So, I don’t let it happen.
I swallowed then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulling the bottom one through my teeth with worry; glancing around the room I noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 am; the only clothes strewn about belonged to me; I was, currently, alone.
There was, however, a note.
A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me; I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.
I stared at it.
And, I stared at it.
Then, I stared at it.
After that, I stared at it.
Dragging my attention elsewhere, I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples. Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.
Impaired judgment.
It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was… something like wishing or longing or hope. The sensation reminded me of my childhood, when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays or my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.
I was uncomfortable with the sensation and it made me feel despondent and weary so I again pushed it away, like I’d done last night after we made love the first time, and walked to the bathroom to take my shower. I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; when I would see Quinn again.
However, to my disappointment, despite my desire to daydream about anything and everything else, all I could think about what the what, whether, where, and when of Quinn. This might have had something to do with the fact that signs of him were everywhere; and, by everywhere, I mean all over my body.
I was sore from… exertion. Nail marks, bite marks, scruff marks and the like spotted my skin. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time then, gritting my teeth, I turned on the shower.
It wasn’t just that I’d never experience anything like the connection or intimacy or sensations of last night. Rather, it was that I never realized the desire existed. I felt wholly disconcerted by the fact that what had been a previously unidentified want now felt more like a need, like water or breathing or comic books and shoes. I didn’t like that a something had been awakened. I preferred to be in control of my cravings. Furthermore, I preferred to only have cravings I could satisfy without the requirement or assistance of another person. This was, after all, the definition of self-reliance.
I tried to remind myself that I had been drunk so nothing that happened last night really counted or mattered.
Impaired judgment.
Surely he would realize that I’d been exhibiting impaired judgment.
After the shower I towel dried and applied hair product to my curls; my cheeks were flushed and it had more to do with the memory of the previous night than it had to do with the steam of the shower.
I walked into the main room and, still avoiding the note, scaled the perimeter of the bed, picked up my discarded clothes and folded them into a neat pile next to my suitcase. I picked out another business suit from the closet and started to dress, on autopilot.
It was now 9:47 am and the plane was due to leave at 3:00 pm.
I was facing hours alone with the note. I eyed it despairingly.
The other disconcerting realization originating from last night was the moment of what I thought was shared trust. I gave him something in that moment, when our eyes met and I became fearless; it was a part of myself. And now, in the very bright light of day, I wasn’t so sure that I’d made an especially wise decision.
He hadn’t earned that trust. I gave it to him based on weakness called faith and the faith had been based on wine-pickled-brain-impaired-judgment.
I didn’t want to read the note. I felt certain I knew what it said. He was, after all, a Wendell at heart and I’ve just become one of his slamps. I swallowed thickly at the thought.
But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a slamp.
Less girly-drama-hysterical Janie and more logical Janie endeavored to make her presence known: Having the hot sex over the course of several hours does not a slamp make.
These thoughts didn’t help either.
With a huff I crossed to the bed and picked up the note; girly-drama-hysterical Janie was certain it was a blow-off. Logical Janie decided to reserve judgment until the note was read: