess since your specter still haunts me at every turn, my only constant companion.

I slide effortlessly into a pair of year old, worn thin and faded jeans. It is odd to be in the other person’s shoes. Do the guys have a little war in their heads about morning attire too? Down the hall to the kitchen. Does he like coffee? I think I remember him drinking coffee before the drinks were served. I like tea. Do I make both, or just one? Both. I think we will both need a lot of caffeine to jump-start us this morning. We were very busy last night. A friend of mine, who turned out to be a friend of his also, threw a killer welcome to summer bash last night, and I must say it turned out to be a mighty sweaty summer night for me!

Three scoops of finely ground coffee should be good. Tossing the coffee grounds into the filter I shove the bowl into the coffee maker and turn the unit on. The water gurgles delightedly as it becomes rich, dark coffee. Your eyes were dark like that. They held the mystery of the dark waters of the Nile. They now seem to me in my recollections as a polluted lake. I still have to try and hate you. I used to see so much in your eyes, the warm and glowing future you promised. Why did you bother? Was it all a lie? Or was it only the truth until the next best thing came along?

Hmmm, I wonder if I have time to shower before he wakes up? Or would that be insulting? Or should I wait until he wakes up and see if he showers? Should I just hop in the shower with him? Or was it just that he was drunk last night? Drunker than I was? Will he still like me, let alone remember me, for more than my acrobatic integrity this morning? I’ll wait on debating this whole shower matter for a bit, but some tea would be nice.

As I take my first sip I hear the sheets rustling, some rummaging, his watch clicking back down on the nightstand, his feet swinging to the floor, khakis sliding up his long legs. I want to run now, far and fast, but that worried feeling in the pit of my stomach keeps me rooted to the spot. It’s too late now anyway, he’s coming down the hall.

He looks adorable with his mussed hair and sleepy eyes. “Morning gorgeous,” his first utterance. He may not remember my name. Or maybe he actually likes me? What is that? A pang of caring? I almost hope he likes me in a way because he was just so friendly last night even before we left the party together. He was instantly likeable. I don’t think I want to throw this one away. Oh, here I go, over-thinking, just as I shouldn’t. Damn why I always do this to myself? Each time I meet a man I set myself up for the fall. I look too far ahead, I act too interested, or uninterested, I scare them off, and therefore I remain safe. No wonder men think women are crazy. Why am I thinking about all this? I should be trying to make polite conversation. What to say? I haven’t even decided if I really care yet. I can’t even decide why I am having emotions. It has been so long and I just don’t know what to do.

“Is that coffee you’ve got there?”
“That is your poison of choice is it not?” I ask sounding like some old movie where the woman is wickedly divine and the man is madly in love.
“But of course, Ma’am,” he replies picking up on it right away. He then walks past me dropping a kiss atop my head as he passes. What do I do? What actually happened last night anyway? Was it more than sex?

Billy sits down at the table. This is a very large man with his legs cramped under my very small breakfast table. He places the mug to his lips. I wish I were that mug. I grab my cup of tea from the counter and move to sit across from him. I start drinking before I have a chance to say anything stupid.

I sit and think and if memory serves we left the party after a few glasses of wine. I was floating and he was my rock to hold onto. We caught a taxi to my place. How I remembered the address I will never know. How did I recover my keys from my purse, fit them into the lock and manage to get up the stairs? I can only imagine the spectacle, kissing and tripping and groping our way up the stairs. Another lock to negotiate and then inside, down the hall, removing clothes all the way along.

Billy looks over and smiles at me, the small lines around his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I like you in those jeans. Quite a different look from last night, of course you still look just as beautiful, Deborah.”

Shocked I set my mug down on the table and smile warmly, genuinely at him. I feel like I haven’t done that it in years. Probably not once I got to know the real you. When did it get so hard to close that little album in my mind? The pictures old and tattered with lies written in your eyes in every last one. How did I mistake my weakness for strength? I feel the balls of light behind my eyes shift into focus.