Leaving Me Behind

by Sigal Ehrlich

  “You’re not young,” she states and my eyes fling to hers.

  “Gee, thanks!”

  She laughs it off. “No boyfriend or husband left back home?”

  I shake my head. She presses her lips together and eyes me suspiciously.

  “Well, you came to the right place; nothing better than Spanish men.” She grins at me.

  So, I’ve noticed.

  “Not looking for that, either. I’m here to enjoy your beautiful country.”

  Now her lips turn into a deriding arch. “Everyone’s looking for that, consciously or not. Everyone. That makes people happy.”

  “I still believe that true contentment comes from deep inside of you.”

  She huffs. “Maybe when someone is deep inside of you.” We both chuckle in unison, and chuckle some more after she tells me the story of how she met her man. That one goes on for an hour. An hour of recounting a tireless pursuit that spanned over half a decade, which led to a long, solid marriage and two children. Just before I leave, Vivian stops me and goes to fetch the wine she told me about before; the wine the alleged delivery guy brought.

  After taking the longer stroll back via the beach, I get home right in time for my first cyber session with my shrink. I settle in front of the screen, camera aimed at my face, and reluctantly press the video call button. Of course, he is there waiting with his trademark diamonds pattern, mustard sweater, and hair slicked to the side.

  “Liv.” Curtly.

  “Dr. Schmertaz,” I say, getting accustomed to the screen interaction.

  “How have you been so far?”

  I trace the rim of the wide ceramic mug resting on the desk before me, contemplating what I want to tell him.

  “Well, I must say that the acclimation part went smoother than I even hoped for.”

  He nods.

  “I met some new people. And my new place already feels like home.”

  He types something into his black notebook.

  “That’s good,” he says, his attention back to me.

  “I did a couple of things that are out of my comfort zone.” I take a sip of my coffee and meet his eyes on the screen. Sir Poker Face actually seems intrigued. “I went out clubbing. And quite quickly connected with some new friends.” My lips rise involuntary. He keeps looking back at me, static. “Nothing extraordinary, besides,” I comment flatly. Um, unless you count having a complete stranger in my house going down on me in broad daylight in a steaming shower. I squirm in my chair just thinking about it.

  “How did you leave things with the people back home?” he asks solemnly, getting right to the crux.

  “Most of them I said good-bye to in person, like we discussed.”

  He nods, not a twitch of a muscle.

  “How did you feel about saying good-bye?”

  I inhale and reach for a piece of deserted paper left next to the keyboard. Distractedly, I fold it in half, then fold it again, and start tearing it apart piece by piece. A cough from the monitor yanks me from my absorbed assault of the innocent paper. I fist the white ruins and send my eyes to the open window saying, “Nothing.” I return my stare back to my therapist. “Nothing. No emotions, positive nor negative, while saying good-bye to everyone.”

  His expression demands me to go on.

  “It felt fake, the hugs, the pretense of somehow feeling anything.”

  He adjusts his glasses and leans back into his brown, leather armchair.

  “I was even unaffected saying good-bye to my mom and Saul.”

  “And your father?”

  I contemplate his question for a long pause.

  “I guess I could say there was something. I can’t exactly describe it, but there was definitely something there.”

  He nods again and types some more on his notebook. I can just imagine the title of his notes: Cold Hearted Bitch Strikes Again. We’ve been through this virtue of mine so many times before. I’m surprised he might still think anything would change. No matter how many diplomas he has decorating his brown plaid walls, he is still a brain therapist not a Voodooist.

  “How about your friend?”

  I follow his eyes as they search his notes.

  “The photographer, Kai?”

  That’s an easy one. “It’s different with Kai. I’m used to not having him around all the time. In a way, it’s like we never really say good-bye.”

  “Right.” Deep breath from the stoic authoritative figure on the screen. “Have you written in your journal?”

  I bob my head and a soft, “Yes,” floats from my mouth on an exhilarated note.

  “About parting from people?”

