I don’t remember lighting the cigarette I’m smoking. I vaguely remember leaving the restaurant. I’m standing in the parking lot when one of the homeless guys asks me for change. I fish around in my bag like I’m supposed to and pull out my wallet. I give him ten bucks.
I find the Jaguar driver’s cell phone in my bag and use it to call Mason.
“This is your personal 911. Leave a message.”
I don’t.
In my car, I try again.
“This is your personal 911. Leave a message.”
I hang up.
In front of my place, before I get out of the car, I dial once more.
“This is your personal 911. Leave a message.”
I can’t.
This time, when I hang up, the phone rings back at me.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sam. You in the ‘middle of the night’ again? Or in the midst of some important police business?” the Jag driver asks.
“No.”
“When you didn’t answer last night I thought I might have to call 911.”
I think of Mason. I can’t respond.
“Are you free tonight? You care to meet for a drink?”
I don’t want to.
“Remember, Sam, these negotiations are supposed to be on my terms. I shouldn’t be feeling desperate here.”
I do. “Tell me where.”
I try Mason one last time before I go inside the Raven Tavern.
“This is your personal 911. Leave a message.”
I take a deep breath and wait for the beep.
“I wanted to talk to you about your wife. I should have figured out by now that you won’t answer my questions, but I really want to know: Have you been waiting until the last possible moment to break my heart? I don’t want any more promises. I know the truth.” I hang up and prepare to drown my sorrows.
A large black bird made of metal is perched at the head of a wrought-iron fence, watching me as I make my way down a set of stairs. The entrance is below the street, marked by a wooden sign without lights. It says, simply, THE RAVEN. The bar is dark, nestled in the basement of a gray stone two-story. A psychic reads tarot cards on the first level, and a law office occupies the second. I think this place offers better counsel.
My first sip of Jameson doesn’t do enough. My first glass scratches the surface. I don’t see the Jag driver and I don’t care. I just want to make everything go away. The bartender, a young guy with an unkempt beard to make him look older or grungier, doesn’t give me a second glance when I order a double.
A twenty-something woman in a tight velvet shirt approaches the bar.
“I’d like a Midori sour,” she says.
“You got ID?” the bartender asks.
She looks through her purse with no luck. “I’m sorry, I’m such an airhead. I think I left it in my other purse.”
“You leave your phone number in there too?” the bartender asks. After a moment of silent bargaining, he hands her a pen. She writes on a napkin; he pours her a drink.
I light a cigarette and hope it’ll kill me.
“Hello, Sam,” the guy says when he shows up. “How are you?” I can’t even look at him.
“Do you really want to know?” I ask.
I finish my third drink and toast it to the bartender for another.
“Have a drink,” I tell the guy.
The bartender brings me another Jameson, and my friend a martini.
“You look good out of uniform,” he says. Before I came here I changed into a sexy black dress, one I’d never worn out of the house, to make sure there’d be no question. I also put on dark eyeshadow. Lots of mascara. He won’t see the real me. He wouldn’t want to.
I take the olive from his glass and run it seductively around my lips. I can smell his cologne, and the memory of someone who used to wear it sobers me. I should not have come here. I cannot follow through. I put the olive back in his drink.
“I have that number, for the body shop,” I say, preparing to retreat.
“I don’t know if that’ll be necessary,” he says. “Why don’t you come outside with me, and assess the damage?”
Right in the middle of the bar, he runs his hand along the inside of my thigh, and I know it’s too late to call it off.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks me.
I’m not. We’re crammed into the front seat of the Jaguar. Every time he moves, my knee bangs into the dash. He turns me away from him to caress the back of my neck. I look out the window at the city lights as I let this man feel my body, put his arms around me and take my breasts into his hands. I let him touch me where he thinks it will have an effect. It means nothing. Not even when he turns me around again and places his hand below my chin to get a look at me, like Mason used to do. I cannot look back at him.
“You are so hot,” he starts. I kiss him so he’ll stop. I am not here to talk.
He rips off my nylons. I have no reason to be inhibited. I no longer have anything to hide.
I moan as he pushes himself on me, the weight of his body forcing my head between the car door and the seat. I feel my stitches catch on the fabric of the head-rest. I hold on to the seat belt to right myself as he pulls me back on to him, his hands on my shoulders. He begins to thrust; again and again he drives forward, into me, and I resist as long as I can before I move against him. I cry out for the death of my partner, for the end of my relationship with Mason, for myself. I am alone again, no matter whom I am with.
“You can’t get enough, can you?” he asks, his ego fed by what he thinks is my insatiable desire for him. I feel him inside me like others in the past, others I thought would love me; the feeling is no different. I have deluded myself. I tear at his back with my nails. I strain into another position. I want this man to hurt me. I deserve it.
“Harder,” I say, but the only thing I feel is the ache of my heart.
When I get home, I call Mason. I have to end it.
I’m so afraid that I almost hang up when he actually answers.
“Hello?”
“I need to talk to you,” I manage to say.
“I told you we shouldn’t talk,” he says. I assume he’s at the station.
“Look, I saw your wife.”
“You saw Susan?” he asks.
“I’m really messed up, Mason.” I don’t want to do this over the phone, so I say, “Can you come over? We have to talk.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Hello? Mason?”
“Sorry,” he says after a moment. He sounds distant. I think he knows I know.
“Please, Mason. Just come. I have to do this now. It can’t wait. Hello?”
“I’m on my way.”