“I lost you there, didn’t I?”
I can only stare at him, stare into his eyes. “Can we... can we go, Logan? This is... wonderful. And maybe you can’t understand this, but... it’stoowonderful. Too much.”
He sighs, a sad sound. “Yeah... no—I get it. I really do.” He stands up, digs into his pocket, and tosses some money on the table.
Gino is there, dishes in hand. “No, no, you cannot go, not yet. The best is yet to come!”
Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. My friend isn’t feeling good.”
“Ah. Well, if you must go, you must go.” He shrugs, as if to saywhat will be, will be.
Outside, then, Logan’s hand in mine. Evening has fallen. Golden light has faded to dusk, gold melting into shadows. Themagic hour has gone, and the spell seems to have snapped. I don’t know why or how. But I walk, and feel ill at ease.
Instead of beauty, now I see the underbelly. The trash on the streets, the smell of Dumpsters, diesel fumes, a man’s angry shouts from an open window. A curse. Glass crunching underfoot. Graffiti on the walls, ugliness marring crumbling brick.
I feel a bit dizzy from the wine, thick-headed. A headache prods at the interior of my skull.
The walk back feels like it will be endless, and my feet hurt.
When was it I woke from the bath?
How long has passed? An eternity, it feels.
Was that really all just today?
The length of the day is crashing down on me, the pressure of all I’ve experienced weighing heavily. Heavy food, heavy wine. Logan’s mouth on mine, his body against me, his kiss. Wanting him, yet feeling as if... as if I shouldn’t have him. As if to be with him would be... wrong, somehow. I can’t make sense of it. To try is dizzying.
I want my own bed, my library. I want to readMansfield Parkand sip Earl Grey. I want to watch night fall from my window.
But I can’t. I left that behind. I walked away from it.
Was that a mistake? It felt right at the time. But now? I’m not so sure. Who is Logan? A warrior. A man who has been to prison. A man who has been to war.
A man who risked much to do what he felt was freeing me.
But can he understand me, understand my situation?
“X?” Logan’s voice again, concerned. “Are you okay?”
I try to nod. “It’s been a long day. I’m very tired.” So much left unsaid.
“Let’s get you home, huh?” His arm around my waist.
Home? Where is home? What is home?
“I can’t walk anymore, Logan. I just can’t.”
I feel him look at me. “Shit. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot today, haven’t you? What was I thinking?” He lifts a hand, and like magic, a yellow taxi appears and swerves over to us.
Logan helps me in, slides after me, gives his address. The ride is short.
He pays the taxi driver. We are stopped, rows of brownstones on either side. Darkness like a blanket, pierced by lamplight. Logan’s arm around my waist, helping me walk the few feet from where the taxi let us out to Logan’s front door.
Will I sleep with Logan? In his bed? On a couch? A spare room?
So much of me wants to go home. This feels like an adventure, like something from a story, and I just want to return to real life. But it’s not life, it’s not a story, it’s not a fairy tale.
What is it?
