Fall's Break

Fall’s Break

October, my favorite month out of the whole goddamn year. I have nothing against Christmas and Easter and the rest of the holiday shit, but Halloween just seems so much more mysterious, or actually more practical, than any tinseled pine tree or plump To-furkey. It’s probably the only time of year people ever feel liberated. When kids dress up as Batmans and have faux abs, and when the prudish 6th grade teacher comes to class wearing fishnets and stiletto heels. People can be whatever the hell they wanna be without any inhibitions.

I sprinted across Hyde Street just before the red hand stopped blinking. Fall in San Francisco is the same as Summer, Spring and Winter: foggy and cold, which is excellent for the upcoming all hallows eve. I went to the Halloween store down Van Ness earlier and picked up the medieval courtesan costume Tyler, my steady for three years, wanted me to wear to the Halloween bash on Friday. Far be it from me to ask why he wanted to see a dark 5’3 half-breed white/Chinese girl dressed in some frilly European gown. I would’ve preferred to be a Vulcan decked out in Star Trek gear, but Tyler had argued I could be a Vulcan only if I wore a playboy bunny suit with it, which of course I replied with a charming and reasonable “No fucking way.” And plus seeing me in a courtesan gown would’ve been a major turn on for him, not to mention ironic. So hence here I am, walking back to Tyler’s condo with the whore dress and a pink box full of pork buns.

Just to be clear, I don’t blindly follow everything my boyfriend says. God knows I jam a protest down his throat every chance I get. It’s just that our relationship is kind of. . .well, quirky. We’ve been dating since freshmen year in college and in those three years we’ve never once had sex. Oh there’s groping with tidbits of oral and stuff, but Tyler and I have never gone all the way to the point of intercourse. It’s some stupid border that we’d, or actually, that I set up early on in the relationship. I’m twenty-one and probably one of the oldest out there in this day and age that’s still a bona fide virgin. I’m not trying to be a prude or morally righteous or any bullshit involving that nature despite being raised Catholic. Then again, we all know how that religion has gone down the tubes.

At any rate, I’m just saving myself for that “right” guy, not perfect because there’s no such thing. Not that I’m saying Tyler isn’t the right guy. He’s, in all honesty, the best boyfriend on the market. Funny, handsome, charismatic, faithful, a little laid-back, a little academic when he wants to be, flirts with only the girl he’s in a relationship with. . . So why am I having doubts? I really don’t know. Commitment perhaps? A guarantee that the guy I fuck won’t ditch my ass the morning after? Problem is: Tyler used to be a pretty big sex fanatic. Not that he’d have multiple partners or stuff like that, but he’d just have a lot of sex with the current girlfriend. Sex was like some bizarre drug for him. If he didn’t get his daily dose, he’d actually show signs of withdrawal and start shaking like some Parkinson’s patient on steroids.

So why the hell is he with me, the nun of the year? Damned if I know. At the beginning, when we first discussed this little dilemma, all he said was “For you Niki, the wait would be worth it.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that so I kept quiet. Even today, three years later, I still wasn’t sure. The whole situation seems superficial when you look at it objectively, but for me, a key participant, it seems like something of paramount importance.

I climbed the long stairway up to Tyler’s condominium. Even with the new renovation that turned the run-down Piedmont grammar school into a sterile, overpriced white washed walls complex, the elevators still didn’t work. Then again, maybe hiking up all these goddamn stairs might be good for those bulbous child-rearing hips of mine that I could never get into perfect shape. I was practically panting by the time I reached the 9th floor.

Juggling my costume and pork buns, I knocked on Tyler’s door three times. I waited. No answer. I knocked again, but still no one came. Shit, he must be out. I put down the pork buns and rummaged in my tote bag for the spare key Tyler gave me. I usually don’t like to just walk in to anyone’s home, even if I do have the key, without them knowing first. But no way in hell, am I just going to stand out here with whore dress and cold buns waiting for Tyler to come home. I slipped the key into lock and let myself in.

The instant I closed the door, I heard a small thump come from the bedroom. I frowned. Was Tyler still asleep? I looked at the digital display on the microwave. At 2:27 in the afternoon? That seemed unlikely, even for him. I put the pork buns on the stove and tossed my costume across the sofa. The condo felt extremely warm, like an oven on overload. I guess Tyler forgot to turn off the heat. Then a thought hit me. Could he be sick? A cold, fever. . .meningitis? As I slipped off my jacket, I heard a low sound coming from the bedroom, like a groan of pain. I dropped my jacket and ran into the bedroom, worry settling like some horrible parasite at the pit of my stomach.

I opened the door slowly, and found Tyler curled on his side under the covers, his back facing me. His hair was in disarray, blonde strands sticking up in all directions. And his breathing sounded labored, as though he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. I tiptoed closer, quietly lest I scare him into having a pre-mature heart attack. Poor thing must truly be sick. As I was just about to reach out to touch his shoulder, I saw a slender, pale hand slide through his hair. The hand was a few shades lighter than Tyler’s tanned skin and had delicately shaped nails done in a flawless French manicure. Each nail lightly scraped across his scalp and brought shudders of pleasure from him. I froze and looked over Tyler’s shoulder to the owner of that hand.

