Blinded (5 page)

You look around and know that if you step away from the table, someone else will grab it. But you continue to wait and she doesn’t come back. You stand and look for her, but a sea of heads and faces engulf you.

I’m not waiting around like a fool
.

You take your half-empty drink and head to the rest-rooms, down the velvet hallway and through a side corridor. You pass a small room on your right and don’t look inside but hear her voice.

“—could say anything and you’d still act the same—”

And then you hear a male voice interrupting.

“Sit back down.”

“No.”

“I swear, don’t do this. Not now. Just sit back down.”

The voice sounds angry and threatening. You turn and look into the room. All you see is the back of a man leaning over someone on a couch. For a second you stand in the doorway. You see the long suede boots belonging to Jasmine. Her long legs look uncomfortable, as if shielding her from the man who stands over her.

“Everything okay in here?” you call out.

A man with glassy, fiery eyes and short, curly hair turns
and looks at you. He’s wearing a dress shirt with several buttons undone and black pants.

“Did anybody ask you?”

He’s not a big guy; you’re probably taller and broader. But the look on his face says enough, and if you were a stranger encountering this—whatever this is—you’d move on. But Jasmine looks concerned, maybe even upset.

Is she crying?

“You okay?” you ask her.

She nods and then looks down. The guy curses at you and tells you to take a hike.

“Why don’t you back away from the lady?”

“If there’s a lady in this room I’ll back away from her.”

“Jasmine—”

The stranger looks at you, then at the blonde, then back at you. He cackles and then appears amused.

“Jasmine? Sorry, buddy, you got the wrong
lady.”

“Riley, please,” says Jasmine.

Or whatever her name is.

“Are you okay?” you ask her.

This time, she only looks your way.

The man walks toward you and gets in your face. “This isn’t your concern.”

“Maybe she wants to leave.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

Jasmine stands up and walks behind the man. In her heels
she’s a couple inches taller than he is. He snatches her arm, pulling her down to the ground. Pulling her down violently.

She lets out a muffled shriek.

Maybe it’s the gin or the adrenaline or something else flowing in you. This man touching Jasmine—no, make that grabbing her and pulling her down—doesn’t fly with you. You grab his shoulder, pulling him toward you and getting him off balance. He releases Jasmine’s arm just a little, enough for her to jerk it away from him and then dash past you.

“Oh, man,” he starts in on you, shocked that you actually touched him. He launches a couple curses at you.

“Leave her alone.”

“Who let you in to begin with? You’ll never step foot in this place again.”

Jasmine has left the room and you try to follow when the man shoves you from behind. You’re propelled toward one of the hallway walls and slam up against it. You hear a few more juicy expletives behind you.

“This is
so
not your problem, man,” he says as he walks up to you.

A couple approaching the scene in the hallway stop and look on. You look at the man, now standing ready to go in front of the doorway. Then you start to walk toward Jasmine, past the curious couple and out of this place.

As the couple hurry past, you feel a hand grip your shirt and pull you back.

You turn and grab his hand, forcing it to let go of your shirt. Then you punch him hard, squarely on the nose. This isn’t the first time you’ve punched somebody and made it hurt. Knuckles landing that hard on the cartilage of the nose do damage.

The man wails in pain and slumps over, going to his knees and cursing. You don’t bother to look at him any longer. You walk away and find Jasmine outside the lounge, standing against the side of the building lighting up a cigarette.

“What was that all about?” you ask.

“I’m so sorry.”

You rub your throbbing hand as she looks at you.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Who was that guy?”

“He’s the owner.”

You watch her smoke her cigarette in earnest. “Guess I won’t be coming back here.”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Just made sure he wouldn’t touch you again.”

“You don’t know him,” she says, a look of fear on her face.

“Let’s get out of here.”

You walk down the sidewalk and try to find an intersection with a cab. Your hand hurts more than you thought it would. You wonder how the guy’s nose feels.

“Did you hurt him?” Jasmine asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“How do you know him?”

A cab pulls up. You open the door for her. She takes one last drag from her cigarette and then flicks it away.

“He’s my ex. Long story. Very long story.”

I’m not going anywhere
.

You follow her into the cab and see her skirt slide up her thigh and you feel more alive than you have for a very long time.

T
HE STREETS SEEM EVERLASTING
, the strangers you pass seem endless. There is an energy on these streets that doesn’t exist anywhere else, an attitude that could only be successfully carried off in New York. The taxi flies through the neighborhood and around turns and you hold the door handle as you look over at the profile of Jasmine’s face. She seems to have regained her composure.

“Tell me something.”

“Yeah.”

“Is your name really Jasmine?”

