I have something to be proud of, thanks to Shaw.
Wish you could see it, Dad, I think to myself.
It strikes me that I have yet to grieve his loss. I haven’t visited his grave, either. I probably should.
When I go back down, the woman is gone. I’m relieved until I see that same black leather bag sitting under the bench and know damn well it’s hers.
I grab it and toss it in my stairway so it doesn’t get taken until she comes back to retrieve it.
I don’t like that I want her to come back and get it.
The day is long, and I am exhausted by the time I open the door leading upstairs. Of course, the bag I forgot falls and out spills that journal.
I grab everything and bring it upstairs. I should shower, but that journal calls to me, so I pick it up and sit in the recliner next to the window. I open it and a card falls out. It’s one of those hotel key cards.
I wonder if she knows it’s in here. I suppose I could bring it to her.
Cut the shit, I tell myself, knowing damn well it’s because I want to watch her finger herself again. Then I want to lick her fucking finger clean.
She will come back for it tomorrow if she needs it.
Curiosity and desire to know if she wrote more drives me to open the journal.
The corner of the page is folded in, and I laugh to myself, thinking about how Sister Margret, my high school English teacher, would have been unhappy at this “defecation of the written word.” I also laugh at the fact that this kind of literature would have never been allowed at the Holy Trinity school my sister and I attended on academic scholarships. Then I stop laughing because it sounds fucking stupid. I sound like a damn fool. Feel like one, too.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I ask out loud to the empty space as I lean back in the old brown chair.
In her same beautiful script, the words seem to jump off the page.
After a long day at work, I headed to the fitness center to work off the frustration from the high demands of my boss. That was when I saw him, the man I had dreamt of, the man whose mere image incited desire to burn inside of me, an undeniable desire. A desire so strong I had lain in bed the night before and touched myself, imagining it was him.
Unable to stop myself from staring at him, I looked up from his chiseled body to see him looking at me.
I quickly looked away, hoping maybe he would do the same. But when I looked back, he was walking toward me—more like stalking toward me, like a man determined.
“Jonathon,” he said, reaching his hand out for me to shake.
When I touched his, I felt some sort of current course through my body, making me jump back as I pulled my hand away quickly.
He looked confused, shocked, and I wondered if he felt it, too. The spark, the connection, the way how, by our hands simply touching, a spark ignited. A spark I knew I could never forget.
How could I?
When he made no mention of it, my initial instinct was to leave, to get away as fast as I could, but running was not an option. Not with how his eyes held mine captive and captivated.
“Your name?” he asked in a low, deep rumble.
“Annie... My name is Annie.”
“Annie.” His tongue rolled around my name, caressing it in the most intimate way I had ever experienced. “Annie,” he repeated, and I felt my knees tremble.
Then he walked away from me, but looked over his shoulder, while I remained under the spell of his beautiful brown eyes.
“Jonathon,” I memorized the name of the man who had me mesmerized. “Jonathon.”
I rode the elevator to my apartment on the ninth floor, wanting to shower and eat something unhealthy. Maybe I would just have ice cream for dinner. I did just work out. I ought to be allowed the calories just because I had spent an hour at the gym. Plus, I deserved a reward for not running when I saw him look at me with lust and sinful intent.
When I got off the elevator, I saw him again, sweat drenched and walking down the hall.
“Annie?” My name came out as a question.
“Jonathon,” I returned, feeling my face burning with embarrassment.
“You live here?” he asked.
“New to the building,” I answered, trying to sound less shy and more convincing.
“I see,” he commented, eyeing me up and down. “I was just on my way out to get some coffee. I seem to have forgotten it when I was at the store earlier.”
“I have plenty. Why head out again? I can spare some coffee beans.”