Heather Lewis - Notice

I couldn’t wait for her. The room was too small and her holding me so tight cluttered me. I pulled away. Put my shoes on and left her there. I left her lying on the floor.

Once out the door I didn’t go back the way I came. I turned the other direction, which took me nowhere but out of my way. I walked and walked around the early evening of this town where nothing ever happened. I walked quite a ways along one side of the main street before turning and heading back toward my place, which meant passing her office.

I told myself I wouldn’t look for lights or her car but of course I did. Saw the car but not the lights. The same as I had that other night. My thought was, what if I’ve killed her?

I didn’t know where this came from and so I shook it away and then felt only tired. I was relieved when I saw that pharmacy with the neon drugs sign reminding me I was home.

I climbed the stairs and my legs felt so heavy I had the urge to reach down and lift them.

I knew it was Sunday, this was the one thing I was crisply aware of, so much so it hurt me. And while it was still pretty early I couldn’t imagine ever getting enough sleep. Ever getting enough sleep ever again. This seemed something she’d taken from me. Or something she’d made me see I’d never had.

So I went to work the next day because, after all, I only seemed ever to go one or maybe two places. I went through the whole day reminding myself I had the next day off, and telling myself I’d skip seeing Beth.

Still, around three, I took my afternoon break at that bar. I fueled up, and so I expected not seeing Beth was another promise to myself I wouldn’t be keeping.

I’d left off using my car. I suppose I mistrusted myself with heavy machinery. Anyway, I’d left it at home and so after work I walked there, to her office, and this meant I was late.

She was in the waiting room. Waiting. Actually, she paced. But when we went into her office I did the pacing, though not for long at all, which seemed curious to me. She seemed curious to me too, the way she acted.

She was asking me questions the same as before. What struck me was how long it’d been since I’d heard her voice – in her conventional role, I mean. Saturday on the phone stood out. Other than that she’d spoken only in that way I couldn’t quite grasp because it stayed too far inside her.

I realized quickly that I couldn’t make sense of this voice either – the everyday one. It was too thin. It gave nothing to hold on to. Whole phrases went by me and I answered none of her questions, which was at first unintentional.

Soon, though, a disgust grew in me and with it an obstinacy when I understood what she was doing, that her intent was to proceed as if yesterday hadn’t happened, or the other night either. And while I grew angrier, disbelieving and impatient, I could not contradict her – this was the card she held. And either her recognition of it or my behavior made her nasty.

Little by little she began to taunt me, to poke at the silence that had become my lone weapon. If I couldn’t say what she was ignoring, it looked like I would say nothing at all. But then quickly I told myself this wasn’t about principles. Not for me. What upset me was simply not getting the gratification I’d come for, and ascribing anything more was merely false and indulgent.

It was true I’d assumed we’d just keep on. That it would be all we would do. And so now her trying to backtrack? I wanted none of it. And I hated her for it, and hated even more how I still wanted her despite it.

From here I could see nothing to do but walk out. Maybe I thought she’d follow me or stop me. That then we would wind up where I wanted to be. But she did neither.

I would’ve gone to the parking lot but I didn’t feel dressed for it, or up to it. I simply went home and once there I drank and drank until the phone rang and while I knew it would be her, still it surprised me.

She said she only wanted to know was I okay and I told her sure I was. I told her this sullen and cross like I wanted her to go away but please not to. She stayed on the phone with me a long time and soon it became clear this was to be the bridge. The place where we’d talk in halfways and circles. The way for her to reel me back in, and for me to let her.

Even her voice was somewhere in between and she played me and played with me until I’d begun playing with myself, let her hear me come close to coming. And I heard things in her that maybe were the same – changes in her breathing, only her breathing. Gaps.

I liked this too much. Already I could see what it did to me. That no matter what it might seem like, or be like, always I’d be the one on my knees.

For a little while though I could make believe she was the one who’d come crawling to me.

Seeing things this way got me through the night and into the next day, which was my day off. Somehow our game on the phone tired me more than anything so far. This particular languor made me reluctant to attempt even the simplest things. I puttered around my apartment. Killed time. Killed the day until it was time to go to her office.

I suppose I’d expected that after the phone call we’d wind up next to each other again, close. But this wasn’t what happened. She kept her distance and it annoyed me. It annoyed me especially when she suggested that at least on Tuesdays, when I didn’t work, I come see her earlier. “During my regular hours” – that was the phrase she used.

This made me sick and angry all at once but I stayed silent, acquiesced by inaction, and consequently she had her way again. I stayed silent pretty much the whole time. She seemed so relieved to have made her one point and won that she didn’t even try to get past me. We put up with each other, I guess, and then I left.

This uneasy balancing kept on for the rest of the week, leaving me swamped and achy. Despair I think is what you would call the thing getting in the way of everyday tasks like walking and eating. But on Friday all of it changed again without warning. She changed. Or maybe it was me, unable to keep my pose any longer. Maybe my face gave away my grief, or maybe it had all week long and I’d only now worn her down.

I’d been staring over her shoulder, as I had been for days, when some small movement of hers caught my glance. She was holding her hand out to me and I was slow and out of practice but I took it.

This was not the most comfortable position for either of us, stretched between these two chairs. They seemed actually further from each other than they used to be. We were still in a battle of wills. I understood that this time it should be me who went to her, and I both wanted to and couldn’t.

I wanted very much to make it easier for both of us, but I couldn’t move. This wasn’t about stubbornness or anything resembling it, this was just deadness. A deadness I couldn’t shake or force myself through, and so I wasn’t forcing her either. It seemed closer to pleading, though without words.

I suppose all the significant things between us happened this way – silently, or at least without speech. That I was speechless again at this moment felt nearly ordinary. Like a thing I was used to, or the thing I was most used to.

She seemed unable to wait any longer. She pulled me to my feet, and I fell against her with all the same deadness. I could do nothing but lean.

It felt better like this. I felt better. But at the same time I believed I’d given in. This seemed backwards to me and so I had trouble following it. I didn’t see how I should feel this defeated. I thought maybe she should.

She was holding me kind of loosely. She stroked the back of my neck, and her fingers underneath my hair and running through it let me rest my head on her shoulder. She kissed my neck and murmured to me the same way, so softly and gently. And if she was using words I recognized them only as sounds.