In college, I owned half a dorm, my roommate a South Floridian princess who chain-smoked Virginia Slims when not having angry, scream-at-each-other sex with her boyfriend. The room was tiny—a 10x10 space divided down the middle by hot pink duct tape. We’d put the tape down on the first day, our parents beaming and shaking hands, each so proud of ‘their girl,’ the mix of cultures tropical and exciting in the feminine space.
I now lived in a space the same size. I’d walked it off countless times, sometimes the scrape of chain accompanying my steps, other times unencumbered. It was twelve of my feet long, six of my feet wide. On the back side was a windowless concrete wall, painted a lifetime ago some shade of white that was now gray. On the front side, a line of metal pipes held in place by concrete. I’d tried to move them, jiggle them, scrape at their footers. They weren’t going anywhere.
My cramped space held a toilet, shower, and bed. He often brought in a chair, but he took it with him when he left. I would tell you how long I’d been here, but I didn’t know.
The next morning, I woke up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.
Circumstance brought me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he’d left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my number, or, at the very least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he’d run. Or rather, walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.
I took a shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternated between hot and lukewarm. Squeezed out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dried off hard enough to realize that my back was sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walked to the closet. Stared at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looked good enough.
I was too old to feel that way, the adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I might have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Was I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he would think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg was jiggling, jumping up and down underneath the desk as I applied mascara with a hand that was too shaky. The resort was huge. We were leaving in twenty-eight hours. I’d probably never see him again. I should have gotten his number.
“Shut the curtains, bitch.”
I ignored the words, examined my blue sundress, and wondered if the deodorant marks skipping along the front would rub out.
“Seriously. What time is it?”
“Nine-twenty.” I tossed the dress down, gave up on looking put-together, and grabbed a pair of shorts and a tank top. That was about as fashion forward as my town got. It would have to be good enough.
“Fuuuccccckk...” The word was muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it was there. I had about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolled her ass out of bed, and I didn’t plan to be in striking distance when that happened.
“Coffee’s brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”
A grunt. Muffled curses. I grabbed my purse and room key, opened the door, and escaped.
The hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I ordered a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand in the lobby and still racked up an eighteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity automatically added. And for that additional three bucks I didn’t even get a smile. I scribbled my last name and room number, signed the line, and snagged my tray of food, elbowing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, picking a table by the railing and settling in.
Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curled against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkled at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot landed on the railing three feet to my right and tilted his head at my feet as if he might give them a taste. I tossed him a piece of muffin, then kicked out my foot, leaning my head back once I was convinced that my still-blistered-from-last-night piggies were safe.
Peeled the sticker from the apple. Crunched. Chewed. Swallowed. The sun was warm, even that early. And no humidity. God, I wished our section of Florida was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that made sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I took a swig of water and then screwed the lid back on. Loosened the muscles in my neck, slid down a little in my chair, and closed my eyes. Good ol’ alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I would need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.
A breeze blew from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices had appeared, talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settled into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruined a perfectly healthy set of lungs.
I kept my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wandered, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice started that sounded familiar. I began to sit up but stopped, not sure if now, sans make-up with a face full of muffin crumbs, was how I wanted to reintroduce myself. I stayed in place, slouching a little further, more certain with each additional word, that one of the men was Brett. A smile played on the corner of my mouth.
“What happened with that girl from last night?”
“The blonde?”
“Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”
A pause. Soft cough. I almost fell off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.
“Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party. You know how I feel about that.”
I didn’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I was, thinking the kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dug my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the eventual screech of chair legs as the men behind me moved along.
Fuck him. I didn’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina was perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’d spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tore to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ poster and moved on to more official business.