We crisscrossed the skylines of city after city. Contrails and that gleam of the sun off the fuselage. Utah. Colorado… maybe, Arizona or New Mexico. Somehow, we ended up in Texas. Houston. Never been, now I had.
Hunger called. We ended up at the airport Chilis. Sat at the bar. On my phone was messages from Kay, a good friend. Like most of my good friends, we’d never met. Plausible deniability. Closeness at a distance. 21st century human. She talked, I talked, I was mean, cold. I saw in her eyes and she knew, but she wasn’t phased. Things kept going. Small pang. Like when I didn’t convince her Utah would be the place to settle down. She wanted to go back home, eventually. It called to her. Pangs. Defeated. Again.
Texas to Little Rock. This time actually to it. Last trip some loud asian bitch bumped us from the plane when we had 10 minutes left still to board. Other plane came in late, not our fault. We had to fly into Fort Smith, a good hour and a half away. Her friends came to pick us up. Drug-addled and perverted boyfriend, Ken, and the lesbian lover of her best friend, Kristy. Bags ended up in Little Rock anyway. There wasn’t a good start to that trip either.
Bright yellow shit of a rental car. As if jaundice had a baby with a smart car. They named it Aveo. It was ours for the week. I was still under the notion that things could be saved at this time. Afternoon sunset, on the way to her old friend’s place. I still had hope. I still had plans and game in my head. I was an idiot. Her old friend was an old crush. Certified alpha, by the stories of his she told me. This was going to be bad. This is crazy. Why this? Why now? They wanted beer. We bought beer. I picked the green bottles instead of the dark brown. Fuck Bud Light. Bud Light is piss. My pathetic rebellion. We made it. They hugged. I stood back and watched.
What could I do? Fight? Toss around shit? It was all spinning out of control. Not two days before she was riding me, moaning, wanting me to come. Now, its as if that was our great goodbye. My hands on her tits as she uncharacteristically rode me like I was paying her. My last goodbye. No more soft skin. No more citrus hair. I could see the end from the Aveo. I just kept it hidden from myself.
I met the group. Tim, the crush, tall, wide, build like a football player forced to eat pasta on a regular basis. Long hair. Strong voice. I was so fucked. Mike. Little dark asian. An odd personality. Facial hair from a Kurosawa movie. They were both in love with Japanese shit. They were just like her. I was so fucked.
They talked about the past. I played with Tim’s daughter, Missy. Innocent and adorable. A big hugger. She was like how I thought of my first daughter, the name Zoey Maye chosen by her and I. We had names for several kids. Turns out she’s barren, or has massive control of her ovulation, or something medical having to do with being so overweight. I lucked out there, says hindsight. She disappeared on me several times – with him – as I played with the kid. I felt used. As if I was facilitating my own demise. They couldn’t do much, small house, nosy neighbors, doors without locks, but that didn’t matter. The anxiety was full blown. Paranoia abound. Every creek I heard was a blowjob. Every muffled laugh was a gangbang. I was tired and going crazy. I looked like ass. I hated how I looked. Hair sticking out from by hat. Beige pants and black t-shirt. Who the fuck dresses like that? I shook and shook. I couldn’t keep the facade going. Alpha no more. Alpha never was. Just dust on a roman statue, broken down and forgotten under Pompeii.
Anxiety is a hell of a drug. Its a disease that’s never cured. It sits and waits. Biding its time. Each clearing of the throat. Each sniffle. Each event in your life. Its always there. Then, like being caught in the rain, after all the decent days outside, it hits you. It runs you over and keeps on going. Its merciless. Its evil. Everything that might be is, and it is in spades. Its genetic. Thanks, Mom.
By midnight, after hours of self-isolation from the herd, of texting Kay, of fear, I got up and told her we had to go. Forceful. Angry. She was with him, Mike and a twitchy fucker. The twitchy fuck was one more relationship from burying his dates in the backyard. And he was a soldier. Nice. They saw I was mad. They thought I was square. I was, but I didn’t care. I was grasping at straws. Trying to get any semblance of control. Last movements.
I drove to a hotel. She had drank a lot. I as beyond upset, but I told her nothing. I was going to, but I waited. I lied about why I wanted to be in the hotel. Didn’t trust them, I said. Fucking understatement. I thought of propriety, of embarrassment, of fear. I feared her reaction. I was being the good husband. She the wife. I should have been the dick, she the pussy that soaks at the vision of my anger. The time had long past for that. It has passed before meeting. It has passed in the laundry room of a West L.A. apartment complex with tears and apologies that should never have been.
In the hotel room, I paid by credit, I tried to talk, but the tears came. I had words, but they didn’t make sense. Jumbled and incoherent. Anger. Clogged nose like a child. My case was made in the worse way and ignored, as it should have been. I slept little. The next morning we had sex. Basic. Stupid. I came. She didn’t want to. That was the last time I had her pussy. December 15th.