Love Hurts

Content warning: non con, sexual assault - all not depicted

He comes in every Sunday morning, like clockwork. My Rudy.

To most men, I’m largely forgettable. Brown hair, average height, average…everything. But Rudy finds small ways to make me feel special, like complimenting the silver and blue band I used to tie up my hair last week or appreciating the black button-down shirt I always wear for him by trailing his gaze down my neck to my chest, then back up to my face with a smile.

Rudy is cute but not handsome in a way that makes most women swoon—average height, brown eyes, and a dusting of scruff on his chin. Maybe that’s why I think we would be so perfect together—we’re both a little easy to overlook but haven’t overlooked each other. And every Sunday he waits in line at the coffee shop where I work and places the same order to-go: black coffee, large hazelnut latte, blueberry muffin, and a scone.

She loves scones, he always says, making my cheeks flush and my blood run green with unreasonable jealousy. Who is she—this anonymous woman who never comes in with him? He always makes a point of mentioning her, like he’s proud of bringing her breakfast in bed.

I think about her a lot for a woman I’ve never met. I wonder what she looks like and what she does for a living. I imagine her luxuriating in the covers of the bed they slept in the night before when Rudy returns with her hazelnut latte and scone. I want to ask him where they met, how long they’ve been together, how did he choose her, and…

Why couldn’t it have been me?

I hate to call myself obsessive, but my focus on Rudy has become so complete I’ve started losing things. Time to daydreams, of course, but physical things too, like the black button-down shirt that always catches his attention. This Sunday I’m forced to improvise, throwing together an outfit with sheer tights and a shirt with a plunging neckline that might get me sent home early, but it will be worth it if he gets distracted and stutters through his order.

I wait behind the till for Rudy to stroll in with his easy smile and earthy cologne—Viking Revolution’s Sandalwood, discovered after scouring many cologne counters—but it’s the first Sunday in months that he doesn’t show. Last June he missed two Sundays in a row when he was on vacation. It’s November now, and I wonder if he’s on another trip. Or maybe he’s sick. I expect his girlfriend—Ms. Hazelnut Latte herself—to show up and place his usual order, but she doesn’t. She obviously isn’t taking very good care of him.

He needs someone like me. Someone who smartly took note of his last name that day in August when he paid with a credit card, who then sifted through the other Rudy Nelsons in town by age and proximity to the coffee shop until I narrowed it down to the Rudy Nelson who lives four blocks west in a loft with a blue door.

I’ve respected his privacy because I’m a respectable woman, so I’ve never walked by it, but how can I stay away when Rudy might be sick and need my help?

After my shift, the tension in my stomach builds as I near the address I’ve saved in my phone for this occasion. A few minutes later I’m standing across the street from a blue metal door and the large windows of his second-story loft. I can’t just go up and knock—he’ll think I’m crazy, and I’m definitely not crazy—so I tuck into the shadows of an alcove opposite the blue door, my whole body tingling with anticipation, and watch for any sign of him.

Or her. The recipient of so many hazelnut lattes and scones. Eventually there’s movement; Rudy is walking from one room to the next. Even through the glare on the windows, I recognize his gait. It’s then that I know I’ve tipped into something more than a crush. This is love. A deep, deep love that allows me to know Rudy from any angle in any light at any distance just by the way he moves.

He goes back and forth for a while, and I realize he’s sweeping and mopping. I’m relieved that he isn’t sick. He also appears to be alone. After a few hours, the blue door opens, and I duck deep into the alcove so he doesn’t see me as he carries out a giant black garbage bag. Twenty minutes later, he returns and continues cleaning. As I watch, I wonder if my cat will be a problem for him since I can’t sit on my couch without getting a butt full of fur.

It's dark when I walk the six blocks back to my own apartment, where I put on the white lace nighty that’s been hanging unworn in my closet for a year and imagine laying down in Rudy’s bed, staring up at the exposed pipes on his bedroom ceiling I noticed from the street, while he gently slides the lace off my skin.

