Addendum 2.3 – "Angela's Ex pt. 2"

February 1985 – Wallace & McQuade, NYC

Angela's stiff chin started to shake in the bathroom mirror. She deepened her breathing, trying to steady the mascara spoolie as she raked another futile layer across her wet lashes. Nothing would stick, and the frustration infuriated her.

She stamped her foot like she was five years old. Why isn't he here yet? It's been hours!

Sniffing, she got a fresh paper towel, and hoped whatever cheap soap came out of the dispenser could tackle the charcoal streaking down her face.

While Angela normally considered herself a fairly level-headed individual, at this point, nothing about her and Michael felt reasonable. Beside the fact that she was starving and still couldn't eat a thing, she and Michael were in a completely different dimension, where anxiety insisted there were no regulation on what terrible things could occur. She imagined him being held at knifepoint, deep under the earth, lavishing his precious life to some wild-eyed psycho who'd never fully understood his own value.

Wet paper towel in hand, Angela dropped her nylon-covered knees onto the cold, tile floor and heaved out huge sobs.


Michael trudged the last step to Angela's building and leaned his full body against the revolving doors. Slowly, the glass panels started to turn, and a hundred some cubic feet of blizzard accompanied him into the suctioned air of his segment. When it opened inside the building, his ice-covered body stumbled forward. He caught himself right before he hit the floor, and with his hands on his knees, pushed himself to almost-standing.

Michael repeated the process at the elevators. Once inside, he held with both hands onto the car's side railings, and faced his closed eyes to the corner, all the way up to Wallace & McQuade.

After an all-day session of winter tech training in the ocean and the emotional depletion of his fight with Paxton on an empty stomach, Michael had trekked the remaining three miles from the Battery in the storm and his legs were shaking severely.

The elevator finally dinged, and Michael shuffled his legs along the side of the elevator, still bracing himself up by the railing, to the now-shutting doors. With great effort, he pushed the button to reopen them, and fell through the hole.

At the ding of the elevator, Angela awoke from where she'd been sitting on top of Sheila's desk, arms crossed underneath her head on the reception counter. With one good sniff, she blinked her eyes open and saw someone or something fall to the ground by the elevator. She was a little scared, but figured probability was on her side, and ran over to find Michael face down on the carpet.

"Michael!" she yelled in horror and dropped down beside him. "Baby!" she shook his shoulders. "Baby, are you okay!?"

A faint groan came out of him as she turned him over. White frost covered every hair, from the yarns on his hat, to his lashes, to the stubble on his chin. She gasped and lifted his head to cradle it in her lap. "Oh, baby," she faintly cooed, and lightly trailed her fingers down his weathered face.

Angela hugged his head, practically smothering him. "I was so worried," she sobbed.

He can't stay like this.

Collecting herself, she sat up and sniffed again. "Sweetie, we've got to get you out of this wet coat," she said, pulling off his beanie.

As Angela unbuttoned the front of what seemed to her to be practically a carcass, she cried again. She was relieved her husband was alive. She didn't know how close to death he was. And she still felt guilty for wanting to be with Grant.

But she pushed herself to her feet and then pulled Michael's arms in front of him, leaning back with her body weight, until he was sitting. He was able to hold himself there, and she could hear his breaths become more pronounced.

Smiling in growing relief, she scurried around behind his back and gave that "bouncer" strategy another try. She lifted under his arms with all her might, and after a few stumbling attempts, Michael made it upright.

Angela looked into his now barely-open eyes as she tried to slowly lead him to Sheila's desk. There was a calculation to his vacancy that didn't make sense to her, but she continued to guide him, all the same. He can't be in his right mind, in his state.

She made sure Michael was holding onto the counter as she peeled the coat off his arms. His fisherman sweater beneath it was dry, but cold to the touch. She yanked his button-up shirt and t-shirt from his pants and felt his torso. It was warm and sweaty.

Exhaling in relief, Angela smiled encouragingly at him and stood at his side. Leaving his coat on the floor, she cinched her arm tightly around his waist and draped his arm across her shoulder. With slow steps, she walked him back to her office.

It all felt like déjà vu. The night of La Torre mocked her like it had been a junior-level omen she hadn't heeded. While Michael was physically in far better shape this time, their battered marriage was now a flesh-dripping, mutant zombie of a thing. They were in so deep, reality was, indeed, another dimension than had been 1982.

How did things get so bad?

Funny...

She thought back to the moment he'd scratched, 'Michael loves Angela' furiously across their kitchen drywall and remembered wondering the same thing.

NOT funny - I don't listen.

Why don't I?

Grant's serious voice took up unapologetic space in her guilty consciousness. 'Remember to read the data without an agenda.'

She turned her tortured face toward Michael's hanging head, his bangs falling as icicles against his forehead.

I don't want to let him go!

