Nothing, and then, “I’ll be there soon.”
Stephen arrived at my apartment not long after me: low, soft knocks on the door.
I called out. “It’s open.”
I was splayed on the couch, thumbs pushed into the pocket of my brows to still the pounding. The door opened and Stephen stood still in the threshold. He reminded me of a scene from a movie, any movie: men standing in doorways, filling the space with their silence.
“Are you coming in?”
He took his time, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door, making his slow way around the couch. I moved my legs to make room for him but he perched at the edge of the coffee table, hands folded together. I sat up and a rush of air whooshed through me. Dizzy, disoriented.
“I do not feel great.”
Stephen went to the kitchen and returned a moment later, glass of water in hand. I edged over, making room. “Come sit.” He did. “I guess I’m drunk, it just hit me. It was Safie’s idea.” I drained the glass in one long swallow.
“I’m sure she had some help.”
“We all played our parts.” I smiled, and it made my face ache.
“Did something happen tonight?”
How to convey the strangeness of the man, my fear of him, my feeling that I had somehow brought it on myself? The ways it made me hate this town, and this job, and hate myself for thinking Icould make something work here. What could I say about how he held my arm, the force of it expressing a desire to hurt me, but some other desire as well? It all seemed suddenly minor, not noteworthy, my recollection fuzzy.
“No,” I said. “Nothing happened.”
“Well—okay.”
Stephen looked disheveled but still somehow dignified, his handsomeness pushing through. Hair messy with interrupted sleep, stubble like pinpoints of light across his cheeks and chin. I could see the uncertainty behind his eyes, the waiting. I’d been a horrible boyfriend, and truthfully, I hadn’t been a great one before all this. And yet, Stephen was the one I called, and he came right over, in the middle of the night without asking a thing.
“I know I’ve been awful, disappearing on you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Stephen eased into the couch, releasing himself to it. “It’s alright.”
“It’s really not. I’m sure it hasn’t been fun for you.”
“Not everything has to be fun, Mark.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t like having no idea what’s going on with you. You ditch out on your own drinks, no explanation. Acting like it’s nothing. And then I don’t hear from you for weeks. What am I supposed to do with that? It feels like—you’ve gone somewhere.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Well, what is it? What’s happening with you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then let’s figure it out.”
We sat in quiet and a clammy sensation wrapped itself around my neck and I understood why I had called. Stephen deserved better, he always had. He reached for my hand and I pulled it back.
“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” And then, like he wouldn’t have understood what I meant: “I need this to end.” Stephen said nothing. The moment stretched on, the silence shattering. He made no sound. Tears pooled in his eyes and he clasped his hands, knuckles white with pressure. “Stephen.”
And then he leapt from the couch, lifted, it seemed, by a sudden rage.
“You called me here in the middle of the night to break up with me?”
“No, I didn’t. I mean—”
