Page 12 of Dirty Diana
My T-shirt is pushed up around my chin when Oliver groans, then shudders, his eyes so far back in his head he can no longer see me at all. “God, I needed that,” he says. He rolls off me and sighs.
I pull my T-shirt down while Oliver pads off to the bathroom, yawning, and turns on the shower. He doesn’t pause to kiss me or to look back. The warmth under my skin is now a prickly fire. For a moment, I think about curling into my pillow and crying, how maybe that would bring some relief. But I’m not sad; I almost long to be sad—then maybe Oliver could come back from the shower and comfort me, and I’d sheepishly smile to myself about how overly dramatic I’d been, and we’d fall asleep holding each other. And in the morning, we’d both feel better. But it’s not sorrow under my skin. It’s rage. The feeling is so uncomfortable I want to run into the bathroom and jump into the cold shower. But I don’t want to be anywhere near Oliver.
I get up and pull on my jeans. I grab my keys and purse, slip out the front door, and then I’m starting the car without letting myself wonder what Oliver will think when he steps out of the bathroom and finds my side of the bed empty.
Nothing. He’ll think nothing except that I got up to check on Emmy, like I always do. He’ll climb into bed and fall asleep, satisfied and snoring.
Chapter 4
—
While my house sleeps, I back quietly out of the driveway and drive out of our neighborhood. It has somehow gotten hotter since the sun went down. Even with the air-conditioning on, my T-shirt clings to my chest. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand—the tears do finally come, heavy and hot, but they don’t bring relief or sense enough to turn around and go home. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m tired and crying and this is stupid. It’s not like I’d run away. I’d never leave Emmy. Why isn’t Oliver in that sentence? He should be. An oncoming car’s headlights shine too brightly in my eyes. Is this how people get into accidents? Whenever I think about dying, I think of what people will say.
I heard she was running away from sex.
With her husband?
I should turn around but I don’t want to go home, not right now.
I drive past competing outdoor shopping malls with giant furniture stores. Everything is closed at this hour. I pass a Cheesecake Factory, a Taco Bell, a mom-and-pop liquor store and then I’m onto a long stretch of nothing, just a two-lane road hugged by empty fields. After driving for a long time, I find a strip mall with an unlit nail salon, an Authentic Italian Pizza To-Go, a few empty storefronts, and a bar with no name, justLive Musicin red neon script.
I pull in to the parking lot and turn off the car. The AC cuts off and it’s quiet. I think about reclining my seat and resting my eyes. They feel heavy after crying. But when I close my eyes, I think about Oliver and how far I’ve driven and how late it is. I open my eyes, then the car door, and hear the din of music across the parking lot.
—
It’s mostly dark inside the bar, except for the twinkling strands of rainbow-colored lights hanging like spiderwebs from the ceiling. The smell is familiar—the stench of old beer that seeps into bar mats and never comes out, no matter how many nights you spend dragging those mats outside after your shift and hosing them down with bleach.
I find an empty stool and order a vodka soda. I drain it faster than I mean to, the icy liquid going down like water. I watch a woman in a yellow silk dress feed the jukebox while the rest of her group shouts suggestions. She is beautiful—her shoulder-length light-brown hair and long limbs catching the light as she leans over the jukebox. I notice her tattoos, a murder of crows running up the inside of both arms. There is a pause in the music, and she looks up expectantly. At first nothing happens, so she gives the jukebox a shove with her hip and suddenly Rodney Crowell fills the space with his gentle voice, crooning “Shame on the Moon.”
I feel two men close behind me, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. One of them drums his long fingers on the bar. He orders six margaritas and leans over me to pass them back to his friend. Thebartender slides another vodka soda toward me and tilts her head in their direction. “They bought you one too,” she says. I raise the glass to them and smile, careful not to make eye contact. Soon a young man with tousled brown hair and small white teeth slides in next to me. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, and I shake my head. We make small talk. Their group has all come from a wedding. “College buddies,” he says.
“How was it?”
“Beautiful, very nice,” he smiles, nodding. “But only pink champagne to drink, so the more determined drinkers have all ended up here.” We talk about the hot weather, and a local swimming hole, and I lie, telling him that I’m just visiting from California. I feel too tired to have so much of his attention, so I thank him for the drink and wander out to the patio.
Here there is a second bar, just as crowded with customers. There’s a small stage but no band, just a lonely microphone and a guitar leaning against a vinyl stool. Music from the jukebox is pumped in through large speakers. The woman in the yellow dress is easy to spot, dancing with her partner near the stage. They keep their eyes locked on each other. He slides his fingers underneath one of the thin straps of her dress and then pulls her close, pressing his cheek into hers, then closes his eyes. They are certainly at the beginning of something, I think, to be so intent on each other. Watching them, I feel comforted by the fact that they have nothing to do with me. I think of what it would be like to record this moment, to somehow bottle this evening to take with me, like one of my minicassette tapes. What would I pick up? The ambient noise of the crowd, the faint sound of the Texas night in the backdrop. What if I were brave enough to approach the woman in the yellow dress? To ask her how it feels to be her, to dance with her partner? To listen as she tells me what she honestly desires. But I’m not as brave as I used to be.
My lids have started to feel heavy and I leave my second drink mostly untouched and make my way back through the bar. I think ofasking the bartender to make me a cup of coffee, but decide it will take too long. The moon is pale orange and it is hard to tell the lights of the stars from the lights of the city. I float in the soupy dark back to my car.
I don’t get far before pulling over. The road is deserted and dark, and I have to use the light of my phone to search my bag. But I find it quickly, the recorder, shoved to the bottom. I press play and Jess’s voice fills the car.
And the more he touched me, the more I thought, yes, this is exactly what I want from a one-night stand. Everything about his hands was unfamiliar. He touched me and I couldn’t guess their pressure or where they’d go next. My shirt was pulled up around my neck and I was fumbling with his zipper when the cab stopped. I’d forgotten where we were headed. And now we were in front of a building I didn’t recognize. I was really going home with him.
On the way up to his apartment we almost had sex right on the stairs and I probably would have but he breathed in my ear, “c’mon” and pulled me into his place.
Inside was just like I imagined. Boring furniture and an unmade bed with plaid flannel sheets. But I was impressed he lived alone. Thank god.
Then he asked me if I wanted a drink, some water or something. But I didn’t want to talk. I was afraid I might slip out of character and lose my nerve—I could already feel it happening now that we were inside his apartment. It made him feel more real, somehow, like he had this whole backstory, but I only wanted to be here, in the present, so that I didn’t get to learn anything about him. If I looked around too much, I’d know him suddenly, just by the stuff in his apartment, and I might see that he was ordinary.
So I pushed him up against the wall. He was so tall, you know, like a foot taller than me, and I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach his mouth. I kissed him, long and hard, and he told me, “You’re so hot.” His voice wasn’t sexy, like it was underneath the music at the bar, so I told him to be quiet and I unbuttoned his shirt. He liked this.
“Don’t move,” I told him. And he nodded.
I stood back and admired his body. I tried not to look too impressed, buthe was gorgeous. Those muscled valleys where his stomach dipped down into his hips. I could tell by the way his jeans hung that he was naked underneath. He reached for me, but I pinned his arms to his sides. “Don’t,” I told him again. Then I pulled off my shirt and unclasped my bra and let him watch as I took it off.
His eyes went wide and he reached for me again, but I shook my head. I told him, “I’m going to take your clothes off. We’re going to suck each other and fuck each other for the first time and then I’m going to leave.”
And he just nodded, silently, and I almost laughed. And when I smiled, the playfulness came back into his eyes and I liked it. I told him to keep quiet while I undressed him.
