Whiskey Latte

February, 2017

February, 2017

Ingrid went straight to the pub after work. Dale hadn't said a word all day and she expected a message from him any minute, to let her know that he hadn't locked her out of her own home or that he was bringing her the keys. She spent the whole evening in that uncertain anxiety, checking her phone every five minutes. Dale never reached out.

"Babe, you'd better go home." Remi sidled up to her and confiscated her tumbler.

Ingrid wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. "I want to go home. I just don't know what I'll find there."

"Why don't you just call him?"

"Because I'm drunk as fuck and liable to bite his head off if I hear that arrogant voice of his."

Remi glanced left and right, frowning. "And that would be a bad thing...how?"

Ingrid finished the sandwich Remi had made her and spoke with her mouth full. "I promised."

"I'm sorry for you, then. Do you want me to fix up the room upstairs?"

She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'll go home and if I find the place locked, I'll have good reason to fuck him up."

"Atta girl," Remi laughed.

"Shot of tequila for the road?"

He raised a brow at her. "I'll give you the lemon, but not the tequila."

She wagged her middle fingers at him and stumbled off the stool.

"Love you, too, baby!" Remi shouted after her.

Ingrid dozed off on the train home and nearly missed her stop. She ran off at the very last moment, just as the doors were closing, then got the wrong exit and it took her fifteen minutes to find her building, as opposed to the usual five. As it happened, someone was coming out just as she was going in and she didn't have to ring the buzzer.

When she reached her flat, she paused to ponder whether she should knock or just try the door. Went with the latter and her heart skipped a beat when the door cracked open. Gulping, she stepped in as quietly as possible, without switching the lights on. Then she saw Dale's shoes in the hall and breathed a sigh of relief.

He was reading in the living-room. Ingrid pointedly ignored him on her way to the bedroom. Seeing her, he closed his book and sat up on the edge of the sofa. Ingrid sensed that he waited for an opening to address her and gave him no such opportunity.

In the end, he rose to his feet and strode into the bedroom. She was looking for fresh towels to go take a bath.

"Ingrid," he called out. She pretended not to hear him. "Ingrid, please!"

His plea made her stop, but she didn't turn to face him. He stood staring at her naked back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was out of place this morning. I love you, yes. And yes, all these months I thought you could be made to love me, too. But..." He chuckled. "No one can make you do anything. That's such a big part of your charm and yet...so many people find it so easy to overlook. Myself included."

"But that's just it," she replied and spun around, smiling. "Overlooking it is the charm. Until realisation strikes," she shrugged, "and I'm suddenly a cold-hearted bitch."

"That would be so much easier, wouldn't it?"

Confusion showed in her face.

"If you were a cold-hearted bitch, I mean."

She blinked, bewildered. "You think I'm not?"

Dale laughed. "Are you kidding? You're one of the kindest people I know."

Ingrid couldn't help snorting. "Dude, I'm the one who drank my ass off, how come you're the one who got drunk?"

"You always help the old lady carry her groceries to the fifth floor," he began, "you drop money into every street musician's hat and put food out in the garden for the strays. You rescued a puppy!"

Dale threw his arms up, as if that sentence alone proved his point better than anything else he could have come up with. Nevertheless, he pressed on, all fired up now.

"You always stop to give directions to anyone who asks, even though you might be in a hurry. You never skip the charity donations at check-out and I've seen you give your lunch to homeless folks on more than one occasion. You cut your hair last summer, so you could donate it to an organisation making wigs for cancer patients. And that's just the stuff I know."

Ingrid sighed and smiled at the floor.

"You are good, Ingrid," he continued, "and you're hurting, but you don't want to heal. Because that hurt...I think that hurt is your strength. You're holding on to it because as long as you've got it, nothing else can break you."

"Too fucking precious," Ingrid muttered to herself, choking up.

"What?"

"Nothing." She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, then exhaled through her mouth. "Join me for a bath?"

"You know I can never say no."

"Then don't."

She sauntered into the bathroom and he followed closely behind her.

His lovemaking was particularly tender that night, as if he paid homage to her goodness and his lips could cure her wounds. He forgot he had a body of his own and tended to hers only, until he unburdened her soul of pain.

The fleeting ecstasy of passion was the sole source of genuine happiness in her life. Dale finally understood and felt grateful she'd chosen him to be the means by which she attained it. In his arms, she was pure and free, raw and exposed and he held her to protect her purity from evil.

She fell asleep fast, with an expression of quiet contentedness spread across her features. Dale lay gazing at her peaceful face, her parted lips, her heaving chest. He pulled the duvet up to her shoulders and closed his eyes.