Close Encounters
by A.j.

***

You've known something was wrong for years.  To be truthful, there's been 
something wrong since the first day you met.

The sun is bright and clear this morning.  You were in too much of a rush 
last night to close the shade properly, so there's more light than there should 
be.  It streams in underneath the crazily tilted mini-blind.  God's flashlight 
is on you, little girl.

Your head hurts, even though you didn't have so much as a single drop of 
alcohol last night.  Maybe it's just used to feeling that way.  Everyday last 
week, you woke up with the headache to end all headaches, and a slowly emptying 
bottle of brandy next to your bed.

The bottle is still there.  There isn't any missing.

There's something missing here though.  You know what it is, you just don't 
want to admit it.

Carefully and slowly, so as not to jar the mattress and your head and a host 
of other problems, you turn your body to look at the ceiling.  You look up so 
you can't look at the bottle or the shade or him.  Because then you'd have to 
think about them.  Forgetting that you're already doing it.

You don't know how you got here.  By all rights, this emptiness inside you 
shouldn't be there.  You've lived life on your own terms.  Made your own 
decisions.  Every move you've made has been one you either chose or 
circumstances forced you into.

You knew you weren't the type of girl that would end up with 2.5 kids and a 
white picket fence.  You made your peace with that shattered illusion years ago.  
But there was still that little part of you that wanted Prince Charming to come 
and hold your hand.  You wanted that.  Someone to help you, and love you, and be 
there for you when all your decisions came crashing down around your ears.

But you don't have that.  No, all you have is this bed.

He shifts beside you, stirring the sheets in his slumber.  The scent of sex 
raises around you, and suddenly staring at the ceiling isn't helping.  Images, 
brighter than the sun and colder than ice play behind your eyes and it's all you 
can do to stop yourself from crying.  You don't cry.  You can't.

Last night started as it always does.  He was in town for work and to take 
care of some things.  He stopped by to say hello because he has to.  You've been 
friends too long for him to be in town and not at least stop by.  It would be 
rude.

Before you even opened the door you knew it was him.  Only he can knock on 
your door like that.  Strong, assured.  And like always, you held on to the 
knob, your mind in conflict, deciding whether or not to open the door.  Because 
you knew, just as you know now, that if you opened it, there was only one way 
for that night to end.

You knew you'd be staring at this ceiling, listening to him sleep.  But you 
still opened that door because you needed something of him.  Something that is 
just yours and his.

Because even if you don't want to, you still love him.  Just not enough to 
let him go.

Not too long ago, before your life and his life crashed to the ground, you 
thought maybe he was it.  Maybe he was your Prince.  He had all the 
qualifications.  He was your friend.  He was someone you trusted.  He let you be 
yourself.  And when you did something incredibly stupid, he just shook his head 
and let you pick up the pieces.

Somewhere in all of that, friendship changed.  It became a different kind of 
love.  One that was sharper and less careful.  One you didn't know how to 
handle.  

One that broke you both and left you with nothing but lacerations and a habit.
So you opened the door.  And you smiled at him, a dead smile.  And he smiled 
at you, his eyes not warming like they used to.  You talked then.  Another 
habit, the talking.

"Hello, it's good to see you," you said.  

He nodded and said, "It's been awhile, Dom."

Then you were eating.  A meal that tasted of nothing but cardboard.  This is 
part of the ritual too.  You eat mechanically, listening to him not talk about 
all of the things he's doing.  He chews quietly and watches you ignore the wine 
he poured for you.

And you can't help but think things didn't used to be like this.  No, before 
you'd laugh and tease.  He'd smirk at you, and you'd grin at him because you 
knew what he was thinking.  You knew he wanted to hear what you were saying, 
because it made him feel good.  And you were happy in those moments because of 
that.

But everything changed.  It wasn't enough to save either of you, that 
happiness.  All it did was make the wounds deeper and more impossible to heal.
He shifts beside you, still unconscious.  You're glad for that at least.  

You noticed, last night, that he didn't seem well.  The dark circles under his 
eyes seemed more pronounced than they used to.  He's been working too hard, 
doing the impossible in a way only he can.  He doesn't sleep enough.  Some 
things don't change.  But you gave him this, at least.  Rest in a place he can 
feel safe.

Because that's what you are.  You're safe.  You're something he can trust 
his life to, if not his heart.

That's one of the things that burned the most.  Not because of the 
situation, but because he did trust you with his heart once.  And you dropped 
the ball.  You ran away because you were scared.  He offered to help carry your 
load and you turned away.  And neither of you can forgive that.

You close your eyes now.  The sun and the ceiling are too much.  His 
breathing is too much.  You remember the look in his eyes when you walked away 
from him all those years ago.  That raw pain and complete disbelief.  This was 
something you'd wanted but it was something you couldn't find the strength to 
accept.  And because you couldn't, you became unworthy.

He'd given his love to someone before.  His wife.  Her name is an anathema 
between you.  In the beginning, it was because she was first.  She was bright 
and distant in his mind.  Something he fought for.  A woman so wonderful and 
right, that she gave up her own life for something he believed in.  After you 
left, it was because you couldn't speak it.  She accepted him.  Took him in.  
She was better than you are.

But he didn't leave you.  Not completely.  He didn't leave because he had 
let you in, and you were special.  He couldn't take that back.  You had to hand 
it over free and clear.

But you can't do it.

You can't let this go.  It's too important.

So you let him lean over after the dishes are in the sink and the candles 
are doused.  You let him put his lips on your own, and it's your hands that 
reach up and run themselves through his short hair.  And neither of you protest 
when his hands work their way up your shirt and you reach into the night table's 
drawer to make sure no one else enters this twisted little circle.

And for awhile, while he's in you and you're trying like hell to bring him 
closer, you can believe that this is okay.  That this hollow space inside you 
can be filled with these nights where he comes to you and you give him space 
away from whatever demons are driving him this time.

But then you wake up, and the only place you can look is your ceiling.  And 
you won't cry because that would make it all more real.  If you did, then you'd 
have to admit that you have to let this go because it's killing you both.

So you close your eyes tight to the truth and roll into his warmth for just 
a little longer.  Because when you open your eyes again, you know he'll be gone, 
and you'll be left to do a job you hate.  And just before you let yourself go 
back to the warm darkness of sleep, you think you feel something wet on your 
face.  But you just don't want to know.

-fin-