M. Colette - Tell Me

And that is why, a few hours later, I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen eating liver and onions (ugh, how can they not know I hate liver and onions after all these years?), listening to four children vie for their grandparents’ attention…while the grandparents fight.

I have an odd sense of dissonance: I’m there but not there, and I hear my parents in freaky stereo. ‘They would have been better,’ my mother says of the mashed potatoes, ‘but your father insisted on using the new potato masher.’ ‘Insisted?’ my father asks. Voice low. But tired, tense. ‘I took what was in the drawer. I didn’t realise we had a right potato masher and a wrong potato masher.’ Stupid, stupid exchange. And not the first one I’ve heard like this – they are like this all the time now. Sometimes it’s funny. Often it’s sad. And always, after we leave, Alex and I promise ourselves that if we ever get like this, I’ll shoot him and then turn the gun on myself.

‘Put the pie in the oven to warm it up, Jerry,’ my mother says. Commands. ‘Gran bought you guys pie!’ she squeals at the kids, and they squeal back. ‘Where’s the pie?’ my father asks. ‘Where it always is!’ my mother screams and rolls her eyes. No, really. She screams. I stare at her in shock. Appalled. My father doesn’t even blink an eye. ‘Which is?’ he says with an excessive show of patience. My stomach turns and I suddenly very badly need to leave the room.

‘I’m going to go work,’ I say. ‘I don’t want any pie anyway. Be good for Gran and Gramps,’ I tell the progeny, handing out kisses. I look at Gran and Gramps. ‘Be good in front of the kids,’ I say. It could be taken as a joke. Or a warning. But it’s taken as neither; it’s not heard. The pie’s coming.

I exit stage right, camp out in one of the spare bedrooms, pull out the laptop.

Start typing. I turn on Facebook as I work. Cause that’s how the professionals do it, right? Having your Twitter feed and Facebook and LinkedIn on in the background increases your work efficiency. Well-proven fact. Not.

Confession: I use social media almost exclusively as a procrastination tool.

Still.

I have no ulterior motive.

I am not hoping to see a message from Matt.

No, really. And so I am not the least bit disappointed that there isn’t one.

I work. God, who crunched these numbers? Either an idiot or a liar. I identify all the red flags. I get into it. There is a sick kind of satisfaction to it; bringing order to chaos. I work. I am…tranquil.

Ping.

Answer the question.

—Working.

Waiting. I want you to dress for the occasion. The occasion being our reunion, after what, 10 years?

Almost eleven. But who’s counting? And how many years since we met? I think…twenty. Oh, my fucking God, twenty. When did that happen? The first time we met, I was…I think I was eighteen. Jesus-fucking-Christ. Grunge ruled. I wore distinctly unsexy jean overalls. I type.

—Overalls have a certain nostalgic value.

Oh, yes. Nostalgic.

And harder.

—Demure.

Sceptical.

Get nostalgic with me, lover. I remember the lingerie store changing room in Bankers Hall.

—Do you?

And you reading me erotica over the phone when I was up North. With John’s permission.

Two memories from hundreds.

—I remember stairwells. Too many stairwells.

—The recording booth at the studio.

—The roof of your apartment building…

The dark room.

Halloween party. The lawn. Do you remember?

—Oh yes. That might be my favourite…

Scandalised populace.

—We had no shame.

What’s your adjective right now?

—Disturbed.

Guess mine.

—You’ve been using one consistently.

The correct answer is lustful. Also acceptable: dirty (the good kind).

I pause. Shudder. I feel…yes, I feel. And I type:

—Lusciously pleased.

—god i miss you

—I really didn’t think I did.

And I you. Tell me what you want. Be blunt.

—your tongue in my ear, on my neck

—other places

Curse these tight jeans.

I miss your mind. And your mouth.

And the serious tone of voice you take when you talk dirty.

—oh god

—terrified

Eager.

Demanding.

—Are you.

Dominant.

—Oh really?

Determined.

—On top.

Challenged.

—tumbling

Pleased.

Hungrier and harder than ever.

—ecstatic

Sublimely motivated.

Aggressive.

—sublime

—lovely word

—luscious

—languorous

Throbbing

Pounding.

God. I want to fuck your mind.

Savage your vocabulary.

—Savage?

—I would prefer to be ravaged.

Or ruled? With a firm hand.

—Oh god.

Tell me you’re going to make yourself come. Tonight.

—I think I just did.

With a full report upon completion.

—Well that you might need to wait for.

No time like the present.

—making you wait and anticipate has always been my MO

Making you submit has always been mine. (Or attempt therein)

—almost disarmed

pleased

—// almost //

Determined. Now what are you going to wear for me?

—I do have these fuck-me heels that will be perfect.

—So long as I don’t have to walk anywhere in them.

Describe.

—just wait

—some things just have to be seen

Put them on.

—they’re hard to type in

—That’s how hot they are

Intrigued.

You won’t be on your feet for long.

—Nice. We’ll be arrested for indecent exposure.

Hopeful.

Fuck-me heels. Good start.

This has been…electrifying. Illuminating. Awoken thoughts I’m glad to be reminded of. I think I’m going to go…take care of myself right now.

—Enjoy.

Still at the office.

—very professional

—close the door first

Tell me where do you want this cum?

—running down to my belly button

Where do I aim?

—at black lace of the bra I’ll be wearing with the fuck-me shoes.

—go. See you in 12 days.

I count the hours.

xx

—oo

I finish the analysis in a stupor. And before hitting send , take it to my dad. Ask him to read it to make sure there are no odd adjectives or metaphors in the copy.

He doesn’t ask why. Points to ‘orgasmic’, ‘sublime’ and a completely extraneous ‘pounding’. I delete them. Send the file to the client. Take the kids home, put them to bed.

When Alex finally gets home, close to midnight, I’m still awake and give him the most adventurous night in bed he’s had in months. Possibly years.

‘Jesus,’ he says when it’s over. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Hormones,’ I say. ‘I think…yes, hormones.’

And we sleep.

Tuesday, December 4

Alex brings me coffee up to bed before he leaves for the firm. I stumble out of bed and into the shower. The brood’s already up, the boys fighting over who gets to play Minecraft first, the girls curled up on the couch with books, one reading, the other carefully, seriously imitating her sister. I look at them intensely. Feel my love for them reverberate in waves, through me, throughout the room.