I went downstairs.
Melissa was sprawled on the couch. She was on her back. Her mouth was open. She was snoring. A line of saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I stood and stared.
I went back upstairs. I took a shower. I made it hot. Very hot. Maybe I was scalding myself. It felt a bit like that, through the gray metal fog. Perhaps I’d end up red and peeling, in monstrous pain. I took some comfort in the thought.
I walked dripping from the shower. I threw myself naked on the bed. I closed my eyes. I tried to reconstruct the night before. I remembered Jake. Our conversation. That I’d said too much. His revelations. His sadness. Our awkward stumble down the street. His vanishing. Where had he gone? I didn’t trust my memory. Melissa, beckoning me. And then? I wasn’t sure. Could it have been? That she’d have welcomed me like that?
She was bent over the coffee table, face down, legs apart. I was holding her hips, lifting her in the air. I was strong. I was hard. I pulled her up. I dragged her across the room. She moaned. She wanted more. Take me hard, she said. Show me who’s a man. I propped her up against the mirror. I took her. Took her hard and long. I was taking out the misery of years. She wanted it. She begged for more. Hurt me, she said, tears and mascara streaking the mirror.
I threw her down. I left her there. It felt right.
Had that been me?
I didn’t know.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
I shook my head. Get a grip, I told myself.
I tossed on some clothes. I didn’t take the trouble to look for something clean.
I dragged myself downstairs. She was still there. On the sofa. Her mouth hung open.
I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to see.