The Renewal 24OCT2005

“Why”, she asked, standing in the dark and in the rain, at the foot of the stone steps leading up to his apartment. Her dark hair slowly plastering to her face in the fine drizzle, the beige leather coat she wore turning a dark brown. Her big brown eyes peered up at him, long, fine lashes flicking away water, what he told himself were tears, onto her tanned cheeks. Her teeth her bright as she shivered, once, and turned to walk away, then paused, and turned back.

“I told you not to fall in love with me. I said that you were not to initiate compassion or sex at any time, that I would let you know when it was appropriate to do so. And you know the reason I asked you to leave my place last time.” She spoke calmly, rationally, and the images flickered through his mind.

His upset stomach, images of the whirling, twisting carnie ride, her apologies, his
insistence that the choice, and naturally the consequences, had been his own. The argument, then the last week of torn, jagged emotions, heights of elation, depths of despair, absolute neutrality had left him drained.

“Look, you just don’t kick me out of your place, ask me to gather up what few things I had there, then come back a week later, expecting me to welcome you with open arms. For me, the moment you asked for the key back was the moment I fundamentally, irrevocably, divorced myself from the idea of us being together. It’s over, finished. Take care of yourself.” As in previous such situations, his voice was calm, devoid of emotion, almost cruel in its simplicity.

He cried out in joy, leaving the theater during his first viewing of the Return of the King, torn between that marvelous tale and the third call from Her, that hot little Philippina from Accounting, with her full breasts and cunning, her toying, over the past few weeks, stoking his lust in their brushing encounters, feeding him lines designed to arouse, blinding him with the prospect of sodden lust just days away.

Her boyfriend had just broken up with her, that scumbag who had come between them, fat and lazy, but possessing of the qualities needed to make a girl dependent: just enough cruelty for her to doubt her worth, just enough sex to keep her going, just enough disinterest to keep her guessing, and on, and on.

That night, she hate fucked him. She fucked him savagely, and left him unsatisfied, at which point, for any normal man, this would have happened:

Klaxons sounding loudly, everywhere throughout the rock-hewn corridors; just overhead, a yellow strobe light, encased in rusting steel mesh, begins to flash; small, metal boxes drop down from their crèches in the ceiling, swiveling toward him, flashing, in menacing red lights the following message, echoed by a grinding, deep male voice emerging from speakers hidden in the dripping rock walls:

LEAVE NOW. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PUT YOUR PANTS ON, BID FAREWELL, AND GTFO. NOW! OR AT LEAST HAVE HER FINISH YOU OFF BY HAND. OTHERWISE, GO!

But he ignored the warning, and swallowed his pride, his scrotum pretty much sucking itself back up into his torso. And he toughed it out.

Another night of television, another night snuggled under the blanket. He never quite relaxed, but was always a bit tense, ready to spring to her beck and call, to fetch her the phone, to massage her feet, to spin up the X-Box and kick her skinny ass in Halo, to get her water. He gave and loved, never asking for anything in return, but yearning for it quietly.

Another night of television. This time she had promised him sex, but instead talked into the night with her roommate, and he stormed into her room, frustrated and confused, but accepting his fate yet again. They were to go to the fair the next day, and he thought of the fact that there would be rides there, and that he would go on one with her, even though he knew that it would make him sick.

Lying in the dark, listening to the hushed tones coming from the next room, he resented her, and was confused at the past six months, at his complete and unconditional love for her, at her promises that she would learn to love him too, in time.

Then, he slept.

She woke him, later that night, as she had never done before, pleasure overriding his need to rest. Groggy from sleep, still quietly upset, he looked down, and she laughed at him.

“You really should learn to control your emotions some more. It was so obvious that you were mad. You were disappointed because I said we would be together tonight, but instead talked with Jamie, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, she and I haven’t talked in a while, and you shouldn’t count on that happening, even if I say it will.”

She laughed again, and joined him, and they had the best sex they’ve ever had together, bodies writing in the dark, him choking her mildly as she climaxed, her body taunt as a wire in extended reverse cowboy.

He did not drink, watching her walk away into the rain and dark, that night or the next, or take drugs, or enjoy the cool, quick pleasures of the brothel, nor the hot, quick desperation of a fat horny girl. Rather, he sat, numb, reading, for weeks, and pushing himself on his daily run, cranking out pushups, churning off the fat of domesticity, the pounds of the docile and satisfied man.

Then, one day, sometime around six months after she had begged him to take her back, after she had cried and promised him her body, assuring him she would not go on dates with other guys, he bounced back.

The doubt, the painful knowledge of past failure, ebbed from the forefront of his daily mindset, and he waded back into the sea of potentiality, and caught a few charming damsels, breaking more hearts, enjoying once again the pleasures of the wanton, lithe body. Free of charge, of course.