“Please,” she gasps, a beg caught in her throat. Her fingers slip lower, slip faster as she tries to push back on tears, bite back her panicking, and it feels like the only thing she knows how to do, how she can make body-pleasure bloom on this acrid wash of pain, while her mind rots, her heart rots, her entire self rots in some darkness she swallowed whole.
Her chest craters under the rapid race of her breathing, under the pressure of things she couldn’t—didn’t—let herself have, things she wanted—wants, wants, wants,a beat inside of her that tattoos like a bruise, that is nothealing; and her body, shaking, like a fever is trying to leave it, like a fever is finding a home in her, taking up the space of what she tore out of her.
Please—please—
How could she have done this? To him, to her,to them.
It’s so bitter in her body, the taste of her own grief, how humiliating the warmth of her own shame can be, how far and deep this pain can cut—a loss she thought she was avoiding, and she thought it’d be easier, that it’d hurt less: to maim herself before he could do it, but another person inside of her, that Mulberry walk-up—it felt like a violation. Even the thought,the thought, of another’s hands, more touch that isn’t his, makes her flinch, makes her tears come faster, because all she wants—all she fucking wants—is the shelter of him. She’ll endure his anger—she wants his anger, all his anger—for what she has done; she wants him to break her for it, to hurt her—to hurt her with the force of how much he cares—and then, to hear her, to hear this apology that’s agony inside of her, this regret, this incredible regret building and building past any ache, because what she had, whattheyhad, what she tried to exorcise with the heat of a stranger, what she tore out of herself like stitches, was something she could shape her life around: these bright mornings and late nights, phone calls and texts across time zones, dinners and time apart and time together, and coming back to the same bed, andhow are youandI missed youandI can’t wait to see youand coffee in that home—home—with his arms around her, andWhat do you think of thisandNo, I disagree with that, and his grin against her skin and—
I didn’t see myself marrying her.
She cries out. Her fingers falter—insufficient, in this empty room, reaching and reaching, so far away from him.
It’s unbreathable: As she touches herself, trying to chase away a want in her body—because it is not a want that will burn away, and it is not a want that is physical, that will leave her, that she can chase in others’ bodies. It is the heart lurch in the street, and the hope that he’d call, the way her heart fucking stopped, waiting for the car in the rain after the gala. Left hand, bare ring finger.
And it is unbearable: how much she wanted him to come after her, how much she wanted it to have been him in the late sun of the street today, that almost phone call in the din of the bar; how intensely she’d beenhoping he’d do this—inexplicable, improbable,stupid—and how undeserving she is of that, but still—butstill, how much she wants it, how much she wants him, through this atrocious acceptance of guilt, this burden of responsibility, how all she wants—all she wants—is him, and it is not past tense, and it is not a thing that is leaving her, it is a thing that is only growing further, and further, still—
The dull snap of pleasure arrives thin and hard, with the ache of her wrist, scramble of her feet against the wood, tears hot against her face, silk rucked around her hips, and it leaves her sick, this nausea welling through her, and she feels ruined, and she feels empty, and she has found nothing, in her own body.
The old streetlights buzz outside, as she cries, as she finally stops running.
All she wants is him, and she is not ready to let him go.
It is gray, the next morning.
Early, James is already in the apartment kitchen, making coffee.
“Hey,” he greets, glancing at her when she walks in. He’s got an old sweatshirt on, faded red, with the hood up. As he pushes down on the French press, he yawns. “Want some coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” She nods, a faintly grateful smile. He pours a mug, slides it over to her. The hot ceramic is comforting against her palms.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Fine, yeah.” The refrigerator lets out a whoosh of chilled air as James gets out groceries: eggs, tomatoes, fruit, milk. “You?”
“Pretty good,” he replies, trying to catch another yawn. He unscrews orange juice, and rips apart bread, picked up from the boulangerie yesterday. The stove clicks as he turns it on, flicker of flame. “You feeling okay, after last night?”
She’d lingered in bed, after she’d woken up. For a half hour or so, she stared out the open window as the sky grew lighter, a color like soft steel. Exploring the wash of exhaustion; the sense of an ache, floating throughout her body, like after having exercised too hard, stretched too far—physically hit rock bottom.
But in that fragility, something frail—frail like surrender.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says, and it’s—possible. “How’s Ami?”
James gives her a sheepish grin. “Hungover,” he admits, cracking eggs into a saucepan. “She’s still sleeping. What do you want for breakfast? I can make oatmeal, we’ve got fruit—”
Lili waves a hand. She’s already dressed for the day: a skirt, an oversized light sweater, shoes. “Don’t worry about me, I’m headed out,” she says. “Going for a walk.”
He frowns, looking up from the stove—the sizzle of eggs, starting to scramble—and glances outside the open windows. “It’s supposed to rain today.”
Lili shrugs, draining the rest of her coffee. “Not much, I’ll be fine.”
“We’re going to head to the Musée Picasso, maybe sit in a café for a bit, check out a few bookstores. There’re actually some vegan places around here, I looked them up—”
“Don’t worry, really, it’s fine,” Lili says, grabbing her tote off the couch.
“Lili, come on—”
Quick, she wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.
