Elizabeth Finn - Restoring Jordan

As I continue to explore his space, feeling perhaps a bit guilty for the time I’m spending ogling his world, my eyes catch on red. It’s my red, and as I look to my thighs, I realize the inside of them are streaked with it. Fuck! I appraise my appearance in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, and I panic. There is no way I can be here when he wakes. If my blood is on me, it’s without doubt on him too. There will be no explaining this, and I can’t stand the idea of this man finding out how truly pathetic I’ve been. Thank God I will never have to face this man again, but when I return to the room and steal one last final view of him, my heart falls. He’s beautiful; he’s experienced me in a way no other man has, and I’m now walking away, never to see him again. He showed me concern when I didn’t expect it. He showed me an intense passion, though I can hardly be worth it to a man like him. I could fall for a man like him … someday. But not today.

He looks peaceful and beautiful in his sleep, and as I turn my gaze from him to leave silently from his room, it’s with a sadness I don’t want to acknowledge. I don’t want to say good-bye. I don’t want to walk away and not see him again. How could I have thought I could fuck and forget? I know nothing about this man, not even his name, but I’m human. I crave attachment, and having shared something so very personal with him makes it hard to separate my emotions from him. I got what I wanted, just to realize it wasn’t at all what I wanted. I want to be wanted by him enough he yearns to see me again. But he doesn’t do “next times”. Stupid, Adeline. What was I thinking?

***

I should have known better.

When I met my consciousness as the sun shined through the large window, I wanted her instantly. While I cursed myself for allowing her to stay, I was oddly relieved I’d have her again, but rolling over to meet her body and finding nothing but an empty expansive bed, I was smacked with more emptiness than just my bed. I wanted to find her there. I wanted to taste her again; I wanted to fuck her again. And neither of these feelings am I at all familiar with. Why her? Why this one? Was she so different than any other woman I’d been with?

But there was something different about her. She was innocent; even in her intense want and need for me, she oozed a purity I rarely see, let alone experience. She was too young for my thirty-four years, but she wasn’t immature. On the contrary, she carried herself with a grace not so befitting a woman in her twenties. I’m guessing she must be in her early twenties at most. She had style but on a budget. The label of her generic pants alone told me that as I admired the round cheeks of her bottom while sliding her pants down her backside. She smelled amazing, and not just her cheap drugstore perfume. I wanted to taste her the second I caught her watching me in the bar. She had no idea I was watching her as closely as she was watching me, thanks to the reflection in the window that played out the scene for me the entire time we were there. Catching her in the hallway of the restroom, I was ready to pull her into the men’s room and have my way with her there, but she’s not cut out for such things. Innocence.

The shock in her eyes when I asked her if she’d fancy a fuck was priceless. She tried so hard to be the woman she thought I wanted her to be—confident, brazen, experienced. She had no idea at all I wanted her nervous and trembling. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no misogynist, and frankly on any other night I’d want the brazen slut, but once I saw her, I wanted her. Just her—innocence and all. Was I looking for a challenge? Did my masculinity need a boost for some odd reason? Who the fuck knows; who the fuck cares. She was incredible. Tighter and more delicious than any woman I’ve experienced, and now finding my bed empty, I’m disappointed.

I made it clear she was a one-night stand. Should I be so surprised she took me at my word and disappeared before the sun was up? I didn’t even ask her name, and a guilt I’m not often prone to has crept into my conscious. I didn’t want anything beyond a night with her, but still, when I woke alone and found her gone, I wanted her back. I could have at least found out her name; hell, a phone number might have been nice. I wouldn’t be completely opposed to an encore with this one. I guess she’ll just become another notch on the post.

I rise from bed and walk to the bathroom, but as I catch the image of my body in the bathroom mirror, I still. Fuck! I really should have known better.

After waking the next morning, I crawl from bed and stumble to the coffeemaker before hitting the shower. Fortunately, Hyde Park, while a place I could never afford, is at least close to public transportation. After making my way home to my apartment, located in a decent neighborhood within the south loop, I crawled into bed and crashed. My apartment is historic and looks as though no one has maintained it since it was built, and now as I move my way around my small, boring home the next morning, I’m humbled by the memories of his beautiful home. His house was one of those amazingly restored Hyde Park mansions, and I feel more pathetic than ever looking around my apartment today.

My best friend Kelli shows up midmorning ready to pick my brain clean. I sent her a picture message of the man’s license plate the night before, which was met with an amused smirk by him of course, and that was the last Kell heard from me.

She bursts through the door as I’m emerging from the bathroom half-naked—never should have given her a key, but at least she’s carrying a bag from my favorite bakery. “Spill it or no Danish.”

Kelli is a textile major who I met during my first week at Columbia College. They have a great design program that spans everything from interior, architectural, textiles, any arts design craft you could wish to go into. We’ve been friends ever since, and she will graduate with me in a few short months.

I fumble to find any words that don’t show my awkwardness and finally give up and just say, “It was nice.”

“Nice? What the hell does that mean? Nice.”

“Nice.” I walk away toward the kitchen for coffee. If she’s not happy with my answer, she can keep her damn Danish, but as she hands it to me, I pour her a cup of coffee. She’s smiling as she takes a seat at my small table, and I join her.

“He was quite handsome.” She’s giving me a sly smile—she’s still prying for information.

“Yes, he was … whoever he was.”

“You didn’t even get a name? You slut you.” She has no idea how much her words ring true. She’s kidding, but the morning after has me feeling all the slut my actions imply I am, but at seeing my face, she continues quickly. “Just stop. I can see that regret in your eyes, and you need to just stop now. You’ve waited forever. Don’t start apologizing now for what you chose to do last night. Cut yourself some damn slack.”

I feel guilty. I can’t explain it to her because she wouldn’t understand. It’s not that I thought I’d wait until marriage, but I wasn’t raised to think sex should be so casual, and I’m not sure I want it to be casual. Growing up in a farming community outside of Des Moines, Iowa was like being in a different world than Chicago. Life was simple, morals were strong, community was understood. It was very different from this place, and I still struggle to feel a part of this city, though I’ve been here for four years now. I miss the countryside, the stars, the smell of fields and earth. Life was just simpler, decisions easier, gray areas of the mind were just far clearer.

I speak with my parents nearly every day, and I shudder to think what their response would be to my new adventure in sex—not that I’ll be sharing this bit of information with them. They’re proud of me, and that pride means the world to me. It gets me through being awkward and out of place in this city, and as my cell rings shortly after Kell and I have sat for coffee, a wave of guilt passes over me. It will be them; they always call on Saturday morning, and as I answer, Kelli watches me with a tight smile on her lips.