Blinded (17 page)

“It’s okay,” she says, the voice of someone used to this, the voice of someone who doesn’t have any inhibitions.

You breathe in.

“You won’t regret it.”

But you think of the times you have regretted something. Failing. Looking. Lusting. Wanting something you can’t have.

She’s not yours
.

You know this but still it’s so easy so very easy.

She will never be yours
.

And you blink and think of Lisa.

The two are not the same. For a man, this is not about affection or love or companionship.

It’s about flesh and desire and it’s the thing every man has to struggle with.

But here you are in your hotel room smelling her and feeling her touch. How could it have gotten this far?

I was helping her out
.

But were you? Wasn’t this what you wanted the entire time?

Don’t fool yourself, Michael
.

And your lips are about to touch hers …

No
.

And then you pull away.

“Come here,” she says.

“No, I can’t.”

“Michael, you won’t—”

“Please, Jasmine. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m married. And I can’t—I don’t know what I’m doing. What any of this—”

You shake your head, and she comes up to you. “It’s okay.”

You look away. “No.”

She puts a hand against your arm but you jerk it back.

“I’m not going to bite.”

She said that hours ago. When you should have known better. When you should have realized where this was going
.

You wipe your eyebrows, a nervous affectation that you sometimes can’t help. Jasmine is leaning over you, her legs crossed in yours.

“Nobody is ever going to know, Michael,” she whispers, her voice warm against your neck. “I know you want this as much as I do.”

You breathe in.

God she is beautiful
.

Your hands find their way around her again, but you stand up and walk away.

Any second now and it will be too late. Any second and you’ll give in
.

“Look …”

She waits for you now, looking, wondering what you’re going to say.

“Please, I’m asking you—I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

She stares at you. There is silence and your eyes find their way back to hers.

And suddenly you see the look on her face.

The desire and the enticement have disappeared. Now all you see is anger.

“Jasmine, I’m—”

“No.”

Her voice has changed. Everything about her has changed.

“Look, I’m not rejecting you.”

She laughs.

“What?” you ask.

“You could
never
reject me.”

“Yeah, okay. And I’m not. It’s just—”

“You’re pathetic.”

You look at her and can’t answer her harsh comment.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

She shakes her head, the long blonde hair wrapping itself around one cheek.

I still might change my mind
.

“I had high hopes for this night,” she says. “You let me down.”

She takes her jacket and puts it back on. You go to touch her shoulder, but she shrugs away.

“Look, Jasmine—”

“Please, stop calling me that.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Nothing,” she says, looking at you with cold eyes. “Nothing at all.”

You rub your hands against your face and feel like collapsing on the bed. Jasmine starts to go to the door.

“Let me at least walk you out.”

She looks at you and laughs. “You so don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“The truth.”

You look at her and try to see what she’s talking about.

“You’re a nice guy. I should’ve known. I’ve met a few guys like you. But then again, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

She opens the door, then looks back at you.

The look on her face isn’t kind or cordial. It’s more tired and amused.

“Let me—let me walk you out.”

“The night is officially over.”

“Please …”

“You really were a disappointment,” she says.

What’s that mean?

You get your room key, then follow Jasmine out to the hallway.

You can breathe better out here.

As you wait for the elevator, Jasmine looks at you. Again, something has changed. Something is off.

“Look, I’m sorry,” you say.

For what? Saying no? Not giving in? Rejecting her?

“Please,” Jasmine says.

“What?”

“You have no idea why I’m even angry.”

You nod at her.

She looks as if she has more to say. Then she simply laughs and gets on the elevator by herself.

Her laugh scares you.

Y
OUR HAND OPENS YOUR HOTEL ROOM DOOR
. For a second, you think of Lisa.

You think of the first time with Lisa.

Her lips were soft, her smile genuine, her touch inspiring.

You had never wanted—had never needed someone so bad—as you wanted Lisa. At that moment, at that time.

You had both waited so long and it was the first time.

You could feel your body shake.

And you knew when it was over that it was well worth it. That it was right. That it was fulfilling and that only someone like God could invent this form of love and could give it to you.

The world distorts it and mangles and contorts it. Love and sex and desire and lust and emotion and love.

What is real love?

Saying no
.

Saying no more
.

Not giving in
.

Trying again
.

