Bittersweet Meeting

The only sound was that of glass meeting concrete and the consequential shattering that followed. Both individuals sat in silence for several moments, both frozen in the positions they had been in when he spoke aloud his own secret.

“Shit,” she finally said.

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah.”

“John...I mean...hang on, I gotta get another drink.” She started to shuffle through the archway and into the kitchen.

“Grab me one too. I suddenly feel like getting drunk and passing out as well.”

“Right,” she said, but disappeared through the archway all the same. When she came back, she was carrying two short tumblers filled with amber liquid and tinkling with ice. She was also cradling a half gallon of whiskey under her arm.

She padded into the room, her stockinged feet silent against the concrete floor, and handed him one of the glasses, then she put the large bottle down on the coffee table, took a seat on the sofa, and patted the spot next to her.

“Looks like we’re in for a discussion tonight. You better sit down, this may take a while,” she said, then sipped on her whiskey, still patting the seat beside her.

He moved toward her and lowered himself next to her. He, too, took a sip of his drink, trying to determine where a conversation like this was supposed to go next. He had never told anyone before. Only the men and women he had used shortly after he’d found out to try and forget. That had been a mistake. Those evenings, spent with those people he would never see again. After a few short months, he’d given up on those activities. He’d never actually told a friend.

“My mother was an alcoholic. She died when I was nineteen, cirrhosis of the liver. I never knew my father; he could have been any one of a dozen men. At the age of ten my mom introduced me to pot. It just kinda went from there.” He took a sip of his whiskey, closed his eyes, and leaned back on the couch. Then he drew in a breath and continued.

“I wasn’t abused, you know? My mom was a good mom, for the most part. She just had so much going on inside her own head she didn’t have a lot of time for me. I practically raised myself, and she was more of a friend than a parent. By sixteen I was into meth. At eighteen, it was heroin off and on. Then my mom died, and I had a little scare. I moved back to our hometown, and that is where you met me, waiting tables and drinking heavily.”

Lydia nodded. She’d had a crush on him, when she first met him, she was sixteen and he was older, sexier. She had started waiting tables with him. He’d been good to her then, too. He was thrilling and dangerous, rebellious. But she always sensed there was something a lot darker about him than what he let on. He seemed tired, restless, looking for something more.

“After the diner closed, shortly after you tried to get me to sleep with you, I didn’t have anything going for me. I moved back to the city, got back in with my old crowd. I started shooting up again.”

“I met this girl, Celeste. She was beautiful, and smart, and fun, and totally crazy. After a couple weeks, we moved in together. I don’t know if I loved her. I do know we did everything together. We slept together, used together, even sold ourselves together when we needed the money. It’s amazing how much people will pay for a night with a couple, especially one willing to do anything. And I do mean fucking anything. But it was all for the drug, all for the high.”

He’d been going strong for several minutes, but the memories came rushing in on him and he had to stop, had to drink, had to open his eyes and realize that he wasn’t back there again, he wasn’t doing those things. He was here, in his apartment, safe from the addiction and the sex and the soul-tearing lack of control over his life. He was with Lydia, warm and safe and thinking clearly.

He opened his eyes and smiled weakly at her. "She was great, Celeste. She was really great. She was an artist. She'd gotten a full ride scholarship to the University of Washington. She was on sabbatical when I met her." He took another sip, then chuckled sardonically.

"For a long time, I believed that was true. I really thought she was going back to it. I don't know, she was looking for inspiration or something, gaining experience. By the time I realized she had been kicked out, we were both too hooked on the habit for me to quit it, for me to quit her. She was really talented, though. Her art was amazing."

He shifted, moved around so he was leaning against the arm of the couch, facing her. His knees were up near his chest, and he tucked his stocking feet under the cushion of the sofa.

"I remember those times, before we got so into it we'd be looking for it constantly. When we were new lovers, new into the habit. She was so beautiful. She'd move around the apartment in the morning, pajama pants riding low on her hips, dirty blond hair falling into her eyes. She had this thing about her, it always drove me nuts. Now it makes me smile. She would wear these long athletic tube socks, and her legs were so skinny, they would always fall down. She'd have this long portion of sock hanging off of her foot, the toe of the sock a good six inches past the toe of her foot. And she would just let it be that way. Just let it flop around as she walked around." He chuckled again, this time heartfelt. Then he shook his head. "Crazy, the things you remember about people."

