*

Sex ties you to someone in a way language hasn't invented a word for yet. One time and the bond is there, two times and you're searching a myriad of inadequate words for one that will define the connection between you. Three times and you're 'having sex' and maybe that means something maybe it doesn't but you're still not at a point where she will cry on your shoulder when she needs to.

I try her place anyway. She doesn't answer the buzzer so I follow a laughing couple inside. I smile my best, "I'm completely harmless" smile and they pay me no more attention than they would if I was one of their nameless neighbours. My apartment building is the same. I blend in here.

I knock. Elliot said she is there - he knows she's there - but she's refusing to talk to him and he thinks it's personal. It probably is, but it doesn't mean I'll be more successful.

Sex ties you to someone so that others can see it in your face. I think Elliot knows and maybe that's why he called. Maybe he sees something between us that we have yet to recognise. Maybe somewhere in Mr Nuclear Family's mind he sees possibilities the more open minded amongst can not. It doesn't make sense. It makes perfect sense.

Three times and you've yet to get to that point where you say, 'so what about us?' Maybe that's a five time/ six time thing or maybe that's just for those who aren't afraid. Maybe relationships are for the bold and the articulate and the rest of us are left to search for words in a useless language. This is what being complicated is like.

I try the door again, calling, "Olivia! Olivia, it's Alex." She still doesn't answer and I notice there's no light coming from underneath the door. I imagine she's sitting in the dark, her eyes on the ceiling. She's not crying, not moving, barely breathing. She's submerging herself, sinking in her guilt and her anger and everything that is hers, hers, hers alone.

I hate her for not needing me, for not needing anyone. I hate her because I need her to cry on my shoulder, her tears soaking through my blouse so that it feels wet where her face was. I want to remember her when I leave, when I step into the night and the cold wind blows against me, seeping between the layers of my clothing.

Sex ties you to someone, makes you need that which you can't name.

She doesn't answer her door and I leave.

End.

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