When we get to my place she parks in the driveway. She walks me up. It takes me a while to open the door. The key sticks a little when I’m drunk. I just leave the door open and go in, kick off my shoes, adjust the thermostat. Ash is standing outside my apartment, in the stairwell, the door wide open. I didn’t want to close it in her face.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“Ash, I want my key back.” I go to her and hold out my hand.
“Can I come in?” Her face is pained; she could cry.
“Come in.” I step to the side. I don’t touch her. If I touch her, bad things could happen.
Ash goes to the kitchen and sets her purse on the counter. She takes everything out, just about, places each item carefully beside the sink.
I’m watching her, standing there.
She’s baring the contents of her purse, stalling, taking as much time as possible with each item. You know her keys are right there on the top. We just got out of the car.
But I can’t rush her. I can’t rush her on this one. I need my key back. I do. But you can’t rush someone on this moment. This is a moment you usually only do a few times..and if you’re doing it right..I think this is a moment you only do once, per person.
“Do you want me to come pick you up in the morning?” She has the keys.
“Ash, I’m sorry. Look—why don’t I just get a cab. Or Chad can take me.”
“Chad doesn’t drive.”
“Why don’t you just let me worry about it, ok?”
She makes a show of trying to get my key off her keyring, then drops the keys on my kitchen floor. She bends and sits, then reaches up and slides the keys on the counter above her.
I go over to grab the keys—which I shouldn’t have done—and I open the clasp with my fingernails. I’m taking her keys off to get to my key—you have to do that on her keyring—and Ashley puts her head on my leg—which I wish she hadn’t done—and I’m feeling her cry through the cloth of my jeans, my knee getting damp.
It’s so hard, when you’re breaking up with someone, to stop sleeping with them. I can’t let her sit there in my kitchen, crying. She needs to be taken care of. She doesn’t need to drive home, then drive back here tomorrow morning. She’s just a little girl—look at her! Her feelings are hurt, and I’m the one who hurt them. And that’s okay. She understands. But right now—look at her—she just needs to be cared for, a little bit. And who better to do that than me? I know her! I love her! We’re familiar with each other.
This line of thinking is flawed, though. Because: where’s she gonna sleep? In the living room? I don’t think so. And where am I gonna sleep? Not in my bed? When I’m drunk and tired? I don’t think so. What are we gonna do, sleep with me on top of the covers?? It just doesn’t work that way, even when there’s a Jules looming on the horizon. I’ve got my key. This can be the last night. But what’s a little fuck? I mean: we know how to do each other so well.