A gorgeous blue-eyed blonde lay half hidden under Tyler’s body. Even from my angle, I could tell neither of them had on a stitch of clothing. And the faint odor in room, which in my naiveté had thought was some pain-relieving ointment, turned out to be the combined scent of their lovemaking.

For all my practicality, I could not stop the shrill scream threatening to overcome me. My stomach ached and burned, as though a granite spear had been jabbed into the vulnerable flesh then turned multiple times until I could no longer breathe. My vision blurred, my chest hurt, my throat felt sore. I stood there in silent agony, stifling the scream. But I must have made some noise, for Tyler suddenly turned around, green eyes wide, and just stared at me, a shocked yet horrified expression on his face.

For the longest moment, we stared at each other. My body had begun to shake so badly as though I were freezing outside in the rain. The room no longer felt like the cozy steam bath five minutes ago. Now it felt unbearably desolate and cold.

Tyler reached one tentative arm towards me, emerald eyes pleading me to understand. “Niki. . .” His voice was hoarse. He swallowed twice before continuing. I quickly backed away and glared at his hand as if it were the source of some contagious disease. “Nicole. . .please, let me explain. . .”

I brought my angry gaze back to his face. My vision was still slightly blurry, but I could see the faint swell in his lips from kissing, the telltale nail marks on his biceps, the slightest hint of lipstick on his upper torso. And I could feel an unfamiliar wetness crease down my cheeks. I stared at him, my steady, my boyfriend, my lover, and I felt all the turbulent emotions building up inside me break free as I let out one long hoarse scream of incomprehensible pain.

I half-stormed, half-sprinted out of the room in hysteria. Grabbing only my tote bag and nothing else, I ran to the door when suddenly Tyler was there, blocking my way with a crumpled sheet draped haphazardly around his waist. He walked towards me, his eyes reflecting the same torment as my own. He reached out his hands imploringly, and I shuddered away from him, disgust clear on my face. He dropped his hands, his eyes sad and guilt-ridden.

“Niki,” he spoke softly. I stared at him blankly, my heart so numbed by hurt and betrayal I no longer had room to feel anything, even anger. He shifted slightly as though some restraint held him back from touching me. “Oh God Niki, I-I never meant to hurt you.” My face remained a cool mask. “Please. . .try to understand. It was just sex. That’s all. Just casual sex. No commitment or anything emotional.”

“Is that suppose to make me feel better?” I stated blandly, my voice neutral without condemnation, when my mind was practically shouting accusations one after another.

“No, but. . .” He raked a hand through his hair, agitation marring his features. He met my gaze, and the expression there clearly was regret. “I’m so sorry, Niki. More sorry than I’ll ever be in my life.” He stepped closer as though to embrace me, and I backed away.

“Sorry that your conscience is going into overdrive or sorry that I caught you.” I plowed on before he could interrupt me. “I know we’ve never—well you know—never had sex. But if you didn’t want me anymore, couldn’t you have told me? Did you have to go have sex with another woman behind my back?”

“Of course, I still want you Niki. How could even you think that?”

“Well, you’re sure doing a pretty rotten job of showing it.” I said coldly.

I kept telling myself, kept wanting to believe this was all a nightmare, a terrible terrible nightmare, none of this was really happening. But when I look at Tyler, disheveled and drenched in another woman’s scent, the nightmare becomes real. So real that I barely stifled a sob as I blindly scrutinized him from toe to head. Tyler. . .my Tyler. The person that he was somehow diminished before my eyes. I could never look at him the same again without knowing that those same hands, which had caressed me, embraced me, almost even loved me, had touched and caressed someone else. Someone beautiful and I didn’t even know. Yet, I couldn’t help but wonder, what if I had agreed to make-love to him? What if I had let go of my stupid pride, the hell with my virginity, and just had sex with him? He might have never sought out some random woman on the street and screwed her. We might still have had a chance, and I’d blown it. Not single-handedly, but my part was in there one way or another.

I lowered my gaze, desperately trying to hide the tears that threatened to soak my face.

I spoke quietly, deliberately, “Goodbye Tyler.”

He stilled then and looked at me as though I had issued him a death sentence. So much was left unsaid between us. I couldn’t take it, couldn’t stand the tension in the room. Tyler was about speak when the lovely blonde appeared in the doorway, encased in Tyler’s black robe. The same black robe I would wear when I came out of the shower at his place, or when I got cold and Tyler would drape the thick robe over me like a blanket and kiss me playfully on the nose. How many women wore that same robe?

I finally turned to Tyler, and felt more than saw that he was running through the same memories. And now they were gone, a whisper of the past. I shook my head decisively, determined not to cry, and walked purposefully to the door. This time Tyler didn’t attempt to stop me, for which I was grateful because if he had I would’ve cried and there would be no stopping. The minute I crossed the threshold, an involuntary sob racked my throat. Tyler heard it and made a desperate grab for me. I ran for all I was worth, all the way home with tears streaking down my face in pitiful rivulets. . .and my heart breaking into a million pieces.