The Girl At The Reception Desk – Part 2
You will not see blood.
Forming at my feet or anywhere else.
I will hold it all in. I will hold myself together, with glue and masking tape if I have to. So, when the nice receptionist hands me the bill, my bill, I will request for a phone call. I will be the girl at the reception desk, willing and able to settle her bill if given the chance. Even though I won’t remember using any of the listed items, I will be willing to settle the bill. With a smile even.
I will dial his number. He will pick up on the sixth ring.
Which will be a nice surprise given that he hadn’t picked my calls in forever. Not even yesterday when I called him after work, to tell him that we needed to talk and that I was going over to his place.
I went to his place anyway. If he wasn’t home, I’d just wait for him, is what I thought. Technically, it was my home too. We’d lived together for eight months. Eight months was a long time. Some marriages have been known to last for as little as six months. So eight months was a marriage and change.
I hadn’t had to use my key because the door was unlocked. His Friday night schedule was cast in stone. Nap, shower, club. He’d nap for an hour from 6:00 PM, take a shower and hit the Friday nightlife. This had been my schedule too for eight months. When Friday called, we were known to respond.
My watch said it was nap o’clock. He was in his bedroom upstairs.
I went up the stairs. I stood for a few minutes at the hallway to look into the mirror that hung below the portrait of him and his mother. The image that glared at me had tired eyes. And this weave wasn’t one of my best looks. I tried to fix it by smoothing the sides and tucking some strands behind my ears.
I rapped gently on his bedroom door and opened it. He was supposed to be asleep. He was supposed not to hear me go in. I was supposed to sit by his bedside and watch him sleep. He was supposed to wake up eventually to find me sitting there. He was supposed to think he was dreaming, but get over it enough to think this was romantic. Gather me in his arms and, I don’t know, kiss me maybe? He was supposed not to hear me go in.
And neither did she.
She was on top of him. Facing away from the door. Away from me. I saw her bare back. Her hair covered her shoulder blades. She straddled him. She was in motion. He lay on his back. I saw him look at her. I saw him want her. I saw him touch her. I saw him enjoy her. I saw him. Watched for a minute or two, as he loved her.
It took him a minute or two to eventually notice that I was in the room. I stood still. Afraid to breathe. Should I be here, or should I not be here? I saw his eyelids spread outwards as his eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. Confusion. Then he sprung into action. He grabbed her by the arms and set her aside, like that piece of furniture you lift and set aside in order to squash a spider that tries to hide under it.
Should I be here, or should I not be here?
Her eyes came to me. She let out a gasp and grabbed one end of the duvet to shield her nakedness. They both were lying on top of the duvet so her reaction was pathetic as she was only able to cover one boob. She tried to use the other hand to cover the rest of her nudity. She could only afford a fat chance with that.
Should I be here?
She spoke and looked at him. Then she looked at me. I could not hear a word she was saying. But I could hear her eyes. They said something like, “What are you doing here?” Or, “Who are you?” And to him, her eyes said, “Who the hell is she?” “What is she doing here?” “Get rid of her!” “Do something!”
Shouldn’t I be here?
The gaping mouths closed at some point. I realized that they were both looking at me, waiting for my move. Or my words. The ball was in my court, and I had to throw it back or– what? What was I supposed to do?
Nap. Shower. Club. He was supposed to be napping.
I had to throw the ball. Or something. I had my purse. It would have to do. I lifted my right hand. I pulled it back and flung my purse across the room to meet his face.
He tried to duck but he was a bit slow. His face and my purse became acquainted. I could have followed it with my phone which was in my left hand, but I couldn’t stay in that room anymore. I banged the door behind me as I ran down the stairs. My hands were shaking. I dropped my phone on the table and wiped them against my dress. I settled down on the couch.
I picked the phone again and tried to dial a number. I couldn’t see the contacts. I read out the names on my contact list and none of them made sense. I opened my Facebook page. I closed my Facebook page. I opened my Twitter page. I closed my Twitter page. I opened Scrabble, tried to form a word to play, but I couldn’t see the letters provided. My phone’s screen became wet and hazy. I wiped the teardrops from the screen and left the ones in my eyes. If my eyes wanted to get wet, they could. He was the one who was supposed to be napping, not me.
But what was I doing here? Should I be here, or shouldn’t I be here.
I decided to leave.
You will not see blood.
He will pick my call on the sixth ring.
To be continued