Bittersweet Meeting

The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the table beside her and the lights from the city beyond the window. He had situated her on the couch, with a blanket and pillow. She’d already changed into the sweats and t-shirt he’d given her after she’d taken that much needed shower. Her face burned brightly at the memory of how, and where he’d found her. She heard him then, coming back into the room with the drinks he’d prepared.

“Here,” he said quietly, handing her a short glass filled with amber liquid, ice tinkling merrily inside. Then he sat on the chair across from her.

She gazed into the liquid for a moment before asking flatly, “What is it?”

He let out a quick breath through his nose, obviously finding bitter humor in her question, in the situation. “Whiskey,” he said, then added, “Not that it matters much, it won’t quench that desire, only lessen it.”

They sat quietly together then, the ice making soft music as each sipped from their glasses. Hers was gone rather quickly.

“Another?” he asked, and she nodded in response. He took her empty glass and headed back out of the room.

She took this time to observe her surroundings. It was a large loft, concrete floors, brick walls, exposed metal support beams in the ceiling, and top to bottom windows. Everything was here, living room, dining room, office, all except the kitchen, which was separated by an arched doorway, and the bedroom and bathroom which were on the second level, up those metal stairs off to the right. This loft hadn’t yet seen the refurbishing of the more posh neighborhoods of the larger cities, though. The area was still poor, industrial, and cheap. They had come up in a service elevator, after all, his loft only separated from anyone who wanted in by the padlock on the grate on his floor.

He came back then, and handed her a now filled glass. She took a large swallow, relishing in the warmth that flooded first her belly, and then her flesh.

“How often have you done that? How often have you sold yourself for smack?” he asked the question so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him.

She studied her glass for a few moments before she answered him. “I haven’t, not yet. Tonight would have been my first time. If you had been anyone else…” she left the sentence, and the sentiment, unfinished.

“Right,” he said, before he took another swallow.

She suddenly felt a need to prove herself, to prove she hadn’t gotten that far down to this man. She didn’t know why, perhaps it was his connection to her past, perhaps it was the assumption she had that he had been right where she was tonight. Perhaps it was the fact that he had brought her into his home and been kind to her when nothing else had been going right, when they hadn’t seen each other for well over ten years. What ever it was, she had a sudden overwhelming desire to show him that she had not yet gotten that depraved.

She sat up suddenly, put her glass down on the coffee table and looked him in the eye. “Nothing else was working,” she said adamantly. She lifted up her arms, wrists exposed to his view, hands back towards herself. “This didn’t work,” she added, a little more gentle.

He looked at her arms, the fresh scar line running from palm to elbow evident down the centers of each. He reached out the hand not encumbered by his glass, and traced a finger down first one, and then the other scar. They both let out small sighs, though for different reasons.

“Why?” he asked, voice soft in his eagerness to know.

“It all got to be too much, you know? I couldn’t make it. I couldn’t be what they all wanted me to be. So, I thought if it was just over, if I just didn’t have to try anymore, I wouldn’t be so damned tired at twenty five. I just simply wouldn’t be. But I couldn’t even get this right.” Her voice was low as she spoke, still flat, still emotionless. It was almost as though if she kept the words separate from the reality of herself, they wouldn’t be pertaining to her, exactly.

“How did you get to be there, where I found you?” he asked delicately, taking her hands into his, after he had set his glass down. “How did you get to that point?”

She sighed, looking at his hands holding hers. “My neighbor heard me fall to the floor, nosy biddy, called the cops immediately. By the time I got out of the hospital, I had been evicted, all my possessions taken. I thought if I could just end it quick enough, I wouldn’t have to deal with the recriminations from my parents, my friends. After a week on the streets, learning where to go to get what I needed, that is where you found me, fucking selling myself for an overdose; a quick end to the pain.”

Her voice broke then, and she started to cry. He didn’t hesitate, he let go of her hands, walked around the low coffee table, and knelt before her, wrapping her in his arms. One hand rubbed her back while the other soothingly pet her hair. And he just let her sob into his chest. She didn’t resist his hold, but she didn’t grab onto him either. Her hands lay listlessly between their bodies.

Finally, her sobs subsided into sniffles which would be considered cute in any other circumstance. Here, they indicated to him that she was perhaps finding some relief, at least.

“Why were you there?”

Her words were spoken against his chest, and it was his turn to wonder whether they had actually been spoken before he answered.

“I was looking for the same thing,” he said, “A quick fuck followed by a quick end. The only difference is I had the money to pay for both.”

“Oh, god,” she whispered. And then that was it. She pulled her hands out from between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, tugging slightly, indicating that she wanted him up on the sofa with her.

“Lydia,” he whispered against her hair, “You need to sleep. And so do I. Tomorrow, you get eggs, toast, and fresh ground coffee.” He kissed her forehead and then extricated himself from her grasp. “The whiskey is in the top cupboard to the left of the sink, if you think you need some more. Remote is on the coffee table. Help yourself to anything else down here,” he stated, then picked up his glass and without a further glance at her, strode up the stairs to his bed.