Lady in Red Page 13

  Walking back to my car, I realized I hadn’t said much of a good-bye. Maybe I wanted to avoid those these days. They weren’t my favorite moments. They got me jittery. I had stood there, staring at the ground, mumbling a hushed farewell, while waiting for the elevator door to slide shut and separate our lives. And a renewed fear had crept over me that, again, this might have been the last of our adventure. Still, it seemed odd that dozing off next to him made me feel more loved than any tempestuous battle ever could.

  From a distance I opened the car by pushing the unlock button on the key fob. I let my Gucci tote slip from my shoulder into my left hand, popped the trunk, and placed the bag inside. My hair blew across my porcelain face as I stepped out of my high heels, onto the rough-textured paving bricks of the parking lot, tossing them next to the empty, foldable crate I kept handy for grocery shopping, and which contained a pair of black Versace flats. These were my driving shoes, always remaining on standby in the back of my car, ready to be traded for a set of stilettos whose fine-tipped heels would get trapped in the worn-out carpet underneath the pedals. I reached over, grabbed them, and slipped them on my feet before getting behind the wheel.

  Heading back home, one of Milo’s comments plagued my mind. “You don’t really know me.” I had heard it three times since we started meeting up again. On every one of those occasions I had gotten a little angry on the inside, even wanting to punch him in the face once. But the automatic actions of driving drained my anger and cleared my head enough for me to think about why he would make such a claim. Indeed, I had no idea what kind of gift he wanted to find under the Christmas tree, or what food he’d hope to find in his fridge…The list of personal trivialities I was clueless about was endless, almost as clueless as my husband was about me and who I am. But I dared say I knew him all the same. People are so self-conscious about the obvious, their big actions and their big words, but careless when it comes to minute actions and casual comments.

  Milo was the type of man who shielded me from oncoming traffic with his arm, reached for my hand across the tabletop, remembered the dates that were important to me by sending a motivating text, wished me a good-night’s sleep, and tried to nip any budding sadness with an honest embrace. This list was endless too. He was also the type of man who preferred a comfortable pair of broken-in running shoes to the new pair gathering dust at back of his closet, carefully packed and carried in his bag a colorful send-off drawing of his son, sparingly spoke about but always acting on his affection…So, I might not have a clue what I’d do if ever I were in the position to buy him gifts, bring him food, or fold his clothes, but the quaint little details told me everything I really cared to know about him.

  There was so much we will probably never have together. Sometimes a human being craves the simple pleasures, such as the comforts of a favorite photograph, a shared glass, an intimate dance, or some visible token of tangled lives. Lovers in hiding are rarely afforded such common joys. I was a kept woman. Kept out of sight of the world. Kept from the basics. That was the harsh reality of the horrifying truth. Though we were hidden in plain sight, we were still people; and I wanted a tailored reminder of our partnership, a relic of Milo.

  Tonight was another hotel meeting. Milo finished work and had dinner with his colleagues, as usual. Then he excused himself, telling them he didn’t feel well or craved some more sleep, common excuses when he was expecting my presence. I walked confidently into the lobby, took the stairs instead of the elevator toward the room number he texted me, and then snuck into his room when the corridor was empty. Tonight I was circling back to him. Tonight I wanted my idea of a little gift, the only gift I would ever like anyway. Usually, I hated getting presents. In the past, I had only received them from unimportant men when they had something to apologize for—lying, cheating, more cheating. Milo knew this. Still, I wanted a little something from him. I had made my choice, for I was a romantic libertine.

  We had spent a few wild hours in his room, as usual, before I reached into my purse and grabbed the hilt of the knife. I softened my grip a little. Would he understand the beauty of it? The cold polymer handle lay still in my palm, and I almost changed my mind. This was what I needed, though, an ineradicable trace of Milo, carved into me by the man himself. A triviality to others. Sheer lunacy, perhaps. A simple scar. To me, though, it would remain a constant souvenir of his authority, my servility, and our bond. My doubts receded, and my hand gripped the knife tightly. I turned back toward Milo, holding the shiny object hidden in my fist a little longer.

  “There are so many things I can never ask you, stuff that isn’t meant for us.” Briefly, I stopped, taking another breath before addressing the heart of the matter.

  “Darling, I really want something from you,” I continued. My lips sought his ear. He looked at me inquisitively. I was yearning for him to brand me. I stroked my way to his palm, and my clenched fist opened almost ceremoniously in his hand.

  “Cut me,” I sighed deliriously. “I want to bleed into you.”

  The sheer thought of a part of me coursing through his system had a highly alluring quality to me: to be able to live inside of him in some way, stroking along all the parts of him my eyes couldn’t touch, becoming his by opening my flesh to him, by him, in front of him. And moving forward, I would carry a silent reminder of this exquisite moment on my skin. Milo refrained from speaking, yet he responded by taking the knife and folding the blade into the palm of his hand. He looked at me as I sat there, a little unsettled about where my words were leading. With a quick draw on the hilt, he drew the sharp object against his hand. A deep red smear appeared along its edge, shimmering in the dim light of the room. The knife still in his hand, he grabbed my hair and pulled my head toward the bleeding gash.

  “Take me in,” he whispered invitingly as I granted his request, sucking the first drops of him.

  As I drew back and looked into his eyes, he sighed deeply and bit his lip. Not for a second did our glances unlock, not even when he tenderly folded the stained wick into my hand. Milo bent over to kiss me with an endearing sweetness, and just as the last bit of the skin of our lips separated, he slit my flesh, his face hovering in front of mine, staring at me as I pressed my eyes shut and groaned under his domination. He brought my hand up and guided it lovingly along his cheek, his tongue caressing the slash as it slid past his mouth. Delirious satisfaction set in and made me whimper. There we sat, naked on the bed, both with slit-open palms, with fingers entwined and red-stained cheeks; me in his lap with my legs folded around his upper body, making love, floating on the intensity of this incredible high. Both besmirched with smudges of passion, we were absorbed in a moment of sublime exaltation and didn’t give a damn about the world or society’s self-righteous opinions. It was just us—insanely alive, hidden behind the doors of an earthly realm of smothering sanity.

  The dull sunlight slowly streamed in through the curtain cracks. Milo was lying in the bed and grumbling. Displeased and slightly bothered by the light, he flipped over, swinging out his arm. It landed on nothing but empty sheets. Faintly surprised, he peered with effort at the void next to him. He rose on his elbow and looked around the room. He noticed that the slept-on linens next to him felt cool to the touch. He got up, peeking into the bathroom, but it seemed as though his girl had gone. And that was the case. Estelle was nowhere to be found.

  Still a bit amazed, he walked back over to the bed, planning on checking his phone and asking her about her premature departure. He went to sit down and, only then, noticed it resting on top of something strange, something that hadn’t been there the night before. Putting his phone and wallet aside, he picked up the book they had concealed. The cover’s finish felt like velvet in his hands, and he turned it over to look at the front. There it was, her name in print, right below the all-too-familiar nickname he had given Estelle all those years ago that appeared to be the title. With curiosity, he opened it to the first page of text…

&
nbsp; “Darling Milo,” he read softly.