Next Time Around

When she wakes up the next morning she's disappointed to find him gone.

Not because she expected more. Not because she'd read more into the moment than what came out of it. More that it seemed... just rude. And always, even though you try not to: waking up the next morning, alone beside the indent of second figure, there's still something tawdry, something stripped of innocence.

The motel has bad coffee, and only trim milk. But she makes herself a cup all the same. Molly pulls a motel dressing gown over the t-shirt that's served – more or less – as a nightie, and she walks out onto the balcony. The city view is all red and saffrons, all sun rising through sheets of muddy-grey cloud. Red and pink streaks fight their way across the sky, are writ large up there: bold letters in an unspeakable language. Below, the city is a patch of sunpainted autumn colours and an infinite series of greys. Small green spots mark out schools or parks. A big mall, painted rich burgundy.

He's texted her: next time around.

Probably, she thinks, just being realistic.

She pictures his broad, look-at-me smile, the nicely cut jacket, long legs, a hint of stubble on a nicely chiselled jaw. Last night had been easy. She'd been.

He has that effect on her.

#

She met Ethan two years ago. You couldn't miss him. Cue background music. There he'd been, walking along a straight path amongst mature trees, taking his time, flashing that easy smile. She'd felt like a cliché then, and she feels the same now.

But Ethan...

Garden wedding. The bride and groom old friends for her, distant cousins for him. Each of them had been alone. Gravitated towards each other. It was easy enough to talk, easy enough to flirt a little bit. The atmosphere of a wedding brings that out. They shared laughter, and some snide observations, a few things in common. They figured they'd never see each other again.

And six months after that, just walking across a busy square, both with christmas shopping hanging off their arms. A few words, the gathering evening: how about a drink?

Just one. Why not?

Lovely place this...

You have such... eyes... in this light...

I have a room....

A rented room – not so unlike this one. A padded queen size bed, with a padded headboard, and paintings of mermaids on the ceiling. Lying on a silk-feel pillow, staring up at those mermaids, with his body chafing against hers, making music with it, a brief burst of art.

Three years ago, that was.

#

And these days: they're all trying to set her up with the IT guy from work. It's well meaning. And Todd, he's more or less sweet, somewhat overly geeky, but with a quirky way of seeing the world. And he's cute; in that mild, slightly off-kilter kind of a way.

She's thought about it: just once. Just to get them off her back.

But she knows Todd has a fragile side. He might read too much into it.

I haven't.

She's annoyed that she has to tell herself that.

I haven't.

I know this is just a night or two, here or there, ships pass in the night, planes take off in the morning. And we like it just fine that way.

Molly can imagine herself an outside observer, watching all this at the movies. She'd be saying the same things her friends are: get out of there, find someone with more to offer: a settle-down-and-get-married-and-have-kids-guy. She'd be looking down her nose at this woman, thinking what a fool she was, wasting herself on this drawn-out fling, on a thing with no future and barely any past. In the movie she'd be waiting for Todd or somebody like him to prove himself the real hero, the sure and solid, dependable, kind-hearted guy who'd been under the heroine's nose all along. There'd be happy ever after. Eventually.

Here, in the cold heart of reality: Todd can't hold her attention. She dreams about Ethan. She still lives her life when he isn't there. She's okay. She thinks about dating, but only with half a heart, with a lack of enthusiasm. His is an image hard to stand against.

And then: a text, or a phone call.

And then: him, there, the sight of him, his breath against her face, the feel of his skin brushing hers. The heigtened senses, the blood rising in her cheeks.

Every time.

She sips her coffee. She wonders: is it like this for him as well?

#

They did date.

Properly, that is.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Really: it was the time of her life. Anger and disappointment mixed with lust and light-heartedness and the sharp intakes of breath. A brief and fiery romance, fuelled by best intentions, but played out in this world, in this time, and between these two people: both strong and selfish and so self-sufficient, so able to exist outside each other.

So able that they had.

Four fabulous months.

But then reality found its way in through the cracks. The day-to-day, the unromanticness of clogged sinks, and phone bills, and one of them forgetting to meet the other, one or the other needing to work late.

A couple of supernova arguments.

And there they'd been.

#

Molly finishes her coffee. She can see movement in the other windows. Other patrons coming out onto balconies. A man with a newspaper smiles and waves. A man follows a woman in slinky, silky night dress. Here for the same reason as she was. Facing the ashes of a morning after, but at least her man had stayed for the morning.

What would a bowlful of cornflakes have cost him?

Her fault though: trying to bring more into it than's left.

But I don't do that, do I?

She stares at herself in the mirror when she's gotten dressed. She stares hard, remonstrating with herself with just this granite-bitten look. She hates that she's doing this: cataloguing the wrinkles, hunting for age in a face that – surely – isn't old enough to show it. She takes herself to task, not knowing if she means it: a semi-promise of never-do-it-again, which already rings false even as she thinks it.

Her phone rings.

“This is Molly.”

“Molly, it's Kendra. Are you having a good time in New York?”

“It's one big, juicy apple.”

“You met him there, didn't you?”

“... yeah...”

“You did it with him.”

“He has a name.”

“You did though didn't you?”

“So what?”

“Molly, he's bad for you.”

Isn't that up to me? Worst of all that she tires of her friends, that she feels like pushing them away from her whenever the conversation turns this way. She feels small in their eyes, and then grows tall in reaction, filling herself with her own certainty; narcissistic self-belief: she does so know what she's doing.

Kendra says: “Did he at least stay for breakfast.”

A bowl of cornflakes....

“He didn't, did he?”

“No.”

“I'm just looking out for you.”

“I know. He was great incidentally. Still has that stamina...”

“Spare me. You still want a lift home from the airport?”

“If you can.”

“Sure. Hey, my cousin Lionel is coming to town next month. I'm going to fix you up with him. Tell me you'll at least come out for drinks with us.”

#

Ethan has other women.

Molly knows it. She accepts it. She considers herself free to have other men.

Only she never actually does. Always a bit busy, not quite in the mood, he's just not the right guy, not the right time. A few dates here and there. A conversation with a friend of a friend down at the pub. Nothing that sticks.

Ethan's flip and fly away too. She's seen a couple in facebook photos: Ethan with her arm around them, Ethan sitting next to one or another of them on top some landmark or other. The trademark smile set firmly into place. One, a blond girl with hair cut just past her chin, all angles and green eyes, a face that leaves an after-image. Or the brunette whose curls are long and languid, whose dress is vevlet, and her bracelets are clinking silver. She has the pout, the way of looking over her shoulder, or along the length of a tanned, elegant arm, her eyes reaching just beyond the camera.

Tanya.

Valerie.

Those are their names.

#

The alarm on her phone reminds her its time to go. The taxi is pre-arranged. Molly straightens herself in the mirror. She dons her armour.

Let the world at her.

Ethan sends a text: wild night.

Yeah, wild.

Until next time.

Sure, maybe. Who, after all, knows what the tide will wash up?

She drops her phone into her bag, tosses her coat around her; one last glance back at this classless motel room, and she walks out into the cold.