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Non-Fiction
| print friendly version | |
| Sorry | |
| By Netsirk | ||||||
| 25 May 2006 | ||||||
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In the process of writing a memoir. This piece is one of many (hopefully). I’m in a hotel room, bending over in front of a mirror, trying to make something of my wild hair. I’m wearing jeans and a black lacy camisole. To my right, hanging off a chair, is my purple v-neck tank top from the GAP. That’s about as sexy as it gets, folks. I give up trying to make my hair look presentable. The shower water turns off and the bathroom door opens behind me. Without turning I can see him in the mirror. He stands in the doorway with a towel around his waist. His hair is wet, making it curly. I have a flashback from a few hours earlier when his hair looked similar – only then it was from sweat, and I had told him that I thought the hairdo suited him. It still does. As he walks by, I turn to face him. I kiss him. He returns the kiss. Quickly. “I’m sorry,” he says as he pulls away. “I have to go. I’m really sorry.” Although this was the first time I had heard these words, it would not be the last. Not even close. A few hours earlier I’m on my way to a bar downtown. Having only been here once before, I’m a bit nervous upon approach. I don’t want to be that girl. You know the one who walks past a place only to realize a little too late what she’s done. God forbid someone witnesses me doing it. Plus, I don’t want to be late. Don’t want to keep him waiting. Him. He’s the real reason I’m nervous. Once inside, I sit at the bar and order a glass of red wine. It’s pretty crowded and people are talking just slightly above a whisper. Music plays in the background only a bit louder than the voices. The walls emanate a light pink glow. My cell phone rings. He’s held up at work. If anyone else had called to let me know they were running late, I'd be pissed off. Since it's him, I'm not. My back is to the door, but I can hear it opening and closing behind me as people walk in and out. Every time it happens I steal a glance over my shoulder. After ten minutes or so, he finally arrives. My stomach rolls over itself a few times. I smile. God, I hope he can’t see how anxious I am. He slides into the chair next to me and smiles. He appears relaxed and happy to be here. The idea that he’s happy because he’s with me makes me even more nervous. At first we talk about work. Easy icebreaker. It’s not long though before we switch topics. We talk about everything – from music to literature to family. There are no awkward silences. We laugh. Dating is never this easy. Even though we had been out twice before, I’m a cynic. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a couple of drinks we decide to go elsewhere. Bar hopping seems to be his thing. We step outside and it’s raining. Ugh. There goes my hair. We start walking. We’re close now, huddling underneath my umbrella. I’m holding it. I joke that I’m his personal umbrella holder. He lights a cigarette. I have no idea where we’re going and that’s fine with me. I’m happy just being with him. Close to him. We get to the next place and stand outside while he finishes his cigarette. As I lean against the wall under the portico to close my umbrella, his cell phone rings. Work. He has to take the call. I oh-so-casually attempt to check myself out in the reflection of the building. I hate rain. He finishes both the call and his cigarette so we step inside. We walk downstairs to the bar. It’s dark and I’m tipsy. We sit down and a waitress approaches to take our order. I don’t need anymore to drink, but what the hell. We start talking again and I make my move. My hand is on his knee. I flip my hair over my shoulder and say something witty. He laughs. He’s just as tipsy as I am. He leans in and kisses me. Back come the butterflies. My heart is racing. We drink, flirt and engage in foreplay for another 45 minutes. He then gives me the look. You know the one that says I’m done fooling around; we need to take things to the next level. As luck would have it, the bar we’re sitting in is below a hotel. He excuses himself, says he’s going to have another cigarette and walks upstairs. You’d think the alcohol would have a calming effect on me. No such luck. I whip my brush out of my bag. Yes, in public. No, I don’t go to the restroom. When he joins me again, he tells me the hotel is asking some ridiculous amount of money for a room. He pays the tab and things get physical between us once more. “Screw it,” he says. “Let me see if my Starwood card can get me a discount.” This time we both go upstairs. The hotel entrance is around the corner so back into the rain we go. When we walk inside he tells me to wait in the lobby. He approaches the front desk. Somehow, even though I’m sure how it looks, I don’t feel bad that I’m being treated like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I imagine him telling the desk clerk I’m his niece from out of town. When we get to the room, we check things out a bit before jumping into anything. He swipes an airplane bottle of Jack from the mini-bar. Maybe he’s more nervous than I am. I’m scared and unsure of what to do. Yes, I’m 22, but I have only been with one other man. Although I dated a bunch in high school, I was what you would call a prude. But given all the teasing I’ve done leading up to this moment, the last thing I want is for my trepidation and inexperience to show. I pray he makes the first move. He does. We start undressing one another. The zipper on the side of my shirt gets stuck – which results in me getting stuck in my shirt. I laugh nervously. I’m thankful for this moment as it lightens the mood, but the pause has me questioning what I’m doing here. I’m hesitant to start things up again. He, on the other hand, is raring to go. Wasting no time he kisses me. Hard. I return the kiss, tentatively. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with him, I do. I’m just not sure I want to right now. It’s a bit awkward, but it’s our first time – that’s to be expected. There’s a bit more fumbling, but eventually we find our stride. What we’re doing starts to feel good. I start feeling confident, cocky even. That’s when I have a lapse in judgment. It’s only momentary, mind you, but it’s a mistake. A big one. I unlock our fingers and, using my left hand, I reach across our bodies and hold his left wrist. I then start to slide his wedding band off his finger. Talk about killing the mood. He protests a bit, mumbling something under his breath, but I continue what I’m doing and place his ring on the bedside table. He doesn’t say anything, but I can sense something is wrong. We lay there silently, me on top of him, not moving. I kiss him, not knowing what else to do, and things resume. When we’re done, he asks if I mind if he takes a shower. As he gets up, he slides his ring back on. A few hours later, when we step outside the rain has stopped. His white shirt is wrinkled having been dampened by the rain earlier and then thrown onto the floor in a ball. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s more concerned that he was supposed to meet his best friend and his best friend’s wife for drinks three hours ago. He walks me to my subway station and leans in, kissing me on the cheek. “I’m sorry if things got weird back there. I had a really great time,” he says. I’m starting to hate that word. Sorry. “Me too. It was a lot of fun.” “Have a safe trip home. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says as he turns to hail a cab. There is nothing awkward about our goodbye. No will-he-call to be had on my end. I’ll see him tomorrow. At work. He’s my boss.
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