Veiled Affection

Chapter Seventeen

That following period of about a month, in which the most prominent thing that happened was Cate still handling her divorce, I didn't get any of that. Instead, ignorance was still my choice of approach. We had fun instead of somber times. Or at least it started out as fun. The described evening of above showed a different side of that choice. The start of the month that followed.

A few days after that start I was making some dinner for myself in the kitchen when she texted me.

I miss you, it said.

With pasta boiling in the pot and vegetables frying in the pan I put my phone away, but it wasn't shortly after when I received another notification. I looked down on the screen and grinned.

A lot..., she wrote.

This time ignoring my cooking, I sent a reply saying she was free to come over if she would like. Of course she did, so it wasn't an hour later before she stood on my doorstep. And this time, too, with a bottle of wine in her hands.

''Being self-sufficient again?''

She smiled. ''Couldn't go without.''

It pains me now, the way her words seem to have a different meaning. But I didn't think anything of it back then. I think I just laughed a little.

''Are you alone?'' She asked, and I smiled.

''Do you want me to be?''

''I think you know exactly what I want.''

We stood there with a wide grin staring at each other before I made the way.

''All alone. Come in.''

Instead of going up, she and I stayed in the living room. The first thing she did was to open the wine in her hands, and poor it straight into a couple of glasses. And I was the idiot who said, ''I like your way of doing things.'', as she handed me the glass. We clinked and she took two big gulps whereas I had a sip.

''You have no idea how badly I have been in need for a glass.'' She justified.

''I can tell.'' I said, and there was still that stupid grin on my face.

I was about halfway with my glass when she finished hers first. And as her glass was empty for the second time, I eventually had drank my first. Just like those few days ago, she seemed to fill hers up unconsciously, without any thought. But I did notice. How she kept the bottle near, and the way she seemed to take a sip every few sentences.

''Going again?'' I said at one point, but she only smiled and began another topic, ignoring the remark completely. But I don't blame her. I said it with a smile on my face myself. By then it was intended as to voice my concern, yet I smiled in a moment I shouldn't have.

It wasn't so much the general desire as it was the booze that made us fall into each other's arms again. And though both of our inhibitions had by then lowered, she was the one blurting out all sorts of gibberish.

Unlike a few days before, she didn't mention him. This time, her words came out more desperate opposed to jocular. I would hold her tight against the wall, kissing her all the way down her neck, and she would sigh, to then follow it up by a whisper:

''Make me forget.'' She softly pleaded. ''Please,"

I didn't know how to react, so I didn't alter what I did. I just kept kissing her, and touching her, and undressing her.

''Just fuck me -'' She sighed when my hand was halfway down her pants.

We stumbled to the couch where we fell down, and I obeyed to her wish.

It wasn't until the next morning and I was sober again, that I recollected what she had all blurted out, and found it to be so notable. And that morning I realized not only the difference in the words she had said, but also in the way she maneuvered herself. I recalled how noticeably drunk she was - just like last time - but this time, the way she moved, the way she held me close: it all felt like it had an urge behind it. She grabbed my hair more firmly, held my body tighter against hers and didn't seem to want to let go. It hadn't anything to do with a stronger sense of longing: just as her sentences, I caught a fragment of desperation.

I wasn't exactly pleased that morning as last night was brought to mind and interpretations were made. But I didn't hold back either when I received her next notification, and the one after that, and the next one.

A text that once was so far off the usual, now became familiarized. I want to get wasted. You're home alone?, it said at first, but I soon saw it in all kinds of alterations. Up for a drink?; Let me go to the liquor store first, or just a simple, Can I come over?, had by then indicated she was in need of only two thing: alcohol and sex. It were the vices she needed to forget about everything else. The most comprehensive form of escapism if I ever heard any.

Each time she came over and I opened the door, it was difficult seeing that smile of hers, to know deep down she didn't feel fulfilled at all. But then each time as well, I wanted her to take a few big gulps of alcohol, and I made her feel good, just to make her forget about all of her problems.

There were times in which I deliberated whether I should recline her request to come over. But I knew that if I did, she would still follow through with her wish to get drunk all by herself, and I was afraid of what might have happened then. Better she would just be with me, to have someone taking care of her. At one point I didn't even have any other intention for out meetups than that. It wasn't me looking forward to each time I'd talk to her again. I would just see her, take care of her, and the way I decided to do so was by making her feel good, whether that would be by booze or intimacy. And by that point it couldn't even be called intimacy. The sex we had was merely aimed as a distraction.

We would lay there, naked in bed or on the couch, and sometimes, she would murmur, ''Well played, darling'', afterward. Sometimes, more seriously, more anxiously, ''Please don't give up on me just yet, June.'' I didn't know what to say to that either.

It was different from all those times before. As I took off her clothes, I didn't feel a sense of thrill and excitement. And as my lips grazed along her lean body, it could barely be called enjoyable. It wasn't electric or satisfactory or rousing. It was just... sad.

Sad sex is when - the toothpaste in her mouth not fully disguising the smell of alcohol - she whispers, ''Cheer me up, darling,'' And I oblige. Though cheering her up also involves cheering myself down.

We kind of drifted apart in those weeks. I not only avoided asking her how she had been doing, but she didn't ask me either. I can see now that it was the angst she had of having the question returned onto her: if she were to ask how I had been doing, surely I would return the question. So instead neither of us asked anything of the sort.

It was far from what I wanted. But then I didn't want for her to be reminded of all that was going on. Though I know now, I should have asked. So many times I just should have asked how she was truly doing. But alas, those few weeks happened the way they happened.

And then that period of time just stopped.

The month had passed, and I received again another text from her, requesting to come over. By then I became accustomed to the liquor and sex that would follow, and I knew that this time wouldn't be any different. Except, I didn't know.

As I opened the door she stood there, composed and sedately, and at once she just said it:

''I'm divorced.''

We stood there for a few seconds in silence before the tears came. She wept a lot. The tears that had been held back in the past month, all presented at once. And to think that I had been afraid of just that: sadness and confrontation. Yet standing there with her, seeing her so vulnerable, I felt a strange sense of relieve. This is how it should have been. What I had missed for all of those weeks.

I pulled her towards me, held her close, and I felt her tears on my shoulder. I guess I didn't mean for it to happen, but I started crying, too. Just a little bit. And when I pulled back - still grabbing hold of her arms - I smiled.

The layer of pretend had shed, and it was again her who I looked in the eyes.