  I shake my head. “Not on that subject, I didn’t.”

  “Can you try to for our next session?”

  “I can give it a try . . . but I’m not sure I have it in me.” His head rises and his stare penetrates my shield, even from behind the monitor. “We’ve discussed it so many times before. I just don’t feel this attachment to people. I can move on in a blink of an eye; I move on in less than that.”

  “Experiencing as many changes in environments and detachments from people as you’ve experienced growing up could cause an emotional trauma. Of course, it’s not trauma per se, but many repeated situations in which you face contradictory emotions at times leads us to hide behind what’s commonly known as emotional guard. You’ve developed a mechanism that deters you from letting yourself get attached to people so when you eventually have to leave, you won’t be faced with the dejected emotions.”

  “I’m really screwed up, huh?”

  “Liv, a normal rationalization is that good-byes are an unpleasant experience and escaping it is good. There’s nothing wrong with feeling this way. But you need to understand that not every relationship ends, and you need to let people in even with the risk of eventually letting them go.”

  Once we end the call, I remain seated and gaze outside at the spectacular blend of pink and gray that is the evening sky. I stare at the day as it darkens into early evening, thinking about the good doctor’s last words. Beside Kai, who’s always had a constant part in my life, I haven’t really let anyone in. Not even Aden or Kevin, both men with whom I had the longest relationships of my adult life.

  I bring my eyes back to the room and they land on the wine bottle Vivian made sure I took with me; the bottle the “delivery guy” brought. The bottle the guy who’s been starring in every nocturnal thought I’ve been indulging in lately. I decide to have a taste of it. If it’s anything like its owner, I’m in for one hell of a tasting experience.

  Twenty minutes later, I still let the dark liquid deliciously flow through my mouth as I swallow the last of my glass. I’m not a wine person, but without a doubt, I can declare it was more than good. And it just brought back that night I spent with Nameless Guy full force to my head. Every twitch of lips, every motion of a muscle, every intent stare, every breathy pant, every shiver – every part of complete ecstasy.

  Chapter 7

  “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

  The Rolling Stones

  I’d be shamelessly lying if I said I wasn’t giddy all through day three, post “I’ll be traveling on business for the next three days. I want to see you when I get back.” I’d also be boldly uttering lies if I said I hadn’t thought about that night, or him, for a substantial amount of my waking and not so waking hours over the past three days. Thoughts that stormed into my mind, vividly, and pulse rising. Snippets of him on his knees below me. Of his handsome features covered by trails of water. Of his mouth on me. Of those magnetic, heated dark eyes piercing into me.

  The biggest lie of them all would be if I said I hadn’t touched myself every night since, thinking of him. The truth would be though, that it didn’t even come close to the real deal. Seeing that I can’t get him off my mind, and maybe since I couldn’t really get off, the thought of him somehow reaching for me hasn’t left me. Not on day three post him, not on day four, and ridiculously so, not even on days fi
ve, six, and seven.

  Albeit, on early evening of day seven as I’m making my way to Vivian’s, I decide to finally ax this mini-obsession I’ve been nursing throughout the week. It was what it was. A. One-night. Stand. The best one in the pantheon of one-night stands that shall now be declared the night my O had a hangover. And as such, be nicely filed away as a momentous event in my sexual history, and as of now, be put to rest in peace. Amen.

  I push open the door to Café con Aroma flinging the bell to ring. One of Vivian’s employees, a slim, smiley redhead, grins at me and tilts her head in a gesture toward the back kitchen. I nod at her with a soft beam and head to meet the ladies, aka my new friends, for another “cooking lesson.”

  Before I even make it to sit at the table next to Alma, Dominique is passing a glass of white wine my way. I smile at her and at the rest of the ladies crammed around the table that’s already packed with an assortment of mouth-watering dishes.

