Delilah

Things started out slowly. First, it was coffee once, then it became one a week. We’d talk about simple things, work, movies, books. But occasionally the topic drifted to a more darker side of her life. Charlie. She never shed a tear, just stared into her cup. I never could figure out how she was so good at reading people, because it was clear to me that Charlie was just using her.

Eventually, she couldn’t do our morning coffee breaks together, and suggested a bar for drinks a night instead. I obliged, meeting her every night. She was much livelier with a few drinks in her, telling jokes and flashing flirtatious smiles at everyone around her.

But some nights were terrible.

She’d be sobbing, saying how she wished that she and Charlie would just get married so he’s spent time with her.

“I want him to be home,” she slurred, “But he’s just never there. He’s never home.”

“Then why don’t you just leave him?” I exasperatedly threw my hands in the air.

She slammed her hand down on the bar and looked at me sternly. “Because, Gerard, I’m in love.” Her eyes held such determination, as if she said it once more it would be true.

“I’m in love.”

“Of course you are,” I sighed, not looking back at her.

She hiccupped and rested her head on her arms. She had a few too many drinks that night.

I led her to the car, and put her in the passenger’s seat after a struggle to get the key away from her.

“I’m perfectly sober,” she stated, tripping over her own feet as she held onto the car for stability.

I drove to her house, listening to the dull roar of the engine, and faintly hearing her mumble, “I’m in love...I’m in love...”

No, you’re not. You’re just a sucker for the one’s who use you.

We finally arrived and I helped her into the house, her arm draped over my neck and my own around her waist.

I laid her down on the couch. There was a television on upstairs.

“Gerard, Gerard, could you bring me upstairs?”

Her head was turned away from me, but her hand still grasped my arm. I broke out of her touch and sat down on the couch.

“I think Charlie’s upstairs, Delilah. I don’t think it would look very good if I...”

“Oh, fuck him. He’s probably up there, in his room, watching porn or something.”

I stared at her body. It was so thin, so white. She looked like porcelain in the darkness.

“Please, Gerard?” Her eyes were so sad. They melted my heart the instant she laid them on me. How could I refuse?

I carried her up, her body warm and light. It turned out Charlie wasn’t in bed, but in the bathroom. I placed her down gently, sliding my hands out from underneath her. But as I was returning to my standing position, her hand caught my neck and brought my face close to hers. I could smell the gin strongly on her breath, and for a moment tasted it on her lips as she kissed me.

“Goodnight, Gerard,” she whispered, turning away from me in the bed.

I quickly left the house, driving away even fast. It wasn’t until I had reached my apartment that I realized she had left her jacket in my car. As I picked it up, a notebook fell out of the pocket. Her old poem book.

I thumbed through it that night, rereading the familiar, old poems, and some more recent ones. They were about Charlie. And how she loved him.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a more impossible girl.