Page 6 of Reckless Dare

I frown.

“Yeah, dickhead,” Rocco continues. “Not a hook up, not casual sex, not a one-night stand. Dating.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You think holding hands and walking in the park after a movie would breathe new life into… well, into my life?”

“Wow, you’re so fucking eloquent, but yeah. I think a relationship is the opposite of instant gratification. It’s hard work, constant compromise, and the most difficult thing I’ve ever succeeded at. And the success is something you need to maintain with daily attention. And yet, my friend, the reward is beyond anything you can imagine. The reward is constant, ever-changing and overwhelming.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Rocco.” His description is intriguing but, shit, not for me.

“Look, you’re not ready, anyway. You left everything behind, so what’s the endgame here?”

“I take six to twelve months off, trying to rediscover simple things and find what brings me joy. Whatever that means. I’m just following my shrink’s suggestion.”

“Oh, and by the enthusiasm in your voice, you’re so into it.” Rocco chuckles and picks his cat up from the floor to pet it.

“Anyway… that’s why I left most of my things back in Chicago. I took a sabbatical and moved here with only some essentials.”

And about thirty boxes of non-essential things that I consider important. They should have gone to a storage unit back home, but when a last-minute bout of anxiety gripped me, I decided to have them delivered here.

It’s pathetic, but having my things closer, even if I won’t be using them, provides a bit of comfort. It’s like gradually weaning myself off of material possessions.

Shit, it hasn’t even been a month yet and I’m already failing. I think. Two years ago, a woman from my office suffered major burnout and took a leave of absence. She spent it in a monastery in Nepal, in silence.

Compared to that, my attempt looks like a half-assed pretense. On the other hand, I’m reasonably sure I can find my groove here. It’s not like Nepal’s monastery won’t be there in a few months if my urban reinvention fails.

“Good. Take it slowly. I don’t want you calling me from the hospital again.” Rocco sighs.

As much as I hate to admit it, he might be the only person in the world who was genuinely concerned after my collapse. My parents have never approved of the clients I work for. Defending well-known criminals and winning their cases wasn’t a point of pride for my family, so we’re not very close.

There were a few women who came to cry by my sick bed, but their motivations were as selfish as my life has been. I don’t hold it against them, but Rocco’s words make me realize how isolated I’ve been.

Surrounded by clients, coworkers, ass-kissers, women, and I-don’t-know-who in the whole fucking entourage of my life. Never alone, yet always lonely.

“Thanks, man.” I’m touched. Another positive of the day. Not my favorite feeling, but a feeling nonetheless.

“Start with shaving.” Rocco, sporting his own stubble, gives me a disgusted look.

“I really hope both your kids scream all night.” I flip him off and scratch my beard. It’s kind of long and scruffy under my fingertips. He might have a point.

We continue talking shit about Rocco’s business in Europe, sports, and some other inconsequential stuff, but my mind lingers on Rocco’s suggestion that I’m not capable of having a relationship. The challenge of it is igniting something inside me.

Would a steady partner help me with my problems? After fucking many women in my life, can I find the one who sparks my interest again? One who wouldn’t bore me after a while? Is that something I even believe in?

My life has been uprooted so dramatically and nonsensically I’m almost tempted to admit that trying something as ridiculous as dating might be at least a partial solution for me. Rocco seems to thrive in his shackles. How bad could it be?

After we hang up, I stay on the sofa for a moment. Or an hour. The light outside shifts, so it might be longer than that. I’ve done a lot of that lately. Just sitting and staring, my thoughts freely floating around, without coming to any conclusion or inspiration.

This time, they are all coming back to the silky black hair I want to wrap around my fist. And the fight burning in my neighbor’s eyes. They were kind of green, but almost brown, shaped like almonds.

But it was the way she pinned me down with bubbling anger. I can’t imagine she was truly that pissed about my boxes. Something set her off, and I was just the outlet.

For some outlandish reason, the idea pleases me. Then it hits me. I experienced an array of emotions due to my brief interaction with her. Perhaps moving to Manhattan was a step in the right direction. Even if it’s an annoying neighbor situation that would snap me out of my lethargy.

I indulge in a few more fantasies, wondering how she would feel if I dug my fingers into those slender hips while she rode me. How her sultry full lips would curl when screaming my name. How her breasts would fit into my hands.

I try to imagine the feel of her against me, building on the brief closeness when she stumbled in, letting the imagery free-dive through my body and mind.

The snapshots of my imagination run like B-roll in my head, finding a comfortable residence and accompanying me for the rest of the afternoon as I try and fail to meditate, burn my dinner, wait for takeout, shower, and sit without purpose.

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