  Stephy, the embodiment of sweetness, in a Pakistan-esque brown and turquoise embroidered dress wears the naughtiest grin. She takes a dramatic sip of her glass and lifts her eyes to look at us. “Let’s all take a respective moment of silence and mourn the latest rumors about recalling millions of ‘pocket-missiles’ following the discovery of a faulty part,” she says, ending her comment with a charming snort-laugh. “I can just imagine how frustrated the customers are with their battery-operated boyfriends failing to function during action.”

  “Poor ladies, now not only can dzey not trust men to do the job, the machines fail them, too. Ooh là là . . . C'est pas jolie, my friends,” says Domonique flatly.

  Vivian’s laughter comes from the kitchen working area. She turns to us and humoredly shakes her head.

  “So Liv, what have you been up to?” Embar asks, nudging me with her elbow.

  “Not much, yet. Just taking it easy. I guess I’ve been acclimatizing.” Possessed by erotic thoughts, you know your usual humdrum.

  “So, I was arguing with Gustavo the other day . . .” says Alma, drawing all of our attention her way.

  “Already arguing?” Vivian asks with a wide smile. “I’m still licking the frosting off my lips from that delicious cake I baked for your engagement party.”

  Alma’s response is a thin smile. “I was reading this article the other day about Beta man.”

  “Hold up, what’s beta man?” I interfere.

  “I guess the best way to describe it would be men who prefer for the women to be in charge of basically everything.”

  My brows sink in. Just one sentence and she’s summed up all of my past relationships.

  “You mean pussies,” Dominique deadpans, and we all snort.

  “Anyhow, when I told Gustavo that I’d be more than okay with him being at home while I take care of the providing part, he told me that I was crazy. And what kind of a man did I think he was. He actually got offended.”

  “C’mon, he is Spanish,” Vivian admonishes in a fruity tone, untying her apron. “Our men don’t cry when they first meet the world, they bang on their chests and roar.”

  A collective feminine chuckle rolls around the table.

  “I think it’s endearing that some men would do that; let their woman be dominant. It shows they have a softer side,” counters Alma.

  “Pfft. You never want your man soft,” Dominique chides and our grins grow.

  “Right there, ladies, a life lesson for you,” Vivian says, beaming.

  Another round of chuckles follows.

  “I’m with Alma.” Stephy nods and her shiny, heavy fall of dark hair bobs with the motion. “I think these beta men possess quiet confidence over cockiness, and what’s more important, they see their woman as an equal, or the boss.”

  “Color me chauvinist,” I state, taking a quick swig of my sweaty glass. “But I need some alpha in my man. Tried the other option and it’s like drinking an instant coffee. It’s nice, does the job, but not wakening. Not fierce or strong.”

  “I couldn’t agree more with Liv,” says Embar in freckled seriousness. “I had a couple of dates with this guy who I was very attracted to and couldn’t wait to have him . . . make me call for the divine.”

  We all side smile at her. I bring another spoon full of exquisite seafood paella to my mouth and pat my lips with a napkin. “Well, let me tell you, alpha, he wasn’t. After he made me barely call for the altar boy, he started talking about emotions and shit, telling me how he felt closer to me now that we made love. And he wanted to cuddle! So, you know what? Thank you, but no thank you. Give me an alpha, who’ll throw me on the bed and do a better job communicating with my clit than talking about goddamn emotions. Now, pass the olives!” Her nostrils flare as she commands Dominique to slide over the little plate.

  “Amen to dzat!” Dominique declares while executing the order with the widest of grins. It’s a bobbing head dog display around the table as we all take part in nonverbally agreeing with Embar’s sermon.

  . . .

  It’s a breezy warm evening. A dark blanket already covers the skies, and the air smells of sea, tranquility, and bliss, so I decide to walk home. Work off the glass of alcohol I had, let the delicious food absorb better, and enjoy this beautiful, beautiful Serenidad night. The saying ‘you can lose yourself in a wonderful place’ comes to my mind as I marvel at the beauty before me. Because, hands down, this place is a slice of paradise.