I visit Rudy every night that week. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to stop my legs from turning in the direction of his apartment as soon as my shift ends. It’s through this diligent surveillance that I know Rudy spends his nights alone. He eats mostly take-out, watches a few hours of TV in what I assume is his living room, and goes to bed by ten p.m. One evening, he made several trips in opposite directions carrying more giant black garbage bags. Strange, I thought, I until I realized he must be donating clothes or supplies to different neighborhood homeless shelters.

As if I needed any more reasons to love him.

Saturday night my veins are absolutely humming. She will be here tonight—that elusive girlfriend he must have—and tomorrow morning he’ll come in for his usual breakfast order. I’m finally going to see what she looks like, though I’m terrified of how I’ll feel seeing them together now that I’m too invested to watch him with anyone else. I even consider staying home but that really would be crazy now that I’ve come this far.

But, once again, Rudy is alone. I’m relieved but also confused, and I wonder if they’ve broken up and what I should do about that. I walk home after midnight when I’m sure she’s not coming, and I’m greeted by Percy, my fluffy white Persian cat who hasn’t seemed bothered by my absence except when he gets to the bottom of his food bowl.

…A bowl I can’t find—the pink dish with Percy’s name spelled in swirling yellow letters—and I have to pluck a replacement from the cupboard and fill it while the flat-faced beast bellows about the injustice of his growling belly. Then I head back to my bathroom where my hair ties are still scattered across the counter from when I searched for the silver and blue hair tie Rudy likes, which has been missing since Tuesday. My white nighty, inexplicably, is also missing from where I dropped it beside the bed after indulging in a rather elaborate fantasy where Rudy started at my toes and worked his way up my body, eventually pulling the nighty over the top of my head.

I step on hair ties and bobby pins Percy has batted to my bathroom floor and reach for the brush that isn’t on the counter where I left it. In the mirror, I’m a mess. Windblown hair, dark circles under my eyes, and a combination of sweat and oil leaves a glassy sheen on my skin. This is what love looks like, I decide. Love is hard work, and I’m trying my best.

I hear a mew and find Percy licking his chops in the doorway, judging me.

“Never fall in love,” I tell him, and take a shower. Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m going to see Rudy up close for the first time all week.

Except I don’t. Once again, he doesn’t come in for coffee. My heart twists in my chest and my whole shift I feel like I’m going to throw up. Love is making me sick. I can’t stand it anymore. I have to see him in person, even if I have to fabricate a meeting. I feign a headache and leave work early and walk straight to Rudy’s, where I stand in the alcove long enough to be sure he isn’t at home. I’ve made a very stupid and potentially reckless decision on the way over. I don’t just need to see him.

I need to put my lips on the rim of his dirty glasses in the sink, tasting where his mouth has been. I need to pull the discarded clothes from his hamper and breathe in his raw scent. I need to rest my head on the pillow beside his and feel the warmth of his body pressed close to mine. I need to lick the water from the bottom of his tub—

I don’t finish the thought. I just…I just need to feel him.

I know from watching him that the blue door to his loft is never locked. I cross the street and pull it open. Inside is a set of stairs that I climb, and at the top are two doors—one on the left, and Rudy’s on the right. My heart roars in my ears as I turn the knob.

I don’t expect it to open, but it does and for a moment I freeze. Maybe he is at home, and I’ll have absolutely no explanation for walking uninvited into his apartment. I almost turn around and run when I spot something pink among the shoes just inside the door. My heart gives a strange lurch because I haven’t seen Rudy with a girlfriend, but the presence of something pink suggests a woman is still very much in his life.

I walk inside to inspect the object further but am completely overwhelmed by a rush of emotions that make me lightheaded and dizzy, like I just stepped off the Tilt-a-Whirl at the summer fair. I’m in his apartment, seeing it from inside, not out on the street. It smells bright, like a citrus cleaner. The wood floors shine and every surface I can see from the doorway is pristine. Immediately I start planning where my things will go when I move in here with him. There’s an open spot on the wall by the couch for the painting that currently hangs above my bed, plenty of sunlight for the neglected plants turning brown in front of my living room’s lone square window, and I have the perfect red runner for the floor in his hallway.

