Donna's Return

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

“Matt - hey, Matt. I’m not mad anymore. Are you mad, Matt?” I steal a quick look around. Nothing had changed, nothing had moved. Furniture in the same place, same newspaper, same headlines - the Pope, Arafat, summer blockbusters. Same bottles on the bar.

“Donna! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, Matt. Wanted to see how you’re doin’.” A true statement, in a way.

“You need a place to crash, huh?”

Too late for that. Crashing is something I did a long, long time ago. Before Matt, even, I decided somewhere. Somewhere in the middle of a long rocky slide, Matt had been a relatively smooth spot.

“Well, you know, I got some friends….” An obvious, blatant, lie. Four miles here from the boulevard, I had to walk - in sandals. I’m not going to fool anybody. He doesn’t call me on it. I’ll be sleeping here, inside or out. No way could I go any farther tonight.

So, you doing’ alright? - Yeah, yeah, pretty good, you know how it is. - Yeah, really something, huh? Some rough times, some good.

Who says what hardly makes a difference. It was him, of course, who says, “You want something to eat?” Not that he has anything. Some olives, a pack of Sno-Balls. I catch him staring at the hole in the leg of my jeans, he can probably see the fresh scab underneath, too.

“We don’t have any Sprite,” he apologizes, “I could maybe mix some lime juice and club soda?” Trying, always trying, that’s Matt.

“It’s all right, Matt.”

“Let’s see, we’ve got Frapaccino, coffee, beer?”

“Not with Sno-Balls, thanks.”

“Tea! I can make you some tea. Herb tea. Here, sit down. You look tired.”

I collapse into a chair, whichever is closest. Matt perches on the edge of the couch, hovering. A familiar feel to the cushions…to the scene…maybe even the mood.

“I need some room, Matt,” I say, and he scoots away, but he gets what I mean. “I can’t just, you know, walk in here and go back to the way things were.”

“No,” he concedes.

“We need a certain distance. And time,” I say, quoting something, somewhere.

“Yes, yes, you’re totally right. Time. And distance. Adjustment.”

“Some, I mean. A little,” I try to explain. I am so tired. Too tired to argue, but even more tired of accepting - of just taking it.

“And no spanking.”

“Oh. Yes, okay,” he says, looking embarrassed.

“I mean, not until I’m ready,” I try to reassure him, but then I cry out, “and none of your self-improvement bullshit.”

“No. No, none of that.” Now he looks positively ashamed, it embarrasses me. It hadn’t been him, or me - it had just been us. I had stopped wanting what I had wanted, then I stopped wanting what I had. Getting better was too much for me, I had just wanted to get by. Then, somewhere, I had even stopped doing that.

“You can sleep in the spare room, if you want,” he says simply, and it hits me like a fist between the eyes. I don’t know, I hadn’t even thought. Everything had seemed so much the same.

“Oh. Yeah. No problem. You got a girlfriend, Matt?” This is what I do, lead with my chin, land on my ass.

“Um, no,” he allows, and I feel a dizzy wave of relief. “No, I mean, I just thought you’d want some space. You know. You can sleep in our room if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Matt. I’d like that.”

“Yeah. Me too,” he admits. I shift, starting to rise. He stands up. Raised right, was Matt. He opens his arms to me.

“I’m a mess, Matt,” I tell him, hoping he can’t tell how true it is. “I need a bath.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He tosses his head back, just like I’ve seen him do a million times, pointing the way to the upstairs bath. He drifts toward the base of the stairs. His arms are still open.

He lets me squeeze him, though he only touches me lightly. Gently, tentatively. Then he moves aside and lets me head upstairs.

I grab his shampoo and get a quick shower to wash my hair before my bath. I’ve got three bath beads I bought this morning and I use them. I run the water too hot - on purpose - and just lay there, letting it cool slowly around me. I can hear the TV downstairs as it skims through the channels. When I wake up I feel a lot better and the water is still warm. His soap is harsh but it feels good and does the job I need it to.

I get out dripping and steal his razor to shave my legs and underarms, the way he likes me - clean and classy. I think of what else he likes and the razor drifts upward, hovering, cleaning me up around the edges down below.

My clothes I wrap in a ball and jam under the bed where we won’t have to look at them. I snoop in his closet - not much is new - looking, I suppose, for the robe he bought me. But it was stolen a while back with some of my other stuff at a Denny’s on I-5. His robe is too thick, too heavy. His tee-shirts are too big and his undershirts too small. Nothing in my life ever fits anymore.

I comb my hair straight, sleek and shiny. Clean. I check myself in one mirror after another, everywhere. A dress shirt lays crumpled in the corner, waiting for me. I slip it on, it smells familiar.

Downstairs, my host rises to his feet, poised to provide whatever I want or need.

“Matt?” I ask him, “I’m ready.”