  I choose to enjoy the longer path home, the one via the beach. Taking off my sandals, I let the chilled, white sand cover my bare skin. Taking a content lungful, I let out a giggle reminiscing about the topics of tonight’s gathering. I think about how comfortable I feel around these ladies, and how my new home truly feels like home. This little town – with its wealth of charm, beautiful seaside, alleys, and narrow passages – is like a passageway to uniqueness. So different from the busy and diverse city I used to call home.

  Funny enough, the only thing I miss, the only person I really miss, is the same one I missed when I was in my real home – Kai. I miss Kai. Truly miss him. But then again, I always do because he is always away. Along these pleasant thoughts, I work hard to push away those of a certain guy who has put me under a spell. The one I’ve pledged to exorcise from my mind earlier this evening. My nameless one-night stand.

  As I turn toward the illuminated path that leads to my home and a few neighboring houses, both my eyes and my heart take a plunge upwards. My heart at the direction of my throat and my eyes to the four stairs leading to my door. Someone is sitting on my stairs. I narrow my eyes, trying to get a better view of whom it might be. It’s a guy given the broad figure. I can clearly see a dark suit over a white button-down and a tie. My heart begins to drum in my chest with an undercurrent of anxiety in a “there’s a serial killer at my door” kind of distress. But as I take the next cautious steps that gets me closer, the drumming turns to a loud, unsteady hammering timbre. All of a sudden, my steps feel wobbly, and I start playing with my hands, lacing my fingers together to attempt to stop the nervous current.

  The high light at my porch’s roof falls in a soft halo around the guy who’s apparently waiting for me. He sits on the last step, his legs bent, slightly gaped, resting his feet in the sand. His elbows are on his thighs and he leans slightly forward, tilting his head to square our stares. He studies me for a span of a moment as my eyes meld into his dark liquid ones. My stomach is in a twisted string as I wait for him to speak.

  He doesn’t.

  He just gazes at me. Intently.

  With an urge to kill the intensity of his stare I blurt out, “Um, hey. We meet . . . once more. Um, what was your name again?”

  He inches to stand, towering above me. The light becomes weaker as it hides behind his wide frame. Eyes so deep into mine, I can nearly feel their weight.

  “I never told you my name,” he says in a low, hoarse voice. He grins next, and I want to die. The small, wicked twitch still adorns his lips as I gape at him, mortified. The look in his eyes makes me think of his head mov
ing between my legs and I consider dialing the fire department to put out the flames covering my face. He easily takes the last step to stand beside me. Almost popping the bubble of restless vibe that is my personal space. He extends his hand, takes my dazed one in his, and covers it with his other. Holding my palm between his, he dips his chin to captivate my eyes.

  Misty silence lining with a soft sound of easy waves and the sporadic hum of the light blinking over the porch surrounds us before he breaks the stillness.

  “It’s Sebastian Noé Balle,” he answers my question. Low voice with an edge of husk covered by a mouth-watering Spanish lilt that reverberates all the way through me. “My friends call me Seb. My family calls me Tian.” His hold of my hand becomes more palpable. “You can call me whatever you want as long as you’ll let me touch you again.”

  If I repeat what he just said in my head, with the way he said it, how his accent caressed each word, I would never again have to use lube. As long as I shall live, so help me God.

  “That’s the part where you tell me your name.” A smile plays on his lips.

  I blink at him and blink again. I force my lips to shut and swallow over the little drool puddle in my mouth.

  “I’m Liv . . . Sebastian Noé Balle.” Really? From all the names in the entire universe, his has to sound like foreplay?

  His lips tip higher. “Liv.” He rolls my name on his tongue.

  “Um.” I swallow again. “Would you like to come in?”

  He pivots his head to glance at the door and returns his attention to me.

  “No.”

  “No?” escapes my mouth in surprise. So, why are you here?

  His lips lift even higher. “Later,” he says and takes my hand in his again. “Let’s go for a walk. Talk for a while.”

  Here goes. I knew there had to be something wrong with him. That’s it; he is going to murder me on this picturesque piece of paradise.