Anna.
Alright.
Five days.
It’s been five days since I last heard from him.
“Anna, you look thirsty!” Demetria shouts, her voice laced with amusement over the blaring music.
This must be the fifth beer I’ve had tonight.
I’m perched on a stool at the bar in this dismal club, nursing my drink, my eyes intently following the minute hand on the wall clock. If I focus hard enough, I can hear the ticking over the blaring, god-awful music.
“If you’re just going to sit here all night, I wouldn’t have invited you. Come on! Dance with me!” Demetria exclaims, nudging me. I tear my eyes away from the clock to glare at her.
“I didn’t want to come in the first place. You know that,” I snap back, biting back the urge to say more.
Ever since that conversation at my old workplace, it’s been a challenge to look at her without imagining strangling her. I’m not far from giving into the urge.
“God, I thought with Alison out of the picture, you’d be more fun,” she snorts, her laughter raspy, causing me to tense up.
“Don’t bring Alison into this,” I mutter, anger seeping into my voice.
I’m not sure if she heard me or not, but from the look on my face, she knows better than to push further.
I haven’t talked to Alison in so long, and God, how I miss her. I miss her crude, fun, sarcastic remarks, and most importantly, her reassuring words when I felt like sticking my head in the oven.
“Well, keep drinking, Anna. I’m off to dance,” she announces dismissively, sauntering off, her hips swaying deliberately to catch the gaze of several men around.
Good for her. She’ll probably bed some stranger tonight, while I can’t even look at another man without being reminded of the only man I’ve ever been intimate with. I take another swig of my beer, eyes once again fixed on the clock.
He’s gone. I’m sure of it. If he were still in Seattle, he’d still be chasing after me, wouldn’t he? At least, he should be.
Alright, the fool claims he loves me and wants Jeremy. The rational part of me knows that’s all a bunch of crap, but the alcohol-soaked, melancholic part of me clings to a faint maybe.
Now, those “maybe” chances have gone out the window. If he truly cared for us as he claimed, he wouldn’t have left. WHY DO I EVEN CARE? Why do I feel the urge to cry? Why does it feel like the walls are closing in on me? Why am I now running outside just to catch my breath?
Could he really have left? If he did, I should be feeling relief now. I should be taking in deep breaths of fresh air and exhaling with utmost clarity.
But my numb feet and the chill coursing through my body tell a different story.
“Anna! What are you doing? The party’s inside, sweetie,” Demetria shouts from the club entrance.
Does this girl monitor my every move? How did she even notice I slipped out amid the sea of people? I don’t look her way, just trying to fixate on the star-studded sky above, which seems to blur more the harder I stare. I can tell from the world’s hazy edges that I’ve had too much to drink.
I didn’t want to come in the first place, but I wanted a break from everything.
Dave, he’s my main source of stress. I’m at a loss with how to act around him. Quitting my job means we’re practically together all the time, and that shouldn’t be a problem, right? But it is. Discussing wedding plans with your fiance while thinking of another man isn’t exactly the hallmark of a sound relationship.
The first thing I did upon arriving was order copious amounts of alcohol, hoping to drown out thoughts of the damn wedding, and especially, of Henry.
He’s filling every dark space, every corner, every damn inch in my mind, and it’s driving me mad. Utterly and completely mad. And the alcohol, which is supposed to help, is only making things worse.
Forget it. I admit it. I’m pissed.
He learns about his son and just leaves?! Yes, I know, I wanted it that way. The moment I saw him, I wished he’d just leave and, if possible, get run over by a truck. Now, I wish a truck would hit him purely because I haven’t heard a thing from him.
I can’t admit it. I can’t voice what I’m truly feeling right now. I’d just plunge even deeper into the whirlpool of thoughts that have been engulfing me since I saw him again…
But actually, I can admit it, and I am. I’m in deep shit, because I need to see him. Seriously, I need to see him. I long for his handsome features to be right in front of me this very moment, because I swear to God I’ll start sobbing like a child.
I lasted five damn days. It hurts like hell that he didn’t feel the need to see me as intensely as I feel it for him. I want to scream in frustration because this shouldn’t be happening. How can I want to see him after all he did to me? How does that even make sense in any sane mind? I should want to spit in his face, punch him, curse him out, even kill him! And I do want to do each of those things, along with feeling his damn lips on mine and his skin against my own.
Alright, if I were sober, I’d never allow myself these thoughts. Actually, I did have them, but I never let them roam so freely in my mind. I never allowed every single thought of him to surface because I knew I’d just reopen the wounds and memories of his departure.
I need to know if he just left without a word. Maybe my cold glances, the harshness of my words, and the abruptness of my actions made him realize he’d never stand a chance with me. That I didn’t love him anymore.
Biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut, I push away the thought that maybe I still…
“I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I still love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him. I don’t love him.”
I don’t love him, and I need more damn alcohol in my system until I can’t even remember my name.
Two more bottles of beer and look! I’m dancing with a man! Just perfect, this is too good.
I didn’t really pay much attention to the guy in front of me, didn’t even look at his face when he approached and took hold of my hips to sway to the rhythm of the music… But I can assure you, he’s giving me plenty of attention, and I’m loving it.
Another guy joins our little dance party. What do they call this? A sandwich? Well, something like that. I’m in the middle, and they’re both moving with me. The one in front grabs my hips to pull me against him, while the one behind is a tad bolder… I can feel the growing bulge in his pants pressing against my lower back. His hands travel up my stomach and then to my breasts. What would that bastard Henry think of this? Why don’t we ask him? Hell, I’ll gladly do just that.
Clumsily, I pull out my phone from my bra, doing something I’m sure I’ll regret tomorrow. I lift my arm trying to capture every detail of the three of us. Right as I snap the picture, a tongue traces my neck and I laugh wickedly. Well, perfect shot.
Let’s see how the recipient of this message takes it.