She stares at you for a moment, fearless eyes that look amused. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“I can show you my license. But really—what’d be the point?”

Your head feels light from the drinks. The cab jerks and turns down a side street.

“Where are we going?”

Jasmine grins. “I don’t recall inviting you anywhere.”

“Oh, sure—yeah. I just thought it would be best to get out of there.”

“Look,
Michael
, or whatever your name is. You look tense.”

You looked tense a few minutes ago
.

“I just tried to break some guy’s nose.”

“Great feeling, huh?”

“I’m not sure what sort of feeling I should have.”

“If you knew Riley, you’d understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Some men are just—they’re not good guys. You’re a good guy. I could tell that the moment I walked up to you at Rockefeller Center. Riley, unfortunately, is not one of those.”

“You dated him?”

“I didn’t know he was a bad guy.”

“Bad, meaning—?”

“Bad. Abusive bad. Out-of-control bad. Scary bad.”

You nod and notice that she seems to be revealing a sense of alarm as she glances out the window.

“You okay?”

“Of course,” she says, the confidence there again, her tone suggesting she is always okay.

You think of Riley. There’s nothing you can stand less
than a guy who hurts women. You find yourself wishing you’d broken a few other things as well.

“We shouldn’t have gone there in the first place,” Jasmine says. “I thought he wouldn’t be there.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Are you crazy?” She laughs. “Do you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She puts a hand on your leg and gently rubs it. “You need to relax. The night is young.”

“My flight leaves at 9:00 a.m.”

“A lot can happen by then.” She smiles. “Come on—I want to show you the city.”

A
PICTURE MUCH BRIGHTER POPS INTO YOUR MIND
.

But sometimes the brightness of the day doesn’t match the mood in your heart.

You’re sitting on the deck of the cottage overlooking the Atlantic. It is midday after a particularly disastrous night. You have a cup of coffee and look out onto the ocean. A thousand golden flickers streak throughout the ever-moving waters, a steady coating over the earth that seems to go on forever.

Does anything go on forever?
you wonder.

Everything comes to an end.

You hear her behind you but don’t look as she comes onto the porch and sits in the chair next to you.

“So what now?” she asks.

You don’t know. You have no clue. This vacation has
turned into a nightmare. A change of scenery doesn’t always repair the wounds that have been inflicted but never addressed in many years of marriage.

“I’m not sure,” you say weakly.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“It doesn’t change what was said.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did,” you tell her. “You always mean what you say.”

“I was angry, and I’m sorry.”

The soft coating sound of the ocean calms you but doesn’t offer hope or explanation.

For the first time since you’ve been married, you’re wondering if it’s worth going on.

“What are you thinking?” Lisa asks.

“I don’t really know.”

But that’s mostly false. You know. But you’re too scared to admit it. You hate failures, and this is a colossal failure. Seven years and it’s resulted in this. Even a trip to the outer banks of North Carolina can’t solve the problem.

“We need to talk to someone,” she says.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. It’s just—we can’t keep going like this.”

“I know that.”

“I’m sorry.”

You nod. You wish you could hold Lisa in your arms and
feel alive and electric and brand new and feel like this would be eternal and that nothing or nobody would ever change it. You used to be able to do that. But life moves on. Schedules fill and disappointments arise and compromises suffice and you find yourself on the shores of the ocean wondering if you can continue living with this woman.

When did I fall out of love with her?

The things she said last night about your job and your workaholic tendencies and your bad habits and all of that— sure, they were harsh and didn’t go down well. But they were true. You both knew it.

A man who would rather spend time surfing the web to find fulfillment than be with his wife—yeah, sure, that man has a problem. But problems can be handled and this is one that can be fixed.

It can’t end like this. Other couples end like this but not you
.

You want to pray and maybe you should pray but God hasn’t been hearing those prayers so you wonder why you should keep hurling them up at him.

You sigh.

“Things can change,” she says.

“How?”

“I don’t know. I can stop working. We can start a family. We can move. I don’t know.”

All that will do is patch up a sore that’s not going to heal. Put a Band-Aid on a wound that needs to be lanced.

I’m not going down without a fight
.

This isn’t over. Not now and not like this.

“Let’s talk with someone,” you say.

It’s the first time you’ve admitted that no, your marriage isn’t perfect. That yes, you need a little help. That no, you can’t do it on your own.

This memory is five years old. Since then Olivia and Peyton have both been born. Lisa has stopped working and you’ve managed to control some of your late-night vices. For the most part.

Things should be fine, right?

You wonder if you’ve learned anything in all that time.

Is the problem your marriage?

Or is the problem you?