No More Lonely Nights
NICK CAUDEL
Throwing the sheets off himself, the man placed his feet upon the floor. Sitting on the edge of his bed, clothes on the floor from the night before caught his attention: his navy jeans partially covered a lighter-hued pair with rhinestones on its back pockets, one of his black socks laid upon a pink tank top.
Without turning his back, he could still make out the faint scent of Chanel No. 5 from her wrists, even when diluted by the smell of his own breath from the night before.
"Margaritas," he said to himself. "Margaritas and Hennessy."
Still sitting, he reached over to a small, orange bottle on the wooden nightstand. He poured two pills into his palm: white, flat, and circular, the pills each bore a line down their diameter forming a tiny trench.
He grasped the glass of stale water, warm with air bubbles surrounding the inner surface.
"What's that you're taking?"
Fuck.
She was awake.
He sipped the glass, threw the pills in his mouth, and he swallowed with ease. Like the dozens of times before.
"Vitamins."
"Really?" she smirked, pointing to the vial. "Prescription vitamins?" Caught in his lie, he gave a tiny, hollow smile.
"What are they?"
The question didn't sound interrogative. In fact, it resembled a childlike inquiry.
The man sighed. "Antidepressants."
Her jaw dropped slightly. As if someone gave her a snide, backhanded compliment.
"I didn't know you were depressed."
"Yeah, well it's not exactly something you mention to a stranger you take home."
"No – what I mean is you don't seem depressed. Last night at the bar, you had me laughing and amused. You seemed so outgoing and happy."
"Heh, enough margaritas will do that to a guy."
"Well you just hide it really well, I guess."
To alleviate the pause, although he feared sounding pretentious, he said something he'd heard once.
"The most depressed hide it the best."
Upon saying it, he immediate regretted it. It sounded akin to a line you’d find in the middle of some corny breakup ballad.
Lifting his feet, he tucked them back under the sheets and laid his body back on the bed. His arm separating the pillow from his head, his eyes remained opened. He faced away from her, just as when he woke.
She began to scoot closer to him and extend her hand to his shoulder. After he didn't respond, she took the hint. She pulled her hand away and turned her back to him.
"You want me to leave, don't you?"
"How could you tell?" he said with a wry monotone.
"I suppose that's your way with every girl you take home?"
"More or less."
With a breathy sigh, she continued. "My mother was depressed," she said bluntly, as if she weren't shifting the topic.
"What?" he said, squinting and bridging his brows. He heard her fine and understood what she said. It's why she said it that puzzled him.
"What you said, it makes sense. I never suspected a thing. I may have been a naïve teen, but still. I only know because my dad told me after she..."
An obtrusive silence hung over the room. "I'm sorry," he said.
Once more, she reached her hand onto his shoulder. This time, he turned his head to observe it: chipped, pink nail polish, shallow veins, and a freckle on the middle of her pinkie.
He grasped her hand, pulled it toward his mouth, and his lips to it. Reeled in, she shimmied toward him.
He then turned toward her and took in her face, but not in the same manner he did the previous night. Her brown hue of her hair match his own, though hers extended to her shoulders. The freckles circling her lips and the cerulean of her eyes stood out, as did the lack of lines under them. She was young.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
Six years his junior.
"Matt, you've never thought about it, have you? The depression's never pulled you that close to the brink, has it?"
He gave a tiny, reluctant smile. Since she cared enough to ask, he felt no reason to obscure the truth.
"Yeah, I've thought about it, but I've never attempted. There've been some horrible nights where I polish off a bottle and can't sleep and just think about every ache I have, but I never go any further."
This time, she reached for his hand and pulled it towards her mouth. "Don't." she whispered. "Please don't ever."
She then pressed her lips to the back of his palm. Removing them, the light aubergine trace of her lipstick marked her embrace.
Every girl he took home, if he didn't kick her out later in the night, he kicked her out soon after waking. He found no interest in trying to make a long-term anything out of a fling. He regarded nothing beyond how comely they were and what they could offer him that one night.
"I won't, umm—"
"Ivy," she offered with a forgiving grin.
"I won't, Ivy. I promise."
"Good."
She leaned in and embraced his lips with her own. He did not pull away. After she stopped, he smiled.
He sat up. "How about we get ready? I'll take you out for some breakfast."