Page 197 of Callan

I need to get home and start to focus on my life.

My problems are still there, patiently awaiting me.

Wrapping a crisp sheet around my chest, I try to locate my clothes. He picked them up and put them on the chair last night.

As moody and eager to leave as I am, I still stroll to the patio doors and peek outside.

More sullen by the second, I spin around and almost topple over the glasses of Champagne perked on the window sill.

My first instinct is to pick them up and take them to the kitchen.

I’d need to find the kitchen first, but then I change my mind and leave them there––the quiet witnesses of a night that has forever pulled away from us.

Refusing to think about him any longer, I exit the bedroom and enter the bathroom.

Fit for a queen, it has large marble floors and a shower booth that stretches from side to side. Mirrors, a pair of sinks, and a vanity on one side.

I notice the bathtub, and normally, that would be my first choice, but there’s no time for that.

No more time spent musing over things that momentarily can’t happen.

No more torturing myself.

I shed the sheet and enter the shower.

The aroma of his aftershave is everywhere.

Cloying the air.

Kissing my lips.

As I let the water stream slide over me, I imagine him standing in the same spot, naked, thinking about me.

Or maybe pondering his schedule.

This must be a special trip if he’s planned it for January 1st.

Perhaps it’s an emergency. I hope not––the thought gives me a shiver.

Later, I walk out of the shower, run a towel over my body, and naked, I go back to the room.

I toss on my clothes, and alldressed up, I enter the bathroom one more time, trying to ignore the marble pattern, the exquisite lighting, and expensive mirror frames.

It takes me a few minutes to brush my hair and put on some lipgloss and mascara.

There is no tour of the house, no nostalgic contemplating of this architectural marvel.

Not even a quick stop at the dining table to grab a bite before finding a cab and heading home.

There is none of that.

I exit his place dressed up in indifference as if it means nothing to me.

My expectations of being greeted in the lobby are dashed as the doorman is no longer there, and no one else crosses paths with me.

Hugging my coat closer, I exit the building and step on the sidewalk. I walk for a good ten minutes before I finally find a cab.

The driver and I exchange a few words as I get settled in my seat, and then all my focus is on what I need to do once I get back.

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