Page 51 of Que Será, Syrah

And yes, there are others who knew me then and now, but most of them have been changed as well. We’ve all been touched by fire, by tragedy. We’ve all let our old selves fall away, and when we interact now, it’s with the new, scarred versions of ourselves.

Legs missed out on all that chaos, making her a pure conduit to that earlier, happier, more innocent time. Or so it seems. In all likelihood, that’s nothing more than a massive rationalization, on my part, and unfair to her. Am I really suggesting that she’s a case of arrested development? That the rest of us have grown and matured, while she has not? I think I am.

Because it’s true, isn’t it? Money and circumstances have shielded her from a lot of the troubles the rest of us have suffered through.

I think one of the reasons we coddle the rich—beyond the fear of retribution—is because they possess something most of us have lost and dream about someday regaining. A childlike (largely unwarranted) belief that life is good and fair, that people are kind, that things are always working out for them. We’re drawn to protect that innocence—in part because we know how bleak the world can be without it. In part because they’ve even fucking colonized our brains to the point where we think they’d do the same for us.

It’s the same instinct that causes us to respond so strongly to babies and puppies and who knows what else. And to prioritize their needs, sometimes even above our own. Unless we’re total dicks or hardcore leftists or someone who’s been driven to such an extreme that the slogan, “eat the rich” has begun to make sense.

But these are the kinds of philosophical thoughts anyone might have on a gloomy, rainy Tuesday night, after a long day at work, and a challenging workout afterwards. I stare into the depths of my well-stocked refrigerator, and it might as well be empty. I try to eat clean and green, for the most part—so that I can stay in shape and do my job. But nothing in the stack of healthy, high-protein, pre-packaged, prepared meals is appealing to me right now.

There’s nothing in here that will fill the emptiness I’m feeling now, or assuage the need that has hollowed me out, because it’s not food that I’m craving.

My thoughts keep drifting back to Saturday night, to the meal I shared with Legs, the camaraderie and conversation. And, yeah, the sex afterwards, too. Because, of course, I’m thinking of that; I can’t get it out of my head.

I want to call her. I want to hear her voice, to see her face, to invite her over and fuck her senseless; but it’s too soon for that. I have to resist. I can’t become that needy, that fast. Nothing good will come of being that dependent on someone else.

The first storm of the season is battering against my windows, shaking the cheap glass so hard it rattles. The beat of the rain is so loud and insistent that I almost miss the knocking at my front door.

“Jesus Christ,” I say when I pull it open and find Legs hunched on the front stoop with the collar of her jacket pulled up so that it’s partially covering her head. I glance at the street as I take her by the arm and pull her into my house. “I don’t see your car. Where’d you park? You couldn’t possibly have gotten this wet between here and the curb?”

She shakes her head, ineffectively swiping at her face, with wet hands. “I parked around the block. I was trying to be subtle.”

“Trying to die of hypothermia, is more like it,” I scold, using the sleeve of my shirt to wipe her face. A useless task, given that her hair is soaked, and water runs in rivulets down her face. “Fucks sake. You look like a drowned rat right now. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some that were drier.”

“Thanks?” she says, still blinking water out of her eyes as I help her remove her jacket. “I was going to say, ‘you look nice, too’ but maybe I won’t now.”

I stop fussing long enough to grin at her. “If it helps, I meant a very pretty rat.” Then I lean in and kiss her. She tastes of rain and wild nights, of coming home to a place of comfort and warmth, but all too soon she’s pulling away. Which, now I’m thinking of it, is exactly like coming home—elusive and fleeting and gone before you know it.

“I’m getting you so wet,” she murmurs, plucking at my shirt—which is now plastered to my chest and arms in all the places where our bodies touched.

“Mm. I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line,” I say, as I dip my head for another kiss.

“Oh, yeah? That sounds promising.”

“C’mon,” I say as I take hold of her hand. “We need to get you out of those wet clothes.”

“Ooh. V-very promising,” she replies, stuttering slightly as she starts to shiver.

“Out of your clothes and into a hot shower,” I elaborate, as I tug her into my bathroom.

“You know, there are other ways of warming a person up,” she points out as she starts to peel off her wet garments.

I turn on the shower and grab a few towels—the thick, bougie ones my last girlfriend left behind—in an effort not to get caught up in staring. “I know that. Which is why, after I toss your wet clothes in the laundry, I’m going to come back here and try some of those, too.”

“Even better.” She thrusts the sodden pile of clothes my way. “Here. Have at it.” Then she steps into my shower, but not before tossing a grin at me over her shoulder. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long, okay?”

I make quick work of the laundry, stripping out of my own clothes and adding them as well. Then I join her in the shower, crowding against her from behind. She leans back against me, her eyes closed, the open shampoo bottle held close beneath her nose, squeezing it repeatedly to release more fragrance.

“You know you can’t get high from huffing soap—right?” I tease, pulling her close, murmuring into her ear.

“Mm, this smells so good,” she replies, as she leans against me. “Like you.”

Technically it smells like my ex—Lori. Who, as you may have gathered, has more money and better taste than I do. When she agreed to move in with me, it was with the clear expectation that I’d up my game and accept the long list of subscription services that she considered indispensable—one for hair and skin care products, one for prepackaged dinners, another for cleaning supplies. After she left, I kept most of them in place. Some might say out of laziness.

I’m someone who values stability, order and quality but I don’t always know how to achieve it on my own. My mom would no doubt ascribe that to my Virgo nature, and claim it was inevitable. I think it stems from the chaos and uncertainty that marked most of my childhood—but what do I know?

Water rains down on us, courtesy of the waterfall shower (again, courtesy of Lori). An additional expense that I’d initially argued against, it’s the one luxury I have yet to regret. After separating Legs from her new squeeze toy, I take hold of her wrists and position her arms so that her hands are now pressed against the shower wall. I collect her hair at the nape of her neck, and bend to kiss her there. Meanwhile my other hand coasts down the length of her spine. Pushing gently against her back, I urge her forward—so that her back arches, her hips cant and her arms are now stretched overhead. Then I nudge her legs apart. It’s a standard-size tub, so the spread is not very wide, but it’s enough.

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