Of all the words I thought he’d say, those were the last on the list. “Tristan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He finally does what I thought he’d do initially. He shakes my hand off his skin and tries to stand up. Finally after wobbling like a toddler trying to gain their balance, he bites back, “Don’t.” That one word vibrates around and through me. I know it’s not directed at me, but the tone is sincerely frightening. “Don’t fucking do that. I don’t deserve your pity. I did this. It’s my fault she’s gone.”
Tristan takes a couple of steps toward the canvas before he reaches up to touch the surface. His fingers slide down what I think is her abstract cheek. The streaks he leaves behind look like tears, whether it’s hers, or his own. “I should have fought harder for her. Asked more questions. Found more answers. If I’d been more involved, if I’d been the man she needed, we wouldn’t be here.”
I don’t know what he needs. What would I want if it were me? I wouldn’t want to be told what to do, but I would want to be held. My eyes fixate on him weaving slowly in front of me. I rid myself of my shoes as I stand to pad closer. In much the same way as he touched his painting, I reach for his arm.
He’s been facing away from me to this point. As we connect, his head turns and that’s when I see the tears, the multitude of tears slowly rolling down his stubble-coated cheeks. I grip his right bicep and turn his body to face me slowly. “You don’t have to hide from me. It’s okay.”
His paint-soaked fingers anchor to the back of my neck. He presses his forehead to mine as I feel a gentle shake radiating out to me. My hands cap over his upper arms and I guide us to the floor. He cries silently for a long time. I wonder if this is two years of loss spilling out in one huge dam break.
I lean back in the pile of pillows on the floor. His long and lean legs spill over mine as he clings to me. I stroke whatever I can touch. His back. His arms. His head. I do this over and over again until I don’t hear the sobs and he’s still.
I don’t know who she is. In reality, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is and has been in clearly unimaginable pain. I was here for it. I was a witness and I think he wanted me to be. I will do whatever it takes to help him.
Tristan
Paint. Leftover bourbon. Hints of orange and ginger.
This is what begins to awaken my senses. My head is swimming with what might be the most monstrous hangover of my life. Reality is creeping back in at a languid pace. I feel like a Persian rug has taken up residence in my mouth. Even with the ache in my body, I feel encompassed on a cloud.
Where am I?
Even with my eyelids feeling like there are anchors attached, I open them best I can. I’m still in the studio. I’m on the floor. Pillows. The gentle flutter of a heartbeat and a slow even breath underneath my cheek. Are these illusions from my self-induced coma?
I inhale deep. Orange and ginger invade once more. Then I notice the gentle movement at the base of my neck. It’s unnervingly soothing. The pace runs a beat or two above what my cheek feels. If I had to place a beat per minute, it was running at about ninety-two to ninety-five. It was a perfect rumba tempo.
As my focus becomes more acute, I’m aware of the female form who appears to be my pillow among all the fabric ones strewn about. I struggle to remember any of last evening. It’s usually the day I like to forget completely at my own hand. Each year has the same beginning, middle, and end.
My mind begins its rewind as the room spins ever so slightly. It’s enough to elicit a groan like that of a child who does not want to wake with his or her alarm clock for their school day. My yet mysterious beauty responds immediately to my moan of illness.
“Are you feeling sick?”
Her soft voice vibrates in and around me. “Nora?”
The puzzle pieces are starting to come together. I emailed her to meet me in my office. It was an impulse. I don’t know why I even told her to. I knew what I would be like. How I would feel. I still needed her. She saw it all. She stayed.
“Yes, it’s me. What do you need? I can get you some water. Pain medicine? A bucket?”
“I need a minute to let the world stop turning. What time is it?”
“It’s about six forty in the morning.”
“Fuck,” I groan, “I’m going to have to cancel my classes today. I managed through it last year. This year, I just…can’t.”
Nora whispers in the sweetest voice, “How do you need to do that? Is there a protocol?” She never stops the subtle movement of her fingers.
“I need to notify Professor Griffin. She was already on standby. She will cover for me in class and as a courtesy, I should post on my online communication page.” The drumbeat in my head that I wasn’t hyperaware of before is taking over my every thought. “But first….”
“Coffee and a shower, perhaps? Can you stand on your own?”
“Stand, yes. Walk some distance, doubtful. How long have we been here?”
“What do you remember?”
“My office? A walk. Some music. Bourbon. Lots of bourbon. Nora? What did I say?”
“Let’s get you into that shower.” She slides her body slowly from beneath me, skillfully ignoring my question. Her warmth, inside and out, is helping keep the demons at bay. In the instant she leaves, the events of last night begin to come forward in pieces. Each shard of a memory cuts like glass.
Her soft manicured hand reaches down for me in the piles of pillows and offers me a way to climb out of the hole I’ve created for myself. I don’t deserve it or her kindness. Nora stands before me with her palm extended until I take it.
“I want you to sit up slowly. I can deal with any amount of blood but if you puke it will be over for me.”
If my head didn’t hurt so badly, I would have laughed. “I can promise you that, my Petal.”
As I elevate my head, my eyes turn to the work I must have tried to complete last evening. Shreds of canvas blanket the studio floor. My third in a series of paintings still wet on the easel. Each one is filled with more sorrow than the last. The empty tumbler inches from my feet.
I shield my eyes with my free hand as I, with some effort, finally make it to my knees. “Will you make it to your bedroom?” she asks.
I nod slowly. “Take me through the Zen garden and back.”
Nora gently aids me to my feet and tucks underneath my shoulder. Her tender hands guide me between my shoulder blades and across my chest. A gentle rain hits our bodies in the garden. It is so welcome. I feel a pang of anxiety as we enter my room. Only certain women enter here and for one thing only. Even in my stupor-like state, my cock still twitches at the thought of Nora splayed across my giant bed.
Nora stops in the entry to the bathroom and searches for the lights. Her fingers find the panel and the recessed tubes roar to life, gaining a groan from me and an expletive from her. “Fucking hell!” she exclaims as she settles my body on the gray granite countertop next to the sinks. Each shuffle of her feet as she takes in the space is a combination of wonder and pain for me. She dims the lights just enough to rid the shadows in the depths of the shower and sets the heat of the water to blaze.
I go from a lean against the sink to back against the mirror. I’d stand up to help her sort the faucets, but I don’t trust my legs will hold and I don’t want her to have to pick me up off the floor for a second time that I know of.