Page 19 of Perfect
I drive into Portland, rent a hotel room, and start at sleek cocktail bars during happy hour, talking to busy, polished women just off their corporate jobs, but none of them smile like her. I move on to hip, used-to-be dive bars, talking to beautiful women with tattoos and stylish clothes, but none of them blush like her. I wind up at an annoyingly loud, trendy bar and end up speaking with a recently divorced woman named Maya, who’s being openly flirtatious. She’s tall and pretty, with long legs, generous curves, and short black hair, and I’m more interested in her than any of the other women I’ve spoken to.
When she speaks, her vowels and how she drops her r’s sound almost exactly like Alex’s faint accent. I ask her where she’s from, and she says Boston, which almost certainly confirms that Alex isn’t from Maine.
I realize I’m thinking about Alex and try to stop myself and focus onMaya, who is a naturopath in town for a conference for the next two nights.Mayawas married to her college boyfriend for fifteen years, and their divorce was finalized last week.Maya’sasking if I want to get out of here.I’m trying to stay present withMaya, enjoy kissingMayain the hotel elevator, and focus on the sex thatMaya’sinitiating. I keep my eyes onMayaas she sucks my cock, and I’m only thinking aboutMayawhen I eat her out. It’sMayamoaning and calling me Daddy as I fuck her, which I don’t like, but she seems so into it that I don’t say anything.Mayais great in bed, and I’m able to focus on fuckingMayauntil I flip her over and can’t see her face anymore.
Then I can’t help myself.
I call out Alex’s name when I come and feel an immediate wash of guilt and shame because I’msucha fucking asshole. I apologize immediately, making up some story about a recent breakup I’m not over, telling her she was amazing and apologizing again for being such a dick. Maya ignores me, gets dressed quickly in angry silence, and leaves. I fall back on the bed and run my hands over my face, groaning in frustration.
Everyone else is off the table.
That’s probably not good.
***
I don’t sleep. I delete the dating app before I check out of the hotel and drive home, heading straight for the attic and bringing the packages down to the dining room table. I open most of them and lay out the contents in a neat row. I worked hard to make sure that I wouldn’t give in to my impulses, and I’m not, technically, because most of this is fine.
I eye the unopened packages, which make me slightly uncomfortable. The impulses I have about Alex are different than I’m used to, and I bought those things when I was very drunk and not even trying to control myself, so I put them back in the attic.
I should return them, but I won’t.
I spend the day trying to talk myself out of how I’m feeling. I work out. I cook. I go for a run. I go down to a brewery and have a beer. I watch a movie. I masturbate. I meditate. I read. I do anything I can to distract myself, to redirect the feelings, but in the back of my head is constant chatter that’s populated entirely by thoughts of Alex.
It’s getting almost impossible to fight it, so I don’t.
***
Early Wednesday morning, I put on my running shoes and go for a jog, finding myself near Alex’s place and making a few loops around her neighborhood until I see her lights flip on. I turn back and run towards her office and sit at the cafe down the street, pretending to scroll through the news on my phone, occasionally sipping my coffee.
I start planning as I wait, growing excited the more I think about it.
It’s not exactly a foolproof plan, but it should be fine.
Just before eight, I see Alex walk into the cafe in a long, loose grey dress with her hair twisted up, showing off her graceful neck. She looks so pretty as she stares off into space while waiting for her coffee and bagel, focusing on whatever she’s listening to.
I wonder if she’s thought about me at all.
Once she’s been in her office for half an hour, I head back to my place and change into jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a nondescript work jacket, packing my backpack quickly. I’m buzzing with energy as I walk to her place.
I’m vaguely aware that I’m not doing the best at controlling myself at this point, but it’s fine. I need to be careful and methodical, and this is part of that. My impulses aren’t acceptable, but I don’t think they’re wrong, and I’mbarelygiving in to them, anyway. This will help me get to know her, see what she’s like, and make sure I’m right about my feelings. It’s basically like bypassing the part of dating where we lie to each other and find out later that we’re different people.
It’s safer this way.
The locks on the front door are so pitiful that it barely counts as breaking in. I walk upstairs, hearing a couple on the second floor having sex as I pass. I wonder who else lives here.
I should look into that.
Her apartment door takes a little more effort to pick, but not much, and the door swings open to reveal her tiny apartment. The living space is so small it barely holds the battered loveseat and coffee table, which are placed in front of a half-full bookshelf with a small TV perched on top. Her furniture is mismatched but somehow works together, giving the space an eclectic vibe.
There’s a random assortment of unframed, abstract paintings on the wall, and the warm, muted colors are soothing. I don’t like abstract art, but these are nice and done with some skill. Leaned against the wall next to the bookshelf are an easel, a bunch of blank canvases, and painting supplies.
Wait, did she paint these?
Ilovethem.
I crouch down to look at her bookshelf and assortment of battered second-hand books.Jane Eyre. Song of Achilles. Persuasion. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. North and South. Norwegian Wood. Atonement. Anna Karenina.There’s a copy of Peter Stark’sAstoriaand a few other nonfiction books, as well as poetry collections by cummings, Plath, Neruda, Whitman, Keats, and Dickinson. We don’t have the same taste, but I like some of these a lot.
I pull out the collection of Neruda poems, flipping through until I find my favorite poem. Alex has underlined “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,”twice, the pen pushed down on the page so hard that it left divots. I stare at the pen marks momentarily before closing the book and slipping it back onto the shelf.
