Building A Problem | Jasiper

3. Four Tequilas Down

A door closing with a small thud. A thud, lingering in the air. A thud, replaced by silence.

   Silence, because it's this early. The birds haven't even begun chirping, yet. Silence, because you left. Silence, because I am alone now.

   Alone, brewing thoughts in my head; brewing excuses.

   The night had been so young, and you had looked so desperate, in the doorway, your dress soaked, wet. What from, I never got to ask you.

   We had a suit. I asked if you wanted to lend it. Just to not be cold. That's what we told each other. What we told the others.

   You took it, a smile on your lips. When you came out of the bathroom, you placed the soaking dress in my arms. You'd even put on the tie.

   You'd tied your hair back in a messy ponytail, a grin painted on your face. I'm not sure if I'll ever forget that grin, hopeful and alluring.

   I'd stood behind the counter, when you sauntered over, asking for a drink. Tequila, you'd said. I had shook my head.

   You'd disappeared again, only to show up an hour later, tie slightly askew. Tequila, you'd said. I had shook my head.

   The third time, you had asked for two; One for me, one for you.

   The fourth time, a tear had graced your face. I hadn't asked why—it wasn't my business.

   But it turned out to be.

   I'd asked to take you home; you said you had none. I drove us to my place, instead.

   You'd taken off your tie with nimble fingers. Trembling, too. I'd put my hand over yours. You'd stopped shaking.

   You'd put your lips on mine, soft and tender. I'd closed my eyes—we both did.

   I have a boyfriend, you'd said. But it doesn't matter. We'd kept kissing.

   When you'd hovered above me, I pulled out your hair tie, your hair as soft as a kitten's fur.

   I could see the gloss in your eyes. I wondered if you made your eyes blur. If the dark made me look like him.

   I'll never get to see him. But I saw you again. When you gave your speech.

   You'd kept kissing me. Or, maybe, I'd kept kissing you.

   I think you needed it as much as I did. To be held. To be felt. To be loved. At least that's what I tell myself. Maybe we pretended, because we both needed it.

   Because something in me said that what we did was okay. It was okay. It was okay.

   I knew it wasn't right.

   He'll never know, you'd said. He'll never know.

   You'd looked at me with eyes big as a deers. Just hold me like you mean it.

   But when you closed the door, the thud lingering, I know what we did wasn't right. We didn't mean it, when we held each other.

   But you're gone now. The suit you borrowed is hanging over a chair in the dining room. You barely remembered the dress you'd handed me last night.

   It is for the best, I know. But still. I don't know if I know who I am anymore. You are gone, leaving me to brew excuses for myself.

   It's okay.

   I could never comprehend what thoughts are stirring in your mind, as you sit in a taxi on the way back home to him.

   He'll never know.

   He'll never know.