I take a deep inhale to calm myself and clear my mind, but Sam interprets this as an indicator of pleasure and grabs a fistful of my hair.
“Stop.”
“What?” he asks.
The old me would have just gone with it, done whatever he wanted. Endured, hoped for enjoyment or, if that didn’t come, for it to end quickly.
I wonder how much of a woman’s life is spent this way. Enduring. Waiting for enjoyment or, fuck it, death.
“Stop,” I say. He lets go of my hair, not quite understanding my demand. I pull my arms out from under him and push him back. “Stop. I don’t want this. It’s not what I want.”
He gets off of me. His hair is messy, his eyes stark. It’s an alarmingly similar feeling to that of staring directly into the sunken eyes of a ghost.
Sophie was right. It’s too late now.
I know what it’s like not to have to endure. I know what it’s like to manifest things through sheer force of will. I’ve smashed teacups, broken glass, forced bones into someone’s mouth. I’ve made these things happen with my mind. Manipulated the physical world with my thoughts, with my desires.
There’s no going back to Sam. To sitting at the kitchen table in the morning eating eggs and joking around, all the while wondering what he wants from me, how I can make him happy.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I don’t understand,” he says, literally scratching his head.
I stand up.
There’s something new pulsing through me. Or not new. Awakened. An electricity. A vibrance. There’s glitter in my veins.
“I don’t want this,” I tell him. “I don’t want you anymore.”
The look on his face is so delicious I could eat it. I could eat it in one bite.
“I think you should go,” I say. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I can take a moment to admire myself. I linger in a reciprocal gaze with my reflection.
We’re smiling.
“Tell me the truth,” I say to her.
She does.
You must surrender everything for everything.
“I’m ready now,” I tell her. “I surrender.”
I surrender, she says back.
It’s transcendent. An injection of straight sunshine. Pure fucking gold. It binds bone and sinew. It’s in me; it’s of me. It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me.
* * *
—
I don’t know how much time passes, but when I open the bathroom door, Sam’s no longer on the couch. I don’t see him, but I hear him.
He’s talking to someone.
“Just guy stuff . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Miss you, too. Tomorrow night? Yeah, but make reservations. They’re always crowded. . . . Okay . . . Me, too. Bye.”
“Who was that?” I ask. But I already know.
He’s standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand. Guilty.
“Annie,” he says, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty incredible.”
For the first time in our relationship, I’m in control. And what makes it extra sweet is that he knows it. He’s squirming in the corner.
“Ow,” he says. “What’s happening?”
His legs give out from underneath him, and he falls to the floor.
“You’re still with her, huh?” I say “Shannon.”
“Annie, what’s happening?”
I ease up, and he stops his wriggling.
“You didn’t break up with her before coming to see me, did you? Tell me the truth,” I say, reaching out my hand and pinching the air.
He screams, clutching his kneecap.
I release my fingers.
“No,” he cries. “I’m sorry.”
“Insurance,” I say. “Smart. In case things didn’t work out with us, you wouldn’t end up alone.”
“I wanted you,” he says. “I wanted things to work out between us— Ahhh!”
This, this I’m not doing intentionally.
He’s writhing around on the floor, his limbs twitching madly, his face gravely distorted. There’s blood coming out of his eyes. Not in neat drops, not in tears, but in a steady stream.
“Annie!” he screams. Blood begins to spray from his mouth now, too.
I close my eyes and take deep, unhurried breaths. If I can calm down, maybe I can make it stop. But . . . it’s hard to let go of my animosity at the moment. It’s hard not to torture him when it’s so easy. When I can.