Immigrant girl

Chapter 17. Anya.

I had a hard time getting out of bed. It felt like everything in the room was saturated with him. For about 20 minutes, I couldn't stop the flow of my tears; a burning shame was consuming me from the inside. I felt utterly insignificant and dirty. For so long, I had convinced myself that there could be nothing between Alex and me, and here I was lying on the rumpled bed, naked and tearful. No one can betray you as strongly as you can betray yourself. I was tossed into fever, then shivers. Every place on my body where he had touched me seemed to be on fire and itchy. After managing to get up, I went to the shower, turned on the water, and waited for it to heat up. Stepping into the scalding streams, I scrubbed myself with a rough washcloth so vigorously that I scraped my skin to the blood in a few places. I cried in the shower too, but it was no longer tears, it was hysteria.

Wrapping myself in a large, soft towel, I treated my abrasions with hydrogen peroxide and headed back to the bedroom. Furiously stripping the bedding from my bed, I threw it on the floor. I wanted to get rid of his scent; I wanted to get rid of all the emotions I was feeling. Images of our passionate sex flashed in my mind. Alex's hands on my hips, his lips on my neck, his whisper, "you're mine." I wanted to slap myself until these images disappeared from my consciousness. How could I have allowed this to happen? What had happened to me? Of course, nothing could be undone now; all that remained was to accept it.

What did all those words Alex said before leaving mean? That he had waited for me for a long time, that I was not just a fan. STOP! These are just words; you can say anything. Besides, after he said them, he just got up and left. HE JUST LEFT. He said it wasn't just sex. LIE. If it wasn't just sex, he would have made an effort to stay at least for 10 minutes to discuss what had happened between us. My thoughts were muddled, jumping, tearing my head apart.

I stood in the midst of the chaos I had created in the bedroom, and I wanted to cry again, but I realized that it was too much. I gathered the bedding from the floor and threw it in the washing machine. I changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, grabbed my wallet and keys from the table, and practically ran out of the apartment.

The street welcomed me with brisk coolness as I breathed deeply and steadily, trying to calm myself. I was walking towards a cafe near my home. I wanted to get myself a large, super-sweet, and calorie-laden chocolate frappuccino to get a carbohydrate rush and drown out the storm of emotions raging inside me. My skin tingled under my clothes, and it felt like my entire body was on fire. I'd need to stop by the pharmacy to get some soothing ointment. There was a small line in the cafe, and I stood at the very end of it, observing the other customers. A man walked in  and stood behind me. I glanced at him quickly and noted to myself that he seemed very attractive.

Tall, fit, black hair of medium length, a stylish haircut, some stubble, and piercing emerald eyes. I turned away when I realized I was openly staring at him. But unable to resist, I cast another assessing look at the man. He was dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a dark blue knitted cardigan, with sneakers on his feet. Stylish.

It was my turn, and I ordered the chocolate frappuccino I had wanted and added a strawberry jam-filled pastry. Why not treat myself? I walked over to an available table and sat down, waiting for my order. I watched as the man went to the counter to place his order.

"Large black coffee, no sugar, no cream," he said in a deep voice with a noticeable British accent. Oh my God, this man is pure perfection. He handed over his credit card.

"What's your name, sir?" the barista asked, a broad smile on her face, clearly charmed by his looks, but more so by his accent.

"Mark," the man replied, smiling in return, and a cute dimple appeared on his right cheek. I had seen such a beautiful man only once before, and that was Alex.