sabotage

Friday night, I go to happy hour with several coworkers, including Teacher. Though it has been months since I last saw him, there is an unstated sexual tension between us. After a round of drinks at a nearby chain restaurant/bar, we head downtown to a Tibetan restaurant—Teacher, one of his friends, R, and me.

After dinner, we go to a club near Teacher’s apartment It is a long, narrow bar (aren’t they all, in this city?), where all types of people are moving to loud Latin music, with an occasional hip-hop beat thrown in. Chubby African-American men with cab driver hats, slick Rastafarians with dreads, Bridge and Tunnel girls wearing tight tank tops, and us.

R, a loud, funny, thirty-something, balding Indian man, says that he loves to go dancing, and I tell him that we should go together sometime. “Ok,” he says, “but I’m crazy on the dance floor.” He says this while gyrating wildly off-beat.

As the night goes on, I flirt more with Teacher. I don't think I will hear from Clerk for a while, and I feel slightly neglected. I feel slightly vengeful and spiteful. I keep thinking, Well, I don’t know what he’s doing tonight, and it’s not like we talked...

Teacher’s friends leave us. Have fun, they say, we have to meet some people at another bar. It is clear that they want to leave us alone. We dance some more, and move closer. The heat in the club is thick. I tell myself, Just one kiss. We are facing each other, and my face is pressed against his neck. I tell myself, Anyway, if things go anywhere with Clerk, I’ll never get to do this.

I kiss him.

Treacherous, angry, vengeful.

For the first time, I very clearly think, real time, about how and whether I will write this story. I am confused when I don’t think it’s funny.

Teacher keeps suggesting that we go to his place, and I make excuses. One more song, I say. One more drink. Eventually, he says, I’m leaving. Startled and slightly annoyed at his tactic, I agree, Oh, ok, I guess I’ll come with you.

I tell myself I will leave him at his door.

I don’t.

Instead, I follow him through his building’s brightly lit foyer, where easy listening music is piped in over the mailboxes. We take the elevator up. It is not romantic. I feel slightly guilty and somewhat irritated.

We walk in. I put down my bag, careful to note where I leave it.

I follow him into the bedroom, and he closes the door. He is funny, and slightly awkward. At one point, he can't stop giggling, and I become angry, asking, What?

I'm just the kind of person who likes to laugh a lot, he says.

Afterwards, he falls asleep. At 5:30, I wake up, sweating and suffocating. I am disgusted. I try desperately to find my clothing. I look outside and see empty taxis driving by.

Teacher wakes up.

I’m sorry, I whisper, I have to go.

What? He asks, confused. Where are you going?

Home, I say, I’m sorry.

You won’t be able to find a cab.

Sure I will, I say.

I kiss him on the forehead. He is a sweet, kind boy—just not the right one.

On the way I out, the easy listening music is still playing loudly. I wonder, Why did I do this? And the only thing I can think of is, I wanted to do it first.