Cackle(86)

I lean across the couch and kiss him.

I forgot what it is like to kiss. I forget how. My tongue remains limp in my mouth, suddenly heavy and inert, like a walrus on a rock. He prods at it with his. He has a very warm tongue. Very agile. I wait for some kind of rhythm, an implicit understanding of what should go where when, but it doesn’t come. It’s a clumsy exchange.

I pull away, wiping my bottom lip.

“You smell different,” he says into my neck.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I liked your old perfume.”

“Oh,” I say. It bothers me probably more than it should. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I like this scent. I chose it myself.

“You smell good,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

I wasn’t worried.

“Here, I brought you something,” he says, opening his backpack and gifting me a license plate key chain with my name on it.

It’s a goofy gift, but I like goofy gifts.

“I’m going to ask you something,” I say. “And I don’t want you to be offended. But did you get this on the way here?”

“I’m offended,” he says. “I’m so offended.”

He kisses me.

Is this what I’ve been missing?

Is this what I’ve spent so much time mourning the loss of?

I wait for a sensation to travel through me, something warm and effervescent. I wait and wait, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. Except his wet tongue as it slips in and out of my mouth.

No, I tell myself. Stop. Focus. You want this. This is what you want, what you’ve always wanted.

“I made cookies,” I say, breaking out of the kiss.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Yep, let me get them,” I say, absconding into the kitchen.

I arrange the cookies on a plate and pour two glasses of milk.

I shoo my doubt. I tell myself repeatedly, You want this. This is what you want. You want him. A life with him.

When I bring the cookies out, he says, “Be honest. Did you really make these, or did you buy them and put them on a plate?”

“I made them,” I say, annoyed.

“Was just a joke,” he says, putting his hands up. “Relax.”

“I made them for you,” I say in disbelief. I spent my time—time I could have spent doing anything else—measuring flour, sugar, vanilla, cracking eggs, watching the oven to make sure the cookies didn’t burn. And just now I got up. I brought them to him with milk. And he doesn’t even care. He’s eating one like it’s nothing. Like they just magically appeared. Not so much as a thank-you.

Has he ever thanked me?

“I’m really happy,” he says, licking some chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “This is what was missing. Us being together. Being present with each other. Paying attention. Gestures.”

He helps himself to another cookie.

What he missed was me revolving my entire world around him. He broke up with me, and I took fucking turns with him sleeping on the futon.

I was always present. I was always paying attention, always making gestures. I never stopped. He just started taking it for granted.

And maybe I wasn’t in lingerie every night; maybe I did spend some weekends sleeping in and binge-watching TV in sweats and no makeup, my hair a mess. Maybe I had the audacity to be human.

Only I’m not human.

Not really.

“These are amazing,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

He slips his hand onto my thigh, and I study his face. I realize now he hasn’t changed. Nothing about him has changed. He doesn’t look any different, but I see him differently.

Because he hurt me, and I’ll never look at him the same.

“I still love you,” he says. “I never stopped. I want you back in my life.”

Before I can process, before I can form thoughts or words, he kisses me.

Suddenly, he’s on top of me. His hands are quick and busy.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he breathes into my ear.

I take a deep inhale to calm myself and clear my mind, but Sam interprets this as an indicator of pleasure and grabs a fistful of my hair.

“Stop.”

“What?” he asks.

The old me would have just gone with it, done whatever he wanted. Endured, hoped for enjoyment or, if that didn’t come, for it to end quickly.

I wonder how much of a woman’s life is spent this way. Enduring. Waiting for enjoyment or, fuck it, death.

“Stop,” I say. He lets go of my hair, not quite understanding my demand. I pull my arms out from under him and push him back. “Stop. I don’t want this. It’s not what I want.”

He gets off of me. His hair is messy, his eyes stark. It’s an alarmingly similar feeling to that of staring directly into the sunken eyes of a ghost.

Sophie was right. It’s too late now.

I know what it’s like not to have to endure. I know what it’s like to manifest things through sheer force of will. I’ve smashed teacups, broken glass, forced bones into someone’s mouth. I’ve made these things happen with my mind. Manipulated the physical world with my thoughts, with my desires.

There’s no going back to Sam. To sitting at the kitchen table in the morning eating eggs and joking around, all the while wondering what he wants from me, how I can make him happy.