In his room, my body trembles at the sight of the bed knowing what we will do there, my stomach dipping in wild anticipation when I notice handcuffs around the bars of the head and footboards. I hate to think of who they’ve been used on before, but I’m intrigued by what they represent for me. I look up at the exposed pipes on the ceiling. I’ve imagined being right here, on this bed, looking up at the pipes while my body feels the exquisite pleasure of Rudy’s attention. I want to experience it, even for a moment, so I reach down and fling back the covers on his bed.

And then…time stops. My heart is once again roaring in my ears and my stomach threatens to roll up my throat. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. It can’t…it can’t be.

But it is. I don’t have to check the tag or smell the neckline sprayed with my own perfume to know I’m looking down at my white lace nighty, carefully laid out underneath the blanket and sheet.

I stumble backwards away from the bed and bump into the dresser behind me. Something falls off it, hitting me in the foot.

And I think…

No.

It isn’t.

It can’t be my hairbrush.

But it is.

I feel my pulse racing, my heart banging against my ribcage. I’ve stumbled into something that makes no sense, something I can’t explain, and the only thing I know for sure is that I need to get out of that apartment right now.

I’m hurrying down the hall toward the front door when I stop, my feet planting in the spot that would’ve been perfect for my red floor runner. Rudy is standing inside the front door.

I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. He blinks at me, undoubtedly surprised, then his cheeks turn red, and he clears his throat, and then…

He smiles.

And the smile reminds me of when he would look me up and down in that black, button-down shirt—both sheepish and predatory—and I have to look away. He scratches his head and mutters something about this being awkward, but I’m staring at the cat carrier in his left hand, and the white, fluffy fur inside it. Then my eyes catch on the pink object I had seen in the pile of shoes beside the door. What I assumed was something that belonged to another woman—a misplaced sock or mitten—was actually a small glass bowl with yellow, swirling letters.

I meant to surprise you, Rudy says, still smiling as he sets down the cat carrier. He opens it and Percy cautiously steps out.

I’m staring at my cat in Rudy’s apartment, unable to fully connect these dots, when the man of my dreams walks toward me and holds out his hand. He’s wearing my silver and blue hair tie on his wrist.

I’m shaking from head to toe, caught somewhere between a dream and a nightmare, as Rudy says, It’s about time you come inside, my love.

It’s Sunday morning.

This is my fourth Sunday in my new home, but the aches in my body, the weakness in my legs make it feel like it’s been much longer. Life slows dramatically when you spend all your time in Rudy’s bed.

I don’t have to wonder about the handcuffs anymore, as I wear them most of the time. Rudy promises I’ll get used to them—that it’s good if they cut the skin, not just bruise it, because the scars that grow back will be tougher, even callous so the cuffs won’t rub and burn as much. He’s very attentive, always adjusting the pillows underneath me, teaching me to flex my fingers and toes every twenty minutes so they won’t tingle, alternating the cuffs between my wrists and ankles to keep my muscles from getting too sore. Rudy really is a considerate lover.

Love is hard work, and I’m trying best.

He appreciates my white lace nighty so much I wear it every day. The only time I’m not in his bed is when he brings me to the bathroom to use the toilet, and once a day for a bath that he gives me himself. His touch is gentle as he washes me, softly gliding a cloth over the sores from the handcuffs…and the purple handprints everywhere else. Then he wraps me in a soft towel and brings me back into his room where my body trembles at the sight of his bed knowing what we will do there. My stomach dips as he lays me back down and I focus on the pipes on the ceiling as he resets the handcuffs. I don’t have to wonder anymore what it feels like to be the object of Rudy’s attention.

Reality is so much more vivid than any fantasy.

I still think about the woman that came before me. Probably too much. There’s no trace of her here and it would be like she never existed except for the faint outline of her form that I can feel in the mattress. Or maybe the outline of a body is mine and I’ve been here long enough to make a permanent indent. Sometimes I think about Rudy’s vacation in June when I didn’t see him for two weeks. That was five months ago. When I think about what will be left of me in April, five months from now, my heart twists in my chest and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Love is making me sick.

My body tingles with anticipation as I hear Rudy return from the coffee shop. It’s Sunday morning, after all, and he never misses a Sunday. I try to sit up with both my left wrist and right ankle cuffed to the bed frame so Rudy can feed me breakfast. It’s not my favorite order, but I’m starving so I’ll devour it.

My hazelnut latte and scone.