It Would Have Been Easier if He’d Handed Me a Drink
The distance between what we need and what we ask for can be as narrow as the distance between one breath and the next.
In my 20s and 30s, aside from alcohol, my drug of choice was sex. Secret, illicit, sometimes on the edge of dangerous, always on the outside of my marriage.
I’ve been sober for six years, in therapy for 15, and my life is now very calm. I love my new marriage. I don’t ever feel like taking a drink. Okay, that’s not true. After a long day, or bad news, I sometimes want the warm relief of a whiskey neat sliding down my throat. But I know that particular relief isn’t relief at all, just a rending of the gossamer filament between here and where I used to be.
Part of the way I stay sober is by swimming in our community pool nearly every day from May to December. There are other regulars, older than me, who use the pool for exercise. We wave sometimes, but we do not talk.
Late in October, a stranger showed up. A man, maybe 35 to my 50. He stood out. First, because he was young and lacked small children, but also because of his bleach-blonde hair and the collection of tattoos, all silhouettes, on his tan body. But he stood out most of all because he broke the rules. After three or four afternoons at the pool, he said hello. Called out to me from across the water. Told me his name was John, asked me for mine.
Then he came over, stopped inches away from my chair. “Hi,” he said and smiled down at me. I held my hand up to block the sun so I could see him. His skin was wet and smooth. “Hi,” I replied.
I listened to him talk, looked at his tattoos. One was a heart, all black, on his ribcage. I wanted to ask him questions about that tattoo. He asked me questions about Austin and I told him how this summer hadn’t been that hot and how, when the creeks are full, I hike to them and swim every day.
I do all of this swimming alone. My husband is calm, patient, funny, silly. He also would rather be indoors than out. Over the course of our seven-year marriage, I can count on two hands the number of times he’s said yes to my invitations to go on a hike or a walk or a swim with me. I have never seen him run. He does not practice yoga. My days start with writing and yoga, running and swimming. I had come to believe I didn’t mind him saying no to my invitations. I had come to believe I didn’t need him to want to come with me.
Later that same day at the pool, I walked over to the deep end and stood in front of John’s chair, poised to dive. As I perched at the edge, he asked me if there was a shower. Half asleep, I said, “Yes. It’s at the other end, behind the bathrooms. It has hot water. You should go get it warm for me.”
I did not mean anything by this. I rinsed after every swim. The October pool water was chilly, and the shower takes a full minute to warm up. In my head, by the time I was done swimming, he’d have taken his rinse and come back to his chair.
He got up. I swam. He was still in the shower. I swam more. He was still not back. I got out. The sun had set, I was cold, I couldn’t go take a shower. It was too awkward to wait any longer. There was nothing to do but leave.
I went home and told my husband. We laughed. We planned how I would make it clear that I was married and not interested in hot showers with strangers.
The next time I saw John, he took it well, the news I was married, the mistaken shower invitation. He made a joke of it. We chatted across a grouping of chairs and on my way back from rinsing off alone, I stopped to sit in front of him. We talked more. I did not ask about the heart tattoo. I asked instead about the huge numbers 11:11, as I noticed the slight line of stubble that ran from his neck down his flat stomach and into his black swim trunks. I thought he might tell me about himself, but all he said was he was young and it meant something to him then.
I shivered and he asked if I wanted to come sit in the sun with him. I said, “No, at my age, I try to stay out of the sun.” He motioned with his hand, a tour up and down my body, and said, “I don’t know how old you are, but you look really good.”
It would have been easier if he’d handed me a drink. I knew how to say no to that. I did not, however, have any practice being sober and 50 with a clear offer from a beautiful young man to cheat.
I went home and googled him after my husband went to sleep. I listened to his self-released music on YouTube and pictured him waiting for me in the shower. I imagined what he thought we might do there together.
The pool closed for the season and I no longer saw John. We did not exchange numbers, but I knew where he lived, had seen him coming home one afternoon from a recording session. Had stopped, surprised, and said hello.
The creeks though, were newly full of water and I’d gone swimming alone for several days. I thought about leaving John a note, or knocking on his door. This wouldn’t mean anything I told myself, this isn’t anything at all. But I did not tell my husband.
Then one evening, chilled from a long swim, I decided I would do it. I would leave a note, casual, on his porch and invite him to swim with me. I told myself it would be different this time. I didn’t really want anything to happen, I just wanted the possibility. And I thought, I can stop there. I can stop everything there.
It was just a note. And as I sat there, on a street not my own, close to his house, I pictured how it would go. What I would say when he texted me, how I would pick him up and drive with him sitting close. How we would hike down the trail and I would show him how I perch on the rock and slide myself into the water.
And then I imagined how I would feel, waiting to see if he would text or call, how I would have to hide this from my husband. How I would feel that exquisite mixture of shame and furtive excitement skating through my veins, ratcheting up my heartbeat, making me feel edgy and extraordinary.
But then, just as I’d decided to do it, gotten the pen and paper out, I felt a flicker. I thought about how I would feel, sober, with a stranger in my car. How I would feel taking someone to a place I considered sacred, the place I take myself when the world is too much, the place I’d taken a friend when her father died and we sat on my rock and I held her while she cried. What did I think would come of inviting the unknown into a space so holy?
The darkness of self-destruction loves for us to play alone, or with strangers who don’t know our story. But I have come to know the comfort of being a dozen shards on the floor that are lovingly glued back together, I have come to know the contentment of being soft and open with another. I have come to know the deep belonging of choosing a path that nurtures the self I was before trauma, before numbing, before shame.
I put the paper and pen away. I took a deep breath, drove home and told my husband what I’d almost done.
And then I said to him, “I’m lonely. Even though you’re here all the time, you’re not with me when I play. I’m worn out from so much asking and so little accepting.” I told him I didn’t need or want a yes every time, just the occasional desire to be with me while I did something I loved. We talked more and cried a little and went to sleep tired, our hearts worn out from the truth.
But then, the next morning, instead of walking a tightrope across a canyon to reach each other, he grabbed my hand and landed me safely home, saying, as I got ready to swim, “Let’s go.”
And in that moment, I remembered the distance between what we need and what we ask for can be as narrow as the distance between one breath and the next.
How about you?
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Such a captivating, beautiful, powerful story, Jocelyn. Thank you so much for sharing!
This is such a powerful story. The absolute greatest gift that sobriety has given me is forethought. I no longer have to rely on hindsight. I actually think about my actions before I take them. This story really hit home for me. Thank you and good luck to you.