Pulling him even closer to herself, she got them through the doorframe of her office and helped him to her chair. "There you go," she breathed.

Michael looked up at her, with a clearer version of the same expression. It's slowly-increasing intensity stopped just short of a glare, but quickly made her heart beat faster, just the same.

Not knowing how to fix whatever was going on inside his head, she focused on the outside. Getting up, she hurried to her coat rack and brought back her wool overcoat, cashmere scarf, and leather gloves, unsure if any of it could help.

"Can we get those sweaty shirts off, baby?" she said, dumping the clothes on her desk.

Michael didn't say anything but watched her intently as she reached for the hem of his sweater. He held that strange stare for many seconds. Then he blinked and lifted his right arm. Nervously, she scootched the sweater up his chest, and he pulled his arm into the body hole.

Grant's voice slid between them, 'Watch what's happening'.

I'm scared. I don't exactly know why, but I am.

Grateful for the awareness, Angela felt herself distancing from the panic by a couple feet. She felt like she did after they'd left Chesterton's, when she'd felt free to hold Michael's hand and not hang on his arm anymore. She smiled, despite the intrusion being Grant's.

I'm okay. Whatever happens, I'm okay.

Michael kept watching as her calming spirit continued to undress his top half. She slid the dry sweater back over his shivering bare chest and grabbed her scarf from her desk. Using it as a towel, she gently ruffled his hair, and then wrapped it like a turban, pinning his bangs back from his face.

Angela smiled at him again as she sat across his cold lap, her legs dangling off his left side. Looking into his eyes, she slowly pulled his unhurried arms around her. She put a palm to his cheek and whispered, "Hold onto me, okay? We need to get you warm."

She leaned far back and snagged her coat from the desk. Draping it over their huddle, she tried to keep it from falling while she clasped her forearms behind his neck.

Angela leaned into Michael, holding snugly for many minutes. His stare hadn't changed since they got to her office, but she finally felt his breathing settle and his arms tighten. She smiled again and tried to scootch closer.

They both closed their eyes, and she rested her forehead against his. They held each other for a long time under her makeshift, Versace tent, and Angela's gratitude slowly took the spotlight as she felt his arms loosen around her.

He's okay, she smiled.

I'm okay, she breathed.

We're okay.

Silence.

Angela's internal lie detector made her open her eyes.

No. We're not. I don't think I'd be longing for Grant or- …Tony? Her grieving eyes opened, and she stared off into space.

It's strange, but whatever that was, it was certainly something. Hearing his voice on the machine – it was like he wasn't calling from down the block, but from another world, where I was someone else...

Pressure built in Angela's head. I feel guilty as sin, but would I be longing for a gentle word from another man, if we were okay? Would Michael be angry all the time, if we were okay?

Maybe "okay" is too ambitious, at this point. Maybe that's asking too much of ourselves.

Angela watched her husband's relaxed face and had so much sadness mixed with her relief. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not but couldn't help herself from kissing his cheek. His pokey face made her smile. Whether they were okay or not, she was glad he was safe. There was still no getting around the fact that she loved him.

Michael's lashes fluttered open, and for a long time, he stared his weary eyes into hers. Her genuine smile remained mere inches from his face. He kept his grip around her waist with one hand but brought the other up to her face.

Breaking eye contact, he took his time, gently thumbing the huge mascara splotches that now looked like gray watercolor stains among her forehead, eye, and cheek bones.

Angela's contented breathing started to scrape against her throat. She felt like she was losing her footing and needed to follow him closely. She wanted to take care of him. Part of her felt like she owed him that; most of her wanted to give him that. And the way he was waking up, she wanted to be taken care of.

This hurts. She didn't know why, but she knew it was true.

Why can't we just decide we love each other and have that be fine? It can if we want it to. Can't it?

She made a rough swallow, and Michael's eyes went back to hers. The edge was gone, but the insistency of his stare returned.

He looks sad and… something.

Angela's brows dipped up and she cocked her head a little, but she didn't drop her arms from around his neck. Michael's gaze flickered to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Oh, yes, please.

She slowly closed the meager inches between them, placing a gentle kiss on his cracked lips. His return kiss existed but it felt lagged and minimal.

Angela opened her eyes and saw an undeniable sheen over his. I know he's exhausted, but why is he so upset? Pinching her brows, she kissed him just as gently as she had the first time, nudging him like a puppy.

Michael kept hold of her waist but used his other hand to pull the scarf off his head. She made a small sound of protest but stopped when he closed his eyes and advanced a kiss of his own.

He started slow but deepened it. Then he winced.

She pulled back in surprise, "Are you okay, baby?"

He put a finger up to his tongue and dabbed it.

"Oh, did I hurt you? I'm sorry," she said sweetly.

He was looking at her weirdly again, and she still didn't know what it meant.

