I really had nowhere to go where I wouldn’t be alone with myself—my thoughts, my mind, a prison with no walls, yet far too often, impossible to escape.
So I went home. Only it wasn’t mine anymore, and I had no right to be there. The lock was changed, and I had to knock.
Upon the door I’d opened a thousand times before.
I wasn’t going there to hit the reset button. I had made my choice, and whether or not it worked out in my favor, it was the right choice.
So what was I doing?
She opened the door, and I just stood there, neither smiling nor frowning. I had no words, no pitch, no sale to make. She looked at me, and bit her lower lip, something usually reserved for more intimate moments.
Something I hadn’t seen in years, though we’d only been apart for a few months.
Something that stirred me, pushing me forward, through the door, into the house. Her eyes followed me as I moved past her, and then turned to face her.
She said nothing; perhaps she could see it in my eyes. I stepped toward her, as she grabbed my tie and pulled me closer.
What the fuck was I doing?
I put my hands on either side of her face and kissed her with every ounce of desperation and misdirected passion I had, pushing her back against a wall. Her dress rode up as she wrapped a leg around me, then two. I kept her pinned to the wall as her hips began to sway.
This was happening.
But what, exactly, was this?