You love Lisa but it’s not with the same passion and fire that you had when you first fell in love and when you first married.

Love isn’t just about the passion and fire of newlyweds. Some people think it is, and they search and search and try to find it, try to relive it, wanting to capture those brilliant, glorious, ground-swelling moments.

But they can never recapture them.

You know better and know that you’ve been looking for something to fill you that can’t. That absolutely, positively can’t.

And you almost gave in, trying to find it. You almost gave yourself over.

M
ICHAEL
M
ICHAEL
M
ICHAEL

The scent of sweet perfume in the hotel room still lingers. You start to gather your things, knowing you have to leave, knowing you have to get out of here.

She might come back. She might knock on your door again. She might come in. She might do God knows what.

You look at yourself in the mirror. You have to look away.

The suitcase is packed. You gather your bag. You quickly look over the items on the desk.

You don’t want the change sitting there. You pick up the extra key card and the key for the minibar.

I’ve got to get out of here
.

You put your briefcase on top of the suitcase and prepare to head out.

Don’t go
.

You’re running late but something is bothering you.

You stop and think.

Then you turn around and look on the desk again.

Underneath the copy of
USA Today
sits something round and golden.

You pick up your wedding ring and slip it back on your finger.

I am such a complete and utter fool
.

You look at your hand and see the familiar ring.

Your hand trembles. You try to shake it off, but you can’t.

You have everything that you need. You have to get out of here.

T
HE NECKLACE DANGLES FROM THE MIRROR
, and the white cross waves at you. You stare at it, mesmerized, too exhausted to actually feel anything. The outline of the small pendant stands out in front of the cab’s windshield, the glow from the sunrise creeping up from the east. The streets are empty this morning, the bridge to the airport and to freedom open to change lanes. The driver still races ahead, oblivious to you and to everything you’re leaving behind.

A radio commentator talks but you don’t listen.

You see the cross sway back and forth.

As you take the Triborough bridge, you can look to your right and see the shadowed veil of the city, still in lights, still resting, still half awake like it always stays. Ahead, past the cross and the windshield with the cracked hole and the four
lanes and the bridge, you see the crest of the sun filling the sky, daring to wake the sleeping apple up.

You feel the wedding ring you almost left behind in the hotel room. Maybe that would have woken
you
up. Seems like nothing else is getting your attention.

What is it about you?

Really. What is it?

Why can’t enough simply be
enough?

Why do you have this restless feeling that doesn’t go away?

You know the answers and yet you sometimes ignore them, hoping that work and money and the rest of the world can solve the questions burning deep inside.

Sometimes, when nobody is watching, you try to solve this burning yourself. But losing yourself online in a sea of sin never fulfills you. It only makes you hungrier. And when you quench that thirst momentarily, you try to tell yourself you won’t do it again. You try to tell yourself it’s okay. You even ask God to forgive you. But will you ever change? Will you ever try to be a better person? Will you ever finally lay it before God and ask him to help you and to change you?

God help me help me God I’m crying out to you I need help
.

You don’t know what help looks like. You don’t know when it will arrive and in what sort of form. You’re ashamed and yet too proud to admit this to anybody else. Even Lisa. Even the woman you were supposed to tell everything.

God you know everything
.

Every fault and every failure.

Running away doesn’t work. Being far from home in a busy, mindless city doesn’t work. Being under the shadows in the pit of night doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

Surrender all
.

You want to keep running. You want to keep hiding. You want to keep playing those games that everybody else plays. Why should you be any different? Any different whatsoever?

Turn your life around and lay it all before his feet. Lay it all before him and find rest and comfort
.

The wind blows through the cracked windows as the car races past the side of the bridge, cement and concrete so close to you.

No getting out now.

God you know how foolish I am and nothing or no sin can be hidden from you
.

You think of someone else long ago uttering these words.

Don’t let the floods overwhelm me or the deep waters swallow me or the pit of death devour me
.

All you have to do is call out. Pray and ask for God to help you and find you and forgive you.

Have compassion on me, Lord, for I am weak
.

Still weak, still after all this time, after so many years, after pretending to be the adult and the grown-up and the responsible man and a good person.

I am sick at heart. How long, O Lord, until you restore me?

You don’t know if you can even ask. This is your fault, your decision that has resulted in this mess. This is something only you can get yourself out of.