the opposite of love

         We are in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the only thing I can think of is how his finger feels.  Rough and dirty, but he knows exactly where to touch me so I can’t help but silently scream, squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to stay quiet.  I can feel his smug smile as he watches me shake and tense up until it’s over.  I open my eyes; his glistening face is hovering near me, too close.
         “That was sexy,” he whispers in my ear and I feel a twinge of satisfaction.  I feel like he’s waiting for me to return the favor, but all I keep picturing is how I’m digging my own grave.  I shouldn’t even be here.
         “I have to go,” I whisper, and his smile fades, replaced by confusion.  “Why?” he seems angry, but I don’t care.  “Because its late,” I say, and its not but I just want to go.  I stand up, and run out the door before he can respond.  He doesn’t try and stop me, and I’m glad.

         It’s breezy out, slightly cold.  It’s summer, but it feels like the beginning of fall.  The roads are black from morning rain, but not wet.  It is early evening, and the twilight makes everything glow orange.  I climb into my car, and I drive.
         Driving past a church, I stare at the statue of the Virgin Mary.  I’m not religious, not at all, but it still makes me feel guilty.  I don’t even really know why; I don’t know what she represents or is supposed to mean. I keep thinking of The Scarlet Letter, of cheating women and witch-hunts, and of how much God and Mary meant to them; how fearful they were of their wrath.

         Finally, I’m home, and as soon as the door slams shut, I’m lying on the couch with my eyes closed.  As soon as I do, I imagine his smell, his roughness, and I open them again. I can’t think of that here.  I start wondering if I’ll ever be able to push it out of my mind.
         Ryan comes home, leans over the couch and kisses my forehead.  “What did you do today?” he asks, so trustworthy and in love, and it makes me hate who I am, even more when I realize that I have to lie.  “Just wrote,” I say softly, “Mostly junk, but I think I’ve got some good ideas.”
         “Oh yeah?”  He walks into the kitchen, and I can hear him open the fridge.  I know him so well, I know that right now he’s trying to decide between drinking a Mountain Dew or a Propel, but will eventually decide that he’s in the mood for soda.  He walks out a few minutes later, can of Code Red in his hand.
         “So what’s one of those good ideas?” he asks me, looking genuinely interested, and I can’t stand it.  Why can’t he hate me as much as I do?
         “Oh, it’s written down somewhere.  I was thinking a lot about the weather today, about how much it can set a mood.  I wanted to do something with that…maybe a murder mystery.  I don’t know.”
         “Well it sounds great,” and then he gives me this big grin and takes a swig of his soda.  I can’t take much more of this.  The heartbeat is under the floorboards, and if I stay here much longer I’m going to confess.
         “I think I’m going to go out for a run,” I hear myself saying, and I spring up to prove it.  Ryan is surprised and I know why; I haven’t gone out running in years.  “I’ve just been inside all day and I think I need some fresh air, some exercise, you know?  I won’t be long, I promise.  I don’t want to be out when it’s real dark.”  I’m babbling away, filling this tense air between us.  Filling it with answers so he’ll have no questions.
         “Okay,” he nods, “be careful.”  I nod back.  He turns his attention to the TV, and I run to our room and change.  I walk back out to the living room where my sneakers are, and sit next to him to put them on.
         He’s watching an old rerun of Seinfeld, but when I come back in he turns his attention to me, eyes swimming with concern.  “Are you alright?”

         As soon as he says it, I’m shaking.  I feel so ashamed, so rotten, and the last thing I want to do is keep lying.  I can’t think of anything to say, and I start to cry.  He’s watching me, and as soon as he notices, his arms are around me, rubbing my back.
         “What’s wrong?!” he asks with urgency, and whispers softer, “Baby, what’s wrong?”  I shake my head.  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
         “Sorry for what?” he asks, not accusatory or mean at all, just innocently curious.  “I’m sorry,” I say again. 
         “I’m sorry that I don’t always hear you, or misconstrue what you might say.  I’m sorry that we can’t be more perfect, that I get bored or tired or annoying.  I’m sorry when I do things that you hate, even though I know you hate it.  I’m sorry when I’m wrong, but think I’m right and keep on arguing with you.  I’m sorry the world is cruel and I can’t protect you from it.  And I’m sorry I’m a part of that world.”

         He strokes my cheek, looks me in the eyes.  Serious and scared, he stares for a long time.  “What did you do?” he asks finally and I sigh.  “I cheated on you and I’m sorry.”
         We sit there for a long time, in silence, neither of us knowing what to say.  Suddenly he stands up.  “I’m going outside for a cigarette.  Want to join me?”  It’s the strangest request, but the last thing I want to do is say no to him, so I stand up too.
         We walk out to our deck and sit in uncomfortable white plastic chairs, side by side.  He lights my cigarette and then his own, and we sit and inhale in silence.  Finally, he spits on the ground, bores his eyes into mine, and says, “You’re fucked up and I hate you so much right now.”  The shame and the guilt and the pain rip through my entire body.
         “I never meant to hurt you,” I say meekly, and he waves me off with his free hand.  “But you did.  You did!  Even if it wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t entirely unintentional.  You knew that I would have a problem with this.  I mean, what possessed you?  What made you change everything between us?”
         I grab his knee; a wave of nausea and fatigue washes over me and all I want is to fall out of this nightmare.  I want my life back as quick as possible.  “I’m sorry.  I – I don’t know why.  There are days I get lonely – I went out to find something to do and I - I got lost.  It was like he pushed it forward enough that all I had to do was fall backwards.  But I will do anything to help you trust me again - help you love me.  Tell me what to do.”  He still hates me; I can see it in his eyes.
         “Let me think about it.”

         We go to bed and I fall asleep immediately.  I dream of Ryan and I going to the store, the mall, the park, and I keep seeing that guy.  He keeps trying to talk to me and Ryan keeps asking me “Who is that?  How do you know him?”  The burden of lying and carrying that secret over and over just repeats throughout the night.  I wake up around 10, my heartbeat too fast, stressed out from all the anxiety.  I still feel tired.  I lie there, noticing Ryan is not around, and wonder about him, wonder what he’ll want me to do.  And then I see it.
         On the closet door, a bright neon orange piece of paper is stuck, taped to the wood.  I squint hard but it’s still blurry, so I grudgingly get up to read it.  I walk closer and closer to it and when I’m about three steps away I can read it.  I’m sorry. That’s all it says.  Then I notice the closet is half empty, missing all the band t-shirts and collared button downs.  It’s hard to comprehend, so I walk to the kitchen to get something to eat.  On the fridge, there’s another note. I’m sorry that I can’t trust you anymore.