Last night, New Year’s Eve, I spent it quietly in my home with my 4 year old kid. We went to Red Lobster (because someone wanted crab legs for the first time ever, but I won’t say who haha) and I marveled at the number of couples with slouched shoulders, 5 o’clock shadows, low, scrunchy-tied ponytails, and mid-sized pot bellies. What they all had in common was their level of interaction with each other which was practically nothing. Eyes were down on the food, I could see lips move every so often, but there was a cloud of stillness above each table I could see (I counted 3).
I couldn’t imagine that they had ended up there on purpose (Red Lobster or this place in their lives). I figured that years of hard work and raising children had sneaked up on them. I wondered if they had ever had a passionate love life; if the wives had ever called their men on a lunch break and said, “Darlin’ I’m gonna suck your cock like I’m mad at it the second you walk through the door tonight,” or if the husbands had ever spanked their women’s asses while pile driving into her so hard she had fingerprints for 2 days.
Yeah, and then I cracked some crab legs for my kid.
Seeing couples like that makes me sad and scared, despite my diehard belief that will never be me. But then again, I don’t think they thought it’d be them either.
I came back home, hung with my kid until I was carrying a limp, footed-pajamaed body to bed, started a fire, opened a bottle of Pannier, and put June Christy on Pandora. Jason was in Chicago for the holiday, Phillip on the west coast, and The Neighbor at a house party. I’d had grownup plans sans men, but they’d fallen through and I decided ultimately to spend the turn of the year with the one person I’d lose my life over: my little one. It was a lovely night.
However, as the night wore on and the bubbles began to affect my brain I began to get restless. I really wanted to see The Neighbor. He’d bought a fancy new car and we’d tried to have him come over for a champagne toast, but I was at the restaurant and he had to leave for his party. We’d agreed that if there was any left when he got home we’d toast (truly, just a toast, but knowing us, we’d probably end up in bed).
Around 12:30 I texted him to let him know there was, indeed, some left. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sober enough to drive home and was crashing at his friend’s. I dozed off on my couch under a soft blanket of candlelight and a crackling wood soundtrack.
At 2 I got up and crawled under my covers and instantly fell asleep, drifted away to my familiar dream world. Troy made an appearance, his first in a while. He had a rice pudding recipe that someone wanted and I was being pressured to get it from him. At first I agreed to contact him for the recipe, then balked. I didn’t want to have any kind of contact with him. I put my foot down and said we’d just have to Google a recipe and be done with it. While trying to work this out, a mysterious office-worker (mysterious to my conscious self, that is) pushed me down on my hands and knees, ripped my panties to the side and plunged a giant cock into my exposed, pink, pussy. He rammed into me for what seemed like minutes as tears sprung to my eyes. I was not worried about being caught. But then suddenly, I was a mermaid in a clear river and Troy was there. It was to be our goodbye. I swam over and looked into his sherry-colored eyes. I leaned in for a kiss and our lips met softly. I knew he thought I had feelings for him, didn’t understand fully what I was doing. I pulled us under the water to solidify the gesture and make it clear: it was over. The water moved gently over and past us. Then I was in my bed checking texts. One from The Neighbor said, “Not home yet. I’m in #311 downstairs.” My stomach clenched and dropped and flip-flopped. I knew he’d fucked his host, or at least some other girl at the party.
And then I woke up.
My dream is significant. I said goodbye to someone who hurt me deeply, who lied to me and went for my jugular deliberately; I came to this conclusion while being fucked by a random khaki-wearing cubicle warrior (I’m pretty certain this is the garb The Neighbor wears on a daily basis); I was jealous when I learned he’d slept with someone else, especially someone so close to home.
So much good and bad in this dream.
I really, really, really don’t want to have feelings for The Neighbor. Please, God, don’t let this happen to me now. This could only end badly for me. He’s only 27, he wants to get married one day, have children of his own. I’m 36, freshly divorced, limping along, too old for more children. He’s the nicest man I’ve ever taken to my bed. His kindnesses seem to be outnumbering my defenses. I’m actually thankful he stayed away last night. I couldn’t take it if he’d somehow made it back to me; without meaning to, it would have meant too much to me.
I don’t want to end up like those sad people in the restaurant which is why I left my husband, but clearly I’m yearning for a partnership, too. Ugh.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.