Chapter 2

“A memory is what is left when something
happens that does not completely unhappen.”
- Edward de Bono (b. 1933)
British author

Baltimore, three years ago:

It had been a long week, and I was looking forward to having a few drinks after work at the local watering hole, a favorite place for the employees of DynaTech, the company I programmed for. I entered O’Mally’s Pub and took a stool at the bar, Sam the bartender sliding a glass of tap beer in front of me without asking. He didn’t look for money and I didn’t offer. We would settle before I left, and I trusted him to keep an honest count of the beer I consumed.

Three silent beers later, I heard the jangle of the door and looked into the mirror to see Celeste entering the bar. She had a morose, forlorn expression on her face, and spotting me, made her way over and joined me, taking the stool to my left.

“Scotch, rocks,” she told Sam, and he vanished to grant her request. We sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, and then she started talking. Her boyfriend had broken up with her not minutes before, telling her that she was a controlling, evil bitch, and that he never wanted to see her again. Publicly, I agreed with Celeste, that he was a bastard and a jerk, and that it was his loss. Privately, I admired his backbone. Anyone who had gotten to know Celeste as well as I had knew how hard it was go get the woman out of your head.

Celeste was a brunette, hair so dark black that it was almost blue. She wore it short, just below her shoulder blades. It cascaded down and looked soft and sweet to the touch. I didn’t know; I’d never touched Celeste in my life. Not even a friendly hug or a New Years’ kiss. Well, to be completely accurate, the one time I had touched her was was still fresh in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to forget. Standing beside her at her desk, trying to show her how to work a new program I’d written, I leaned over and put my hand on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen, and slightly pull away, as though the feel of my skin against her repulsed and disgusted her. I quickly pulled my hand back and tried to hide the flush of shame and self-hate that filled my face. I never tried to touch her again.

Back at the bar, Celeste and I got stinking drunk over the next four hours. Beers and shots and slammers, empty glasses accumulating on the bartop. Money ran out before desire to consume more did, and I helped her to my car, taking her keys with me. I didn’t want her driving, even though I was in no condition to drive myself. With typical male macho thinking, I was sure that I was able to drive better drunk than she was.

They say that the Gods protect babies, fools, drunks, and ships named “Enterprise,” and I qualified on three of four counts. We made it the two miles to her house with little trouble and, thankfully, no cops. I got her upstairs to her apartment and unlocked the door. I turned to leave, and felt her hand closed around my arm.

“Where you goin’?” she slurred, smiling at me with a grin I’d never seen on her face before. “Why don’t you come in and stay awhile?” I’d been over her apartment a dozen times, mostly to install things or fix stuff ... I’d never been just ‘invited’ over, so this was promising to be a new experience. Truth be told, there were alarm bells going off inside my head about this, and I knew were it was leading. I also knew what the eventual result was going to be, but I went along anyway. I’d had enough of long lonely nights spent talking to a pillow instead of a warm body, of greeting the mornings with no one to kiss hello, of just being alone all the damn time. The secret promise in Celeste’s eyes was all I needed to allow myself to be dragged into her apartment ... into her web.