January 1977 – Waldorf Astoria Hotel, NYC
Angela woke to the clanking of silverware on plates. She sat up in bed, and adjusted her focus.
Michael. New Year's.
"Hey, Beautiful."
Angela froze. I didn't- No. No, I didn't…Phew!
"Good morning," she smiled. Angela spun her legs, pinched together, off the side of the bed, and walked over to where he was sitting in a bathrobe at a little, round table with two plates of eggs. He didn't say anything, but just kept watching her walk over to him. She gave a little frown, not understanding. Ahh! Angela swiftly adjusted the outer flap of the robe to better cover herself, but then sat down, acting like nothing had happened. With her chin high and a forced smile on her face, Angela switched gears. "How did you sleep?"
He didn't reply, but kept studying her. After a few seconds, she checked her robe again.
"So, who are you, anyway?" he finally said, squinting a little.
Angela's eyebrows went up. "What do you mean?"
He gave a somewhat nervous chuckle, and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Well…I guess I'm a little confused."
"Anything in particular?" she challenged.
He stopped rubbing his neck, and looked annoyed. "Last night, I was doing the club thing, like a normal guy, when lo and behold, this femme fatale starts climbin' all over me. Then she gets mad, and sleepy, and shy, and sleeps all but naked in my room. Now she's acting like the Queen Mum. Which one is the real you?"
Angela froze, and searched his eyes. …Yeah, I can see how that could be confusing…but how much explanation do I owe him? She sighed. "Like I said last night, I'm not usually like that. Any of it - well, except the Queen Mum thing," she let out a nervous laugh. He didn't smile. She squared up, but spoke quietly. "I told you, I had a bad week. I needed to get away from everything." She slowed, "…From me. It was bad…Last night, the club, it was all this great wonderland I could go to, to forget." She looked down.
His face softened a little, and he tipped his head back a little in understanding. "That is too bad. I had a really good time."
Angela felt totally rejected. She was only accepted if she wasn't herself, and the truth wasn't even something to guess at. He'd spelled it all out for her.
"What if–" she looked up, as he continued. "Let's just play at the hypothetical, here – what if: that was you last night. What if you just needed to take off the crown for a bit?"
"What if I really am a Playboy bunny?"
"Far be it from me to stand in the way of a woman's ambition," he chuckled, with a hand to his chest. She flat-smiled in droll appreciation. "No, really. What if you aren't stuffy? What if," he looked down at her snugly covered chest, "you're a vibrant…wild…" - his gaze moved back up to her face – "sexy woman. What if that's the real you, and you're just tired of putting on a show?"
Angela looked at him with wide eyes of longing. He still thinks I'm sexy – or could be? – If I just let nature take its course. A baffling mix of sadness and hope danced together in her head, but it was tears that birthed on her face.
Michael looked mildly alarmed, and she felt him pull back. Crap! I'm messing this all up! She heard Ben's voice in her head. 'If you need to believe lies, ask yourself why.' Lies. Truth is the antidote to confusion.
Angela wiped her eyes and exhaled. She knew didn't owe him this, but she felt like she needed to get it out, for her. "Like I said, I was acting like I did last night, because I wanted to get away." She sped up, "…Truthfully, I don't know from what. I- I thought I was running from my friend's death - and I felt entitled. But…maybe there's more to it." She rubbed the side of her forehead, and slowed her thoughts. "Maybe I have been holding my breath all this time - and just want to do what I want to do - and all the pressure just forced the easiest outlet." Michael sat with rapt attention, but didn't look like he was really enjoying her confession.
Angela redirected, "Thank you for taking care of me last night." She saw his face relax a little. "It probably wasn't the best idea to take a drunk cab ride alone."
Michael was quick to laugh. "Yeah, I thought you were smart." She looked at him like he'd just shoved her. He retreated. "Sorry… I know you've had a week."
Well, that was…lonely.
Sighing, she looked down at the plate in front of her. "Are these for me?"
"Yeah," Michael said, looking down to fork another bite.
"Thanks," she said, feeling written off.
They ate their eggs quietly, and Angela finished her coffee. She got up. "I'm gonna go get dressed. You mind if I take the shower first?"
