NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Pippa

I have conflicting emotions when recalling memories of Pippa. She was attractive and quirky; each quality enhanced as she spoke with her London-born accent.  We became friends while working together at Dun & Bradstreet. When we first met, she was in her mid-twenties, and I was nearing the end of mine.
She brightened business meetings and was the source for much silliness and laughter between us.

I remember being together at a conference in Beacon Hill, where Pippa and I, recently promoted, represented a newly formed consulting arm within the Information Resources division. Prior to then, our division had the primary responsibility of gathering the raw data used to create risk assessment products.  Our consultant roles served to generate additional revenue, from what had been previously a data gathering operation. I never identified with the façade that seemed to accompany employment with D&B. In reality, the day to day operation more closely matched the 60 Minute exposé that revealed our working conditions as that of a "white-collared sweat shop."  I never saw myself as a hoity-toity, button-down type, and recall feeling self-conscious as we were shuttled through the crowded Financial District from the back of a limousine. 

Post meetings, we joined in a group dinner held at the Gordon Biersch Brewing Company and enjoyed free drinks and dining.  Afterward we returned to the hotel, where Pippa and I found ourselves pleasantly buzzed and alone in her room.  As we talked, it couldn't go unnoticed, the unmistakable muffled sounds that traveled through the thin hotel walls and were easily identified as a couple screwing in the room next door. 

A mixture of exhaustion, and awkwardness from the sexual tension that existed between us, resulted in an uncontrollable spell of nervous laughter.  Each were left clutching at midsections and wiping away tears. Moments later, she broke the tension that had started to build again with the silence that followed our laughter, she grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the bed.  Locked arm-in-arm, and laughter renewed, we bounced on the squeaky mattress and loudly reenacted a mock version of the neighbor's performance. Our aim was to stun and amaze the couple next door. 

The scenario described from our night together in Beacon Hill ended innocently, and I returned to my room, alone. The sad truth of the short affair, that occurred in time, is that we were better at being friends. The fun experienced in friendship was noticeably absent from our fling, and left me with unresolved feelings of guilt. The attraction we felt did not translate to love and quickly soured; the excitement was unsustainable. There seemed to be a need to up the bet on each sexual experience from the last, and we never achieved a sense of intimacy.
Soon, sex with her went beyond what I found desirable and quickly lost its appeal.

I recall salacious details of a Friday night out with Pippa, where together after work we walked to the Stock Market Bar & Grill. It was conveniently located next door to the office, and a favorite place to go.  We rushed past the hostess and avoided the clusters of 2-top tables, as we made our way to the bar.  I motioned for Pippa to take the only available seat and pretended not to notice the appreciative glances aimed in her direction.  She sat down on the barstool, and I attempted to catch the attention of the swamped bartender. 

As usual, the place was crowded—buzzing with the hum of chattering customers who, like us, were just glad the weekend was finally within reach. This was before the smoking ban in Massachusetts' bars, and the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarettes. After a few rounds, I moved behind her, straddling her stool as she slid down and pressed her body into mine. I ran my hands along her legs—slender and smooth, lightly freckled. Her strawberry-blonde hair masked the bar's odor, and I buried my face in it, breathing her in. She welcomed my touch, so I continued, planting soft kisses along her neck. My hand slipped beneath her loose-fitting skirt. She found it, gently guiding it beneath the smooth fabric of her panties. The moist heat of her body met my fingers. Our excitement stayed contained—unseen, but unmistakable.

The moment passed, and the room edged back into focus. I became aware again of the silhouettes around us—figures caught in a haze of amber light and the pulsing red flicker of digital tickers that circled the space like a warning left on repeat. Shadows stretched and warped across the floor, slow and deliberate. The alcohol thickened everything—thoughts, movements, the space between words. I paid the bill, and we slipped out into the stillness, heading back to the now-empty office building, presumably to finish what we had started.

She slipped out of her panties and splayed herself out before me. I fucked her as she leaned back along the office desktop, through the fog of our drunken haze; still dressed, with only essentials revealed and without any thought of protection. The passion held back earlier at the bar quickly abated, and I lost focus.  I felt detached and awkwardly continued as I watched myself mechanically thrust forward.  She sensed my distraction, and in an attempt to recapture the mood, we transitioned off the desk to the grey-toned carpet that lined my office floor. 

We heard voices and I was spared embarrassment from the obvious signs of my waned affection—a sobering haunt from the past. We quickly gathered ourselves and retreated, narrowly avoiding detection by the evening janitorial service. Out of breath and queasy from the hurried escape and too much to drink, we clutched the railing on the 2nd story balcony and vomited into planter boxes below. 

We made our way to my car and unwisely drove until finding an open drugstore.  Toothbrushes and toothpaste were purchased, and an emergency contraception that was referred to as the morning after pill. We felt nauseous and in an attempt to sober-up, sat in silence on a hard plastic booth at a nearby McDonalds and sipped stale coffee from styrofoam cups.

Before reaching that destination, we stopped at a gas station and huddled together in the dim light of a single-stall restroom. Using her hand as a cup, Pippa gathered water from the faucet and slurped down the poison prescription. We brushed our teeth and tried to freshen up, avoiding each other's gaze and finding solace in the distraction of the grimy surfaces around us. In hindsight, a fitting end to our night of debauchery.

Pippa was married, had two children, and was tethered to a life I wasn't meant to be part of. I wasn't friends with her husband—only on polite terms—and had met their kids only a handful of times. She claimed to be done with him, whispering bitter stories of his cruelty. But her misery and mine didn't change the cold truth between us. I wanted nothing more than to vanish from her world, to erase the damage we'd done before it was too late.

I've often thought of Pippa. We shared a tax accountant, and for years afterward, every tax season when I visited his office, he'd offer unsolicited updates—mostly about her ongoing success at my former employer. I always sensed he was a little infatuated with her, though I never shared the truth about our past. Years ago, during one of those visits, I learned she'd divorced, moved to New York, and taken a management position at a call center.

As said before—I carry mixed emotions about the memories we made. Maybe we could have been friends still, if not for our poor choices. But I have no desire to see her again. I hope the children adjusted well to their new reality, navigating the challenges of growing up with separated parents.

There's a saying about war that often applies to divorce: "No winners, only survivors."