Meet Me In The Hallway

Hostel

I was furiously putting on my clothes and trying to make an escape. I was so disappointed.

What I was disappointed in kept vacillating.

I was disappointed I had gotten myself into this situation.

I was disappointed Harry had gotten me out of my clothes.

But the hard truth was I was most disappointed that he then asked me to put them back on before things escalated to a point where there was no return.

How we had got to this point was still a bit of a blur honestly. I'd answered his text, the number may have been unknown, but his habit borne out of required number changes to sign his texts with H remained. I would have known just by the words he used anyway.  Harry told me that he was in town, here in Singapore, and that there were things that needed to be said.

He was not specific, but he didn't need to be. I had listened to his album, and from the count into the first song, the questions piled up. If a song named Meet Me In The Hallway could be about anything but me, and him, and us, I'd be damned. Maybe I was.

How could I say no? I had lots of things to say, and after listening to his heartbreaking take on our broken hearts, I had a lot of questions to ask.

If the song I correctly assumed was about me at the Victoria Secret Fashion Show had brought up some latent feelings, re: anger, that I needed to address, the rest of the album, of which I would bet 50% was about me, brought up two years of love and disappointment and three hard years of longing and learning.

It seemed like he had lived through the exact same experience and we had both come out feeling like we had been neglected and lonely. As the wronged party, a fact of which I was still mostly sure, I needed to set the record straight or straighten out his bloody record.

Deep down though, I knew I had made plenty of mistakes, that I had held onto too many hurts for too long and been too proud. Basically, I was aware, now that I was in a grown up relationship with an adult male who called me out on my bullshit, that I had some really destructive habits.

That was another source of disappointment. How was I going to tell Milo, who only knew there had been somebody before, that the guy who he had spent so much time fixing the damage from, had gotten me naked in 10 flat? Only slowed down because we took our time kissing. And that there would be another rejection he was going to have to repair, if he would have me? 

Dammit, I did not deserve him. I didn't deserve Harry either.

He was the one who had stopped the barreling train on its tracks and pushed me off his lap.

Well, pushed wasn't exactly what had happened. Though it felt brutal and edged on violence in my head, that was only to justify the murderous mood I was now in.

I'd been down to my panties, panting on his lap, his hands in the long hair that cascaded down my back. My own moving back and forth from the shoulders that were wider, but slimmer, than I remembered and the hair that was shorter than I'd ever felt it slip through my fingers.

He had slipped through my fingers.

We had slipped through our fingers and back several years, where our first course of action when we had been apart and we had made it to a hotel room was to reconnect, literally. First we would connect our mouths, then we would interlock our bodies for as long as we could. Until exhaustion or obligation drew us from whatever flattish surface we had found. Or the wall we had been doing a good job of holding up.

He had sent me the address of his hotel, and with Milo out for drinks for work and Kara safely away in another country, permanently, there was no one to even give me a word of caution.