Michael only looked up briefly to glance at her, but shook his head. "I already took mine."
Angela walked into the bathroom feeling like a failure. Right before she stepped in the tub, she tried to stuff her hair in the provided shower cap. But without a hair tie, her long hair kept falling out under the pressure of the water. Tears of frustration pushed their way to the front of her eyes, and made way for the memories behind them to fall. She tried to be quiet, but she was pretty sure Michael could've heard some of it. In light of the circumstances, Angela just washed her hair all over again, and got out. She put it in a tight French braid, but when she got to the end, she looked up into the mirror. No hair tie. - 'I thought you were smart,' she replayed. Slapping the counter hard, she swore. Digging a mascara out of her purse, she hoped it would stay on her lashes this time. Angela focused on her breathing. She didn't need to fight against wet mascara, too. She found some toothpaste, and did her best with a wet washcloth. Finally, she zipped up her dress, and stepped out of the bathroom, her hair quickly unwinding as she went.
Michael was staring out the window, holding what looked like alcohol in a cut tumbler.
Angela walked over to him. "Thanks for everything, Michael. What do I owe you for the room?" He looked down, shaking his head.
He looked up at her with serious eyes. "I was just kidding. You don't owe me anything."
She nodded. "Well, thank you." He nodded back.
"You're welcome," he said quietly.
Everything felt tight to Angela. Her dress, the atmosphere… It was maddeningly quiet. She really wanted to breathe.
"Okay, well, I think I'm gonna head out…" she waived her thumb toward the door.
"Angela. Wait. I, um…" he paused a few seconds. "I really am sorry about your friend." Everything about him seemed quiet, still, serious. He understands - but that just made her own pain that much more real. Tears started to swell. Embarrassed, she opened her eyes wider to give them more room, and looked to the side, taking a deep breath. But fat drops fell before she could wrangle them, and she stood there with her hands on her hips, mouth open, looking off to the side, not knowing how to get out of this.
Michael reached up slowly, and thumbed the tears away. She looked up at him nervously, and felt an uncomfortable sadness emanating from him. Suddenly, and entirely without her permission, she experienced a massive connection with this jokey asshole. And as conflicted as she felt, it was effective. This isn't nice. I don't want all this sadness and fragility…But I need it, and he gets it. In a slow, but mutual movement, they stepped in to close a hug. She walked right in to his neck, and looked down, squeezing out another round of silent tears.
He held her tightly as she tried to work through it, with his chin resting on the top of her head. But then he started to breathe faster, and he slowly dipped his face down from the side, nearing her mouth. She looked up at him in sadness and relief?, and put her lips to his. He brought up his hands to her face, and held it gently as he kissed her. Her arms lifted, not really knowing or caring what to do with them next, just reveling in the respite he was offering her. Angela leaned back a little, and pushed her ribcage up into his. She felt Michael's arms slide down her back, and secure her slim waist tight to him. She brought her arms up to hang around his neck, and kissed him as distinctly as she hurt. She tasted her tears that fell into their mouths, and it seemed to spur them both. They were both breathing fast and shallow, gasping for breath.
She felt Michael walk them toward the bed, and the cathartic magnetism intensified. She felt the back of her calf hit the mattress, and Michael leaned them back gently. He wrapped one arm underneath her waist, and used it as a kind of sling to move her to the middle of the bed. She felt so light. So taken care of. Each decisive movement he made ministered to all her broken pieces.
With her hands gripping his shoulders through the robe, she looked up and still saw that deeply concerned expression. Michael stopped and breathed a few times while he stared down at her, then he gently lowered the weight of his body on top of her. It was an instant and peculiar satisfaction to her loneliness. She ran her hands up under his arms to hold onto his back. She looked hopefully up into his warm brown eyes, and didn't see jokey. She didn't see game. She didn't see him being an ass at all. Michael tilted his head to carefully kiss her mouth. He actually cares. Another tear slid off the side of her face, and he quickly deepened the kiss. Normally, if she were in this frayed of a state, she'd want to run away and be alone. But Angela felt inescapably diverted, and arching her back underneath him, she kissed him back like she was fighting for her life.
