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Mason
Rachel left.
I shoved my nan’s shoebox and whatever secrets were inside it back into the closet. I slammed the door on that godforsaken room.
After Rachel left, I yelled at Miss Last Night to leave. To get out. When she laughed and suggested we wait for my wife to cool down and come back, I shouted at her.
“Get the fuck out!”
Miss Last Night left after that. Left without a longing glance back over her shoulder. Left without asking for a number. Left without trying to set up a second date. Left and was glad to be leaving.
Turns out I was perfectly capable of getting rid of my Miss Last Nights all on my own. What a goddamn surprise, eh? That my ruse to keep Rachel around was bullshite from the very beginning. Maybe she’d seen through me this whole time. Maybe she’d always known my excuse was as flimsy as they came. Maybe she’d ignored it because she wanted to give me a chance.
A chance I’d just thrown away.
The divorce papers were where they’d been since that first night: under the bed. I’d come home with that woman I picked up in front of Rachel at the bar. I was about as close to blackout langers as you can get, but I was sober enough to still know that it wasn’t her I wanted to fuck. I still had enough presence of mind to get those divorce papers out of sight. Under the bed seemed like the easiest place to make them disappear. So under the bed they’d gone. Off went Miss Last Night’s clothes. And, as they say, the rest is history.
I don’t know if that meant I was digging up history, lowering myself to my hands and knees and crawling beneath the bed. It certainly felt like there was a shovel present as I stretched my fingers, grunting as I searched. There was a shovel and it was scooping out my heart.
I emerged with my hands full and my chest empty.
Signing the papers wasn’t difficult at all at that point. Something I would have refused to do that morning I did without hesitation. Something I couldn’t imagine ever doing, I did in seconds. A flip of a page here. A flick of a pen there. And it was done.
A part of me had been sure that it wouldn’t come to this. I’d agreed to thirty days, sure, but only as a way to buy time. A part of me had been certain that I’d buy more time after the thirty days if necessary. I’d buy more time after that. And after that. A part of me was determined not to ever sign. Not to ever give Rachel up. Not to ever let her get away a second time.
I’d killed that part of me. Because that part of me hurt Rachel. And that was worse than losing her.
So I signed. Whiskey bottle in one hand, pen in the other, I signed.
The tattoo parlour was quiet. Empty. The rain fell and I sat there alone staring at the stack of papers. All that was left to do was mail them back to the States. I didn’t have Rachel’s address. But there was the one for the attorney. He’d figure it out. There were stamps in the supply closet. Or Aurnia could go grab some the next day. That would be the biggest complication left: Aurnia bristling at having to do a menial task, no longer seeing herself as the shop apprentice.
Other than that, there was nothing. No snag to keep Rachel and me tied together just a little bit longer. No error that would force her to come back. To come back to me. No mistake that would give me just one more chance…just one more chance…
I crammed the papers into the envelope. They sliced at my fingers but I didn’t even feel the cuts till blood bloomed along my fingers. I sucked them between my lips. Then I bit down on my skin.
Bastard. I’d hurt her. Hurt Rachel. And this was my fucking penance. My signature on a fucking legal document that said I relinquish her. I give her up. I set her free.
The table overturned. Crashed to the floor. Splintered. I hardly realised it had been me till I saw the little smear of blood on its edge. Till I felt my feet beneath me. Till I struggled for breath as my heart pounded, as my lungs constricted.
I didn’t want to give Rachel up. I didn’t want to give her the divorce she came here for. But I was doing it. I had to do it. Because I’d hurt her. I’d fucking hurt Rachel. And I couldn’t stand it. Hurting the one who’d hurt me first. It was fucked. All kinds of fucked. And it was threatening to drive me mad.
My knees collided painfully with the floor. Despite the old rugs I could feel the cold seeping up. I curled over myself and tugged at my hair. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. The way she’d looked when she’d opened her eyes. The way she’d looked at me. The way she’d seen me.
I replayed it over and over again in my mind. Our little game. Pushing too far. Pushing farther. Miss Last Night’s voice fading. Rachel on the bed. Her taste on my tongue. Her hot wet pussy around my cock. Her fucking reacting so beautifully to my dirty words. Everything. We’d had it again. Everything. Everything. Everything. Rachel coming on my tongue. Me lapping her up like her body held the very last drop of pure, clean water on earth. Me believing this was it. That we’d found our way back to one another. Me overcome with such desire, with such need that I plunged into her without restraint, as if I was trying to break Rachel in two with my cock. Then us coming together. Her name is a scream fading to an emotion-choked whisper.
Then her eyes. Her eyes. I remembered her eyes. Her eyes finding mine when we realised we hadn’t been alone. The horror. The disgust. The pain.
I rocked back and forth on the floor there in the parlour of Dublin Ink. Gripping my head. Clenching my eyes shut.
“I signed, goddammit,” I muttered in that hot, humid cave. “I fucking signed, so go! Leave me alone!”
But she was there. Rachel was there. In my head. Imprinted into my soul. Her pussy around my cock. Her warmth like a balm. Everything I’d missed for all those years just right fucking there.
I tore through the shelves in the supply closet for a stamp. I was out of my mind. Out of my goddamn mind, panting like a rabid dog as I made an absolute mess. Ink bottles falling. Shattering. Paint smearing beneath my boots. Her accusatory eyes would leave me alone once the papers were in the mail. Once they were out of my control. Her pained eyes would fade once I found those fucking stamps. Her hurt as she looked at me, me would be erased from my memory once I gave her what she wanted. A divorce. A separation from me, from me. An end. A fucking end.
“Go away!” I shouted as I yanked boxes of stencil papers from the shelves.
But Rachel and those piercing eyes were harder to get rid of than my Miss Last Nights. I couldn’t scare those eyes away with my roaring voice. They didn’t shrink from my imposing height. From my tensed muscles. I couldn’t threaten those eyes.