She took a heavy draw on her drink. She knew exactly what he meant. She'd had a crush on her God brother, after all, before he'd violated her. She remembered things about him, intimate things, things she only knew because he and she had grown up together. But this moment was about John, and she needed to focus, because he was talking again.

"Before I knew it, we were living in this filthy apartment. A one bedroom slum. The toilet barely flushed. Everything either caulked or grouted was mildewed; there was a constant drip in every faucet. I am positive that rats enjoyed the heat of the place right along with us. We had a friend over. He was a great guy, and he always had gear. Celeste and I invited him over often. He always shared, and then we always had sex. I had been making out with Celeste, and she wanted another hit. I was ready for bed at that point. I got up and moved into the bedroom, the mattress squalid on the floor. We didn't even bother with sheets anymore. I passed out to the sounds of the two of them in the living room fucking."

He got up then and moved across the room, staring out the window she had been at only moments before. He was there for a while, sipping on his drink, watching the traffic move on the city streets below. Lydia just watched him, watched the war he was obviously fighting with himself. Finally, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He turned and faced her.

"I woke up, the sun streaming through the naked window above the bed. It took me a while to realize I was still alone. Neither he nor Celeste had joined me in the night. Usually one or both of them did, and woke me to continue the high, continue the passion brought on by the drug. And the apartment was silent, so I knew they hadn't pulled an all nighter."

He paused again, and she watched as he seemed to be looking at ghosts, ghosts of his past. Suddenly, he sunk to his knees. He moved then, adjusted so he was sitting with his legs folded in front of him. Then he drained his glass.

"I got up," he said quietly, "and moved into the living room. He was on the couch, looking as though he could've bee asleep, if he weren't so pale. She was on the floor next to him, my beautiful Celeste, her shirt pulled above her naked breasts, her bottom half completely naked, her face lying in a pile of her own vomit. She looked peaceful, the first time I had ever seen her that way."

Lydia got up, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and moved to sit next to him on the floor, refilling his glass. He drained it again, and again she refilled it. He just studied the amber liquid then, before he spoke again.

"The gear was still spread out around her, the rubber tubing still around her bicep, the needle still painfully stuck in her arm. I remember rubbing the hair out of her face, kissing her cheek, then calling the cops. I just sat there, waiting for the cops, surrounded by the bodies of my dead friend, my dead lover. Surrounded by the squalor."

He took a sip of his drink, and then looked directly at her. Lydia wanted to flinch, but didn't. He needed to let this out. He needed her to listen.

"I went through rehab. I got back on my feet. I even started dating girls, girls who had never been lured by the temptation of drugs the way I had. Things were great. And then I got my test results back, I was HIV positive."

"John, I'm sorry. I wish I had known…" She trailed off as she saw his look.

"Lydia, you were a child. I tried to protect you from the cravings I had. Do you seriously think I would have told you anything about that need then?"

She shook her head at him. And they looked at each other. Really just sat and looked at each other. Suddenly, she leaned toward him.

"John," she whispered, her lips approaching his, and he didn't move. Then they finally made contact, her lips against his, pressing, asking. He consented, and their lips moved firmly against each other's, open mouthed but without tongue. Until he pulled away.

"Lydia, let's go to my bed."

She agreed, and they discarded their half full glasses and moved up the stairs. When they got to his room, he lay on the bed and she joined him, her hand moving to the waistband of his pants.

He stopped her.

"No," he said, "Neither of us is ready for that. I just don't think either of us should sleep alone tonight."

She felt rejected, at first, and then realized he was right. They were both too raw for anything at this time. Instead, she rolled over and snuggled up to him, his chest pressing warm against her back, his arm wrapping over her waist. Then she reached and pulled the covers up over them, her last memory that of his warm breath against the back of his neck before she fell asleep.


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Author's Note: For those of you who are reading, I just want you to know I really appreciate it. This story is incredibly difficult for me to write. I am a romance writer at heart, warm and fuzzy all the way. But this story needs to be written. Anyone who has and will offer their support in this process for me, and leave me constructive criticism, is in my heart forever. This story is dedicated to Jeanette, whose beauty and talent I will never forget, whose friendship will live in my heart and memory forever.