We Were Almost There

By: Susanne Krenz

CW: Some graphic sexual descriptions

It’s Friday evening, the tail end of what has been another sorry excuse for a work week. I shoot off one last email and close my laptop. There’s work to be done still but my concentration is shot. It’s been like this for a few weeks now: Monday to Friday is nothing but a daze. I still do yoga in the morning, I cross a couple of things off my to-do list, I put on lipstick for my Zoom meetings; for the most part, I keep up appearances. But inside my head, a storm builds. I barely sleep anymore and I’ve been forgetting to eat. The smallest text from you sends the butterflies in my stomach into a tailspin. Five o'clock on Fridays has become the linchpin of my life. After a pointless, torturous five days, it’s finally time to drop everything and get my fix of you. 

I pour myself a glass of wine and rifle through my nail polish collection. You said you don’t like bare nails on me, so now I don’t either, not anymore. It’s that simple, really. I pick out a tangerine colour and get to painting them. I’d never admit it, but god, how I love when I don’t have to think. I’d readily outsource more decisions to you, but I know there’d be no going back from that, so I just let you dilute my boundaries a little, and a little more each time.

After finishing my make-up (smoky eyes, no point in lipstick), I put on a generous layer of body lotion and my new summer dress. Outside, the Uber is already waiting. I get in and feel my thighs slide around on the hot leather seats. I’m running an hour behind. That’s a good thing—I want you to get a little impatient. I text you that I’m on my way. You joke that you’re going to punish me. It does strike me as a little sleazy that we only talk on Instagram, but considering the photos I’ve been sending you, it’s probably for the best. Disappearing messages, they’re so fitting for these fleeting times. No relationships, no records, no demands.

Sweaty and breathless from climbing the stairs to your flat, I give you a quick peck and rush into the bathroom to freshen up. It smells of bleach, like you just finished cleaning it. I turn the faucet to deep freeze and let the water run over my hands and arms to cool off. In the mirror, my cheeks look flushed and my eyes are glazed over. I think it’s almost working for me, although that could be the wine talking. I straighten my dress and traipse into the living room. Your four-year-old son is sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, engrossed in his playthings and just barely acknowledging my presence. I plop down on the sofa and rest my head on your shoulder. Your cologne hits me; it’s cruel. The intoxicating warmth of your skin is wholly irreconcilable with having a kid in the room. I look up at your face. You’re stroking my arm absentmindedly, a vague smile playing around your mouth that gives nothing away.

It’s the kind of evening that is in and of itself a living, breathing organism, filled with the seduction of early summer. We pack ping pong paddles, put the little one on his bike, and head outside for a walk. Dusk is settling and the air feels smooth against my bare legs. I leave all my things at your place: phone, wallet, keys. I want to be free of everything and, perhaps more importantly, I want to force myself to trust you. (See, I can push my own boundaries too.) As the three of us stroll along the canal, I feel so light my feet barely touch the ground.

In the park, we play a couple of rounds of ping pong. Your son follows our every movement with big puppy eyes, fetching balls, trying very hard to be included. Not for the first time, I get the sense that it’s difficult for him to keep your attention, that he feels he has to compete for your love. It’s awkward and heartbreaking and makes me feel guilty. I like the little one; he’s smart and attentive. I want no part of screwing up this child, but it’s a little late for that—you’ve already made me your accomplice.

We boast one victory each and shake hands on a rematch that will likely never happen. As the moon starts to rise in the sky, we take some selfies on your phone. I hate the way I look in them. It’s gotten to the point where I can only stand my face when it’s disguised with one of those sexy fairy cat filters. (Preferably with freckles.) I especially hate it next to you and your infuriatingly glowy skin and sparkly teeth. I resent you almost as much as I want to rip off your clothes. My self-control dwindles with each passing second. I’m done playing house now. I want you to destroy me.

You sense that I’m getting spiteful, so you decide to torture me a little. As we make our way back in the dark, you slide your hand down the front of my dress, moaning in my ear. The boy can’t see us; he’s far ahead on his bike. Whenever he turns around, or anyone else approaches, you pull back your hand and drape it casually over my shoulder. My nipples are rock-hard and I giggle uneasily, struggling to walk in lockstep with you as you pull me forward. You stare off into the distance, smiling that bulletproof smile of yours. 

While you’re getting the boy ready for bed, I sit on the sofa, fiddling with my phone. I quietly sing to myself with pretend-ease. I make up the melody on the spot, scrolling through my apps and smiling at imaginary texts. Sweat pools in my lower back. I avoid making eye contact with either of you; he mustn’t see how badly I want you. It’s not right, none of this is, but we’re past the point of no return now.

It’s almost ten o'clock before we’re alone and our mouths find each other, properly, for the first time. Laying back on the sofa, I pull you towards me, tugging at your shirt, your zipper, your beard, messing up your hair. I can’t wait a minute longer. But you’re in no rush. Button by button, you carefully undo my dress. That’s what makes me vulnerable and you so dangerous: I’m unabashedly impulsive and you’re the picture of self-control. Finally, the last button comes undone and my dress lands on the floor. I’m beside myself with desire as you kiss up and down my neck, my stomach, my legs. My heart is beating in my throat. In one swift movement, you pull off my thong and enter me. A deep, guttural moan escapes my throat as I close my eyes and pull you closer. It takes all of five minutes before I feel myself squirting all over you. 

In the middle of the night, we sneak into the kitchen to share a cigarette—tiptoeing around with the lights off, so we don’t wake the boy. I lean out the window, a little further with each breath, strangely unafraid, convinced that if I were to die like this, now, here, it would be okay. “Be careful not to fall,” you say, pulling me back by my shoulders. “As if it matters anymore,” I snap. I wish I could say you’re making me feel invincible but I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite.

The next afternoon, we take a lazy shower together. Pointing at the two shower poufs—yours and your son’s—you ask, flashing that bulletproof grin again, whether you should get a third one for me and in what colour: pink, purple? You always do this, you pretend that I’m a part of your life, but none of it ever sticks. I say nothing and instead lean in for a kiss. We keep kissing and hugging for some time, tracing the contours of each other’s bodies with eager fingers. Little rivers of water run down our stomachs and legs before they, irrevocably, disappear down the drain.