I dreamed of that for years, and it was…wrong. So wrong. So disturbing, with the decorations like the ones at Mother’s house; the way he wanted me to hurt him. Maybe the worst part is, it makes me wonder about… fuck! I start to sob.
Why did he want me to do those things? What does he need with a…submissive woman? Why isn’t he married?
Why aren’t you, my conscience whispers.
He should be happy. He shouldn’t be lonely. He seemed lonely.
I should have talked to him—as me.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
It might have.
Go back, then.
But I can’t.
I know I can’t. It’s one thing to be rejected when he didn’t know who he was rejecting, but if he looked at me like that, knowing I’m Leah…
I just know I couldn’t handle it. I’d be looking for pills before I even made it to the airport.
I dash inside and throw myself on my bed, where I hug my pillow and cry hysterically until I fall asleep.
When I wake, it’s ten o’clock. I feel no better. Only quieter. More resigned. More disillusioned.
The heavy questions bump through my head, making themselves known to me in loud whispers despite my refusal to acknowledge them.
This is the end of the story for Hansel? This is his happily ever after?
What did you expect, Leah? Where is yours?
But I’m me, and my failings and my longings are not news. His are.
I get into the bath and dump a mountain of bath crystals atop my legs, and sit there in the hot water until the room stinks so strongly of lavender, I worry I might puke.
Then I dress for a night out.
Where am I going? I have no idea. I promise myself as I ride the elevator from my room on the eighth floor down to the lobby that I’m not looking for pills. I don’t need an oxy or a Xanax or anything else small and swallowable to get through the next fifteen hours. Alcohol should do just fine.
The elevator spits me out in one of the massive corridors, an extra-wide hallway with three-story ceilings, two-story artwork, dozens of outrageously themed alcoves, hundreds of little, name-brand storefronts, and so many tourists I can barely see the sparkling marble floor.
It’s hopping tonight—not as busy as the weekend, but still alarmingly crowded. I push my body through the throng, aiming for one of the help desks. When I get there, I ask a younger guy in a uniform for advice on a good bar inside the casino. If I’m getting smashed, I probably shouldn’t branch out far.
“What kind of bar?” He looks me over in a way I’m pretty sure he thinks is discreet, but is actually pretty obvious.
I shrug, struggling not to seem bitchy. “An interesting one?”
He pulls out a casino pamphlet and points to something on the second page. “Try X-Ray Machine. There’s a fight there tonight, and a strip club in the downstairs behind the ring, but if you don’t go to the basement, you won’t run into the traffic, and upstairs is a nice place. There’s a whole section just for trivia.”
I like trivia, and it will keep my mind occupied, so I get walking directions and head off to the chunk of space on the rear side of the building.
A snazzy, flashing, X-ray Machine-style sign greets me from the far end of the rear hall, and I lengthen my strides.
What will I have tonight? Lemon drop martinis? Vodka and tonic? How drunk do I want to get? I think I know the answer there…
At rehab, much is said about how anything can become your new addiction, but let’s be honest: hangovers suck. I’m not going to fall into the bottle after one night of forget-my-troubles drinking.
I slow down a little, and follow a lit-up, red arrow down some stairs and into the entrance of the X-Ray Machine before I realize I’ve accidentally gone down to the basement. I walk back up the stairs, go a few feet past the red arrow, and find the main entrance. It’s a popular place, with the crowd spilling out into the hallway. I make my way through the sea of shoulders and elbows, bypass the bar, and opt for a booth.
Sure, it’s kind of selfish. I’m only a party of one, but I want privacy tonight. To justify my decision, I order a large Caesar salad and a Dr. Pepper to gobble down before I start my lemon drop martinis. Then I rifle through the little plastic basket of crayons, stamps, and other random shit beside me, finally pulling out a small, plastic keypad. I look around for TVs and find the ceiling littered with them.
Mmmm, the trivia right now is about literature. Perfect.
Except not perfect. Because the section we’re on? Fairy tales. I’m not even kidding. I answer a few questions about Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood, even though thinking about any of those stories makes me think of him—the way he used to modify them to amuse me.