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I felt like I was suspended in time, suspended in the fullness of the moment.
He loved me. He really did. I was enough for him, enough to track me down and chase after.
And yet, I was still trying to control the emotions inside me, biting down on my lip, trying not to howl and scream. Struggled desperately to contain the depths of my anguish and sadness. I wanted to cry out, to let it all go, but I couldn’t–not yet.
And that's when I knew I wasn't ready.
I would leave him, after tonight.
We'd go back to where I was staying and make love again, this time soft, sweet, and tender.
And then, when he woke, I wouldn't be in his arms, but instead, would have disappeared back into the night.
I wasn't ready. Not yet.
TWENTY-TWO
The cold tile pressed against my cheek, the smell of dirt and blood and piss filled my nose.
Tears poured down my cheeks, filling the cracks of broken tile where dirt and piss had missed.
A wrenching sob filled the air, electric tingles racing across my fingers.
I moved them, tentatively at first, relief inside mixing with my grief as the ticking clock of my watch melted into the night.
It had happened unexpectedly.
I was eating tacos and drinking a jalapeño margarita, the sound of the ocean’s lapping waves in the background.
A sound caught my attention: laughter.
It was light and airy and the only reason why I even heard it was because there was an all too familiar undertone to it: fear.
The sound wasn't genuine, but born from a fear too strong to contain it.
My insides slithered, warning bells tolling inside my mind.
The couple was entertaining three men in suits a few tables from mine.
I watched the entire display with hypnotic attention. A hand on her mid-back, fingers clenching into the skin of her thigh, a warning glance.
She continually looked to him: am I doing this right? her eyes seemed to say.
His only response, a meaningful pinch when she hadn't.
The meeting continued, the attention of the three men beginning to wane and drift to the woman as the alcohol flowed, and yet, the man seemed to grow angrier and more possessive of her.
It was all too familiar.
You can look, but don't touch.
This one belongs to me, even if she doesn't want it.
"Excuse me," the woman stood up. "I need to use the restroom."
"Sit down." A low growl, the man clasping her arm tight, sliding down to her thigh roughly, even though she'd immediately sat. He moved towards her ear, whispering, the menace clear from where I sat.
Her downward glance, her face falling, the curling inward of her shoulders.
