Starry Silky Love (Part 3)

We dance and dance. It feels great to move around like this, with her. I feel like we're the only two people in the room, despite the live band and noisy layer of people surrounding us.

We lock eyes and hold the gaze for a few moments. Colette is all smiles and giddy laughter. She seems to be having fun. I hope she's released her hostility towards me, and that this happy moment isn't falsified by alcohol and good music. For my sake, yes, and for hers. I don't want her to be tortured by my past infidelities. A clean slate may be too much to ask for from Colette, but I'm genuinely choosing to move forward with her and only her . . . she'll see. I'm really ready. She's all I need. I don't know why I ever took that for granted.

I excuse myself to the men's room to pee.

"Ok, I'll be at the bar!" She exclaims.

The restrooms are out in the hallway, and it's amazing how much quieter it is out here. I wonder if Colette is gonna have the energy to go outside and study the sky after this. She seems to have forgotten that plan.

As I come out of the bathroom, the woman from my past in the sexy red dress is standing there, waiting. It seems like she's waiting for me, actually . . . oh Christ.

She looks at me devilishly, exhales smoke from her cigarette and says, "I saw you go in there, and I just wanted to . . . say hello. You're still the most handsome man in the room. The whole damned building, really."

She knows she's going to bed with someone tonight. She's got that twinkle in her eye. But who will it be?

Not me.

"I'm here with my wife." I respond, nervously, "I need to get back in there with her." I start toward the door to the ballroom.

"Well! What's happened to you?" She side steps right in front of me, and we're suddenly so physically close that I can smell her breath: lipstick mixed with alcohol and tobacco. "Being married never stopped you before . . ." I move back.

"It's different this time. With her." I declare coldly. I clear my throat and stand up straighter. "Let me by." My defiance only seems to turn her on more, though.

"We'll see how different it is." She moves in my direction. Pushes me up against the wall. I try and fail to shove her away -- I don't want to hurt a woman, so I don't push very hard . . . and she's all resistance. She forcefully kisses me, lifting up her leg and skirt and pressing herself onto me as she runs her hands down my chest.

It's . . . hot. I'm truly being tested.

I stare down at the red and black hall carpet as I contemplate making love to this woman. Just for a few minutes. It won't take long. I try to justify it for a moment. Then I see Colette in my mind, and sharply remember my newly-formed vow to be faithful to her. I can't . . . I really cannot do this . . . but it's like I'm catatonic . . .

Suddenly, someone opens the door from the ballroom and the party noise fills the strangely quiet hallway.

It's her. Of course. And I'm standing there against the wall with this whorish woman in red kissing me, her hands all over me.

Colette flashes a shocked, horrified expression at first. Anger and tears follow quickly. "Colette!!" I yell. She paces quickly down the hall, then begins to run. I finally force the woman off of me and she falls hard to the floor.

I catch up with Colette and she just keeps pushing me away, screaming. She won't listen to me, and instead hits me in the face with her purse and sprints off.

Again, it's hard to blame her. I stop and look back down at the red and black, triangle-patterned floor as she runs off. I light a cigarette. It's all I can do. I'm a despicable man. I deserve to be beat to death with that little purse of hers.

When I finally man-up and go into our room, she isn't there. "Colette? Colette!" I call desperately.

I look and see that her stuff is all still here. That's a relief. She must be out in the courtyard, finding solace in the stars that belittle humankind's petty problems.

I go out into the warm night and look everywhere for her, but still no Colette. I ask every person I encounter if they've seen her, but they all deny it. I go back to the ballroom. It's still crawling with inebriated, poshly-dressed attendees, but Colette's not there.

I'm really beginning to panic. I light up another cigarette and continue my search. The tobacco combined with the dread makes my heart flutter so fast, it feels as though it's gonna fly away. It's actually symbolic -- she has my heart, and I seem to have lost all trace of her . . .

I head all the way down the hall and into the main lobby. I ask the desk jockey if he's seen a blond, short-haired woman in a gold satin gown. My heart stops when he answers my question: he just saw such a lady scramble outside and drive away in a red Roadster.

She took the keys to our car and took off. She's intoxicated, belligerent, all alone, and I have to find a way to go after her . . .

I ran into a work acquaintance earlier at the ball, named Oliver. Fortunately, I catch a ride with him and his wife, Ella. They're heading back to the city tonight anyway. They leave a little early on my behalf, but I'm determined and unapologetic. I have to get to her. I don't even bother with our things --- I'll just come back tomorrow.

As I get into their car, I gently set a bouquet of red roses in my lap that I bought from the man in the lobby. It was in a vase on the counter and not for sale, but I convinced him that it's an emergency. Ultimately, everything's for sale.

30 minutes pass like nothing. I wish Oliver would drive faster, although he's not driving slowly. I look down at my feet. Then forward into the distance. You can't see much because of the trees, but the city lights up the sky ahead. I can't stop trembling.

I have a terrifying feeling about all this . . . that I'm definitely losing her.

"Oh, dear!" Ella cries all of a sudden. I look up and see flashing lights. And . . . our red Roadster . . . smashed like a tin can against a tree . . .

I explode out of the car before it's even stopped and a police officer attempts to hold me back, but I'm an unstoppable force. I rush up to our wrecked car. I hear sobbing. Then I realize it's me.

She's not in there. Another officer is grabbing me by the shoulders and talking to me. I'm like a stone. Unmovable. And I can't make sense of his words. Finally I engage. "Where is she? Where the hell is she?"

"We just got here sir. We're waiting for medical personnel. They should be here any moment. Are you . . . her husband? Is this . . . was this your car? Look, you'd better come over here with me . . ." He tries to lead me away from the scene toward the police car. I pull away violently.

I move past our destroyed car and see the worst possible thing -- someone lying motionless up the road, about 20 feet from the car. I get a rush of adrenaline and hurry over to the body. Then I crumble.

It's a bloody, lifeless, scraped-up shell that was once my wife. She's almost unrecognizable, other than the cropped blond hair and tattered, silky gold dress. Her face . . . it doesn't look anything like her. It doesn't even look human. But that doesn't keep me from holding her tightly and weeping hysterically into her chest.

She's gone. I was right about losing her, but I didn't know it would be this type-of loss. The most permanent, devastating kind. And it's all my fault. She probably suffered . . . she died in a rage . . . all because of me.

A few days pass. They blur into nothing. I can't get out of bed. I just lay here drinking whiskey and chain smoking, thinking and grieving. The alcohol does nothing to numb the pain. I can't eat, and I can hardly sleep even though I'm laying in bed.

Friends and family call to see if they can come over. If they can make me dinner. I turn them all down. She was the social one, not me. The days of having people over are gone.

Luckily, Colette's family is making the mortuary arrangements and planning the funeral. I gladly give them all the money they need, as long as I don't have to be functional.

Actually, it's impossible to imagine that I'll ever be functional again. Why am I even alive? Colette always maintained that taking one's own life is pathetic, selfish and irresponsible. I'm feeling stuck, between not wanting to be a disappointment to her memory and not wanting to exist. In a limbo that I'll only be released of when I die.

Until then, I can always look at the stars to feel connected to her and be reminded of my pain's impermanence.

The End.