She decided on a hesitant smile and whispered, "I'll be careful."

His enigmatic look started to regain its intensity, but he still didn't say anything. The frost was melting off his hairline, eyebrows, and lashes, but didn't hide the tears that were now coming from his eyes. She welcomed the return of his gentleness, but - What the hell is going on?

'Watch what's happening,' she heard again.

I have no idea what's happening!

Angela started to worry Michael really wasn't okay.

"Michael?" she scooted forward so she was fully on his left thigh and tossed her falling coat back onto her desk. Twisting, she put her hands lightly on his shoulders. "Baby, let's get you home."

Michael slowly shook his head. "No," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I want to stay here." His voice was small but determined.

"In my office?"

He nodded, and her face scrunched.

"Why?" she asked.

Michael secured his hands separately to her leg and hip. He opened his eyes directly at her, but his strained voice broke, "I want to love you here."

Angela tilted her head at him and lightly rubbed his shoulders, "Baby, it's not nice here." She squinted her eyes and shook her head. "There isn't a bed. You're exhausted. You're frozen solid. Let's go home," she reasoned.

Both the water and the tears continued to trickle down his harshly enervated face. "I'm fine. I want to stay here!" he shook.

Angela was so confused. He didn't seem angry, exactly, but his anguish was desperate.

"Michael, what's going on?" she asked timidly, her breathing starting to shallow.

Michael dropped his face briefly, and then lifted it, bringing a forearm up to wipe his face. "I want to love you here," he repeated. "I want you to love me here."

Her eyes stayed squinted. Is this some sort of territorial thing?

"Why won't you do this?" his voice was starting to steady.

Angela stammered, "I- I didn't say I wou-" With a nervous smile, she inhaled sharply, "Why is it so important that we do that here?"

"Why is it so important that we don't?"

Angela let out a quick laugh at the ridiculousness of the conversation. "It's not. It's just... I don't understand."

Michael's eyes flickered away, then back to hers. "Angela, do you love me?"

After everything we've been through? Are you kidding me? Her hand went out in question, and she briefly shook her head, "What? Of course, I love you. How is that not clear?"

She halted. Okay, that seems familiar. She started to feel exposed. She supposed, despite the obvious evidence against herself, that territorially speaking, she had marked this place with Grant. Even though Michael didn't have the details, she knew he thought she and Grant had gone further than they had here. And while Michael was mostly mistaken, she felt a stink as recent as this evening all over her. Guilt started to pull.

Michael's face was impossibly tight.

She tried to breathe more fluidly. "Michael, I'm not opposing you. If this is what you want, I'll do it. But after all you've been through…" she let out a confused scoff and tried to keep it kind, "don't you just want to go home and sleep?" Her eyes pleaded for him and for her.

He looked her dead in the eye and answered, "No. I want you to love me here." His voice strained roughly, "I need you to."

Angela's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What is going on with him?

"Please?" Michael's voice lost its strength as he put his effort into rubbing her legs. She remembered being at the jazz club with Grant and started to panic. She felt herself sinking in confusion. She missed Grant, and not just her time with him last fall.

Angela started to feel slow tears on her own face. She was so mad at herself, and she didn't know if she shouldn't be. Timelines and logic jumbled in her head as she watched her own desperation grow on her husband's face.

Wiping her tears, she dipped her eyebrows up and kissed away the guilt as fast as she could.

She was not careful.


The snow was still roaring as Angela and Michael ran from her building to the cab. In the pre-morning hours, they hadn't had to wait long for it to arrive.

Michael opened the door for her. "Let's get out of this place," he said disgustedly and got in after she did.

Angela closed her eyes in pain. She knew he didn't like her working. I don't have to be hurt. It's not like that's news, or has anything to do with us having sex.

Turning her head, she put her arm tightly around his middle. Her head rested on his chest, and he kept a solid hold on her.

Angela brought her mind back to the cab, the first night they met. She called up the cab ride from the night she had Jonathan. Those were good times. She wanted to stay there.

But curiosity itched at her. She opened her eyes for a just a second and looked up at Michael. He'd put his head back over the top of the seat and pinched his own eyes shut. His whole face was tight, and his brows were scrunched.

Me, too, baby.

Me, too.

She felt awful that they both weren't okay, even after sex. That's what they did to be okay, and it wasn't working. Snuggling back into his chest, she closed her eyes as tightly as he.

Angela knew this wasn't the same as those other cab rides. It wasn't the same as that other life. She still wanted it to be - not because life was all that good then, but because she remembered having hope that it could be.

A long time ago… when we bought the house…

She started to feel very sleepy. Piercing beams of light irregularly shot through the dark sky into the cab as they headed out of the city.

Ugh! I'm holding this fantasy up on willpower alone.

And then she thought of handing Grant a fork, and insisted on her own unconsciousness.