I was touched. Now was the perfect time for me to kiss him. But that was the problem. It was too perfect; so perfect that it would have been silly.
Dong went the clock, slowly. It was the first stroke of midnight, making the moment even more perfectly silly for kissing. Therefore, to create a little diversion, I asked, “At what time is the last train?”
Dong; the second slow stroke.
“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you? I was hoping you could stay.”
Dong.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, trying to appear thoughtful. I then looked at him, pretended to be overcome by the intimacy of the moment (dong), and leaned forward to kiss him.
He moved away, to avoid my kiss.
I smiled faintly, with embarrassment (dong), and got up from the couch.
“Well, I should be (dong) going,” I said, with feigned casualness. The strikes of the clock were tragically making the situation even more awkward and confusing, if such a thing were possible. Not to mention the fact that they were loud, obliging me to raise my voice, making it harder for me to sound casual. “I think the last train is at twelve-thirty,” I lied, to make sure I wouldn’t miss the last train at 12:40. “Would you mind dri(dong)ving me to the station, or should I call a cab?”
I walked to the door, and just as I was about to pick up my overnight bag, he took my (dong) hand. I faced him and waited for him to do whatever he intended to do. Dong. But he did nothing. Dong. We just stared at each other. And then it became awkward. I looked at him sadly, disappointed. Dong. I almost felt sorry for him. He seemed pathetic to me at that moment. I turned away again, to pick up my bag, and did.
“No, Anna (dong), don’t,” he said softly.
I gave him another chance. I waited a few moments to see what he would do, but he did nothing, so I finally gently said, “This is getting silly, don’t you think? I really should be going.”
He took my bag from me, placed it back on the floor, and pulled me toward the staircase.
“What are you doing?” I asked hesitantly, not wanting to ruin the romance, if that’s what it was. But then I decided that if that was what it was, it was so little, so late, that there was not much I could do to ruin it, and things could only go uphill from here.
“Making you happy,” he answered, leading me up the steps.
“I’m not sure you can.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“And make yourself very unhappy in the process, is that it?”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Please, I don’t want you to force yourself,” I said. Sarcastically, of course.
He didn’t answer, but just kept pulling me up. He held my hand rather tightly, and I started getting the uneasy sensation that I might not be able to free it if I wanted to.
“Perhaps I should let you know that force is not the greatest turn-on for me,” I said.
He did not soften his grip. I had not imagined our trip to the bedroom would unfold in this manner.
“This is very unromantic,” I snapped.
All he answered was, “Come.”
“I’m not interested anymore. Please let go of me. What you’re doing is repellent. Do you care?”
Secretly, I thought: who knows, the approach is not my favorite, but it might turn out to be worth it, or at least interesting.
We arrived at a door at the end of a hallway. When he opened it, I was faced with an unfamiliar sight. Halfway into the room were iron bars extending from the floor to the ceiling, making the back part of the room into a sort of cage.
I immediately turned away and tried to run out, but Damon was apparently prepared for this reaction. His grip was painful, and he dragged me toward the bars. I screamed at him to stop, to let me go. I kicked him, and punched him, and dug my nails into him, everywhere I could. I tore his flimsy outfit. His shirt popped open, a few buttons flew off. But it was all in vain. He flung me inside the cell, and slid its door shut between us.
I tried to slide it open, but it was, predictably, locked.
“I apologize for what just happened,” said Damon, panting. “I feel very bad about it.”
“Let me out of here!” I shouted. “Why do you have me in here?”
“I’m a little shaken up, and so are you, so maybe it’s better if I come back later, when we’ve calmed down.”
“No, don’t leave me in here! Why are you doing this? Tell me!”
He paused by the door and seemed to hesitate. He said, “I can’t right now. I’m not up to it.”
Speechless, I watched him walk out. He left the door to the room, but not to my cell, open. He moved down the hallway and disappeared through a doorway on the left.
I turned and pressed my back against the bars, holding two of them tightly in my hands. For a while I couldn’t let go, afraid the cell would suck me in, absorb me, become my master, my container. Then I realized it already was.
Against the left wall were television monitors eye-level on a shelf. Five of them, side by side.
In the far left corner was a regular-looking television set. Straight ahead were two windows, facing the garden. Then the back of the cell branched out to the right, but from where I was standing, I couldn’t see to where. I stepped forward, hoping that by some miracle the branch led to a way out.
A bowling ball and a hammer were lying in the middle of the cell. I was perplexed, but more interested in the branch, which, to my distress, I now saw was just an extension of the prison; a more private area, with a bed, and a night table topped by a lamp and an alarm clock. These homey furnishings chilled my blood; a bare prison cell was scary enough, but one with plush beige carpeting and a comfortable-looking bed was truly terrifying. I tried to block out what it meant.
There was a door on the right, behind which I was further horrified to discover a pleasant bathroom.
I went back to the TV monitors. Each screen showed a different room of the house. I recognized the living room, and although the other rooms were unfamiliar to me (Damon hadn’t given me the tour after all), I felt it was reasonable to assume they were rooms of this house, for they all had clouds in them.
On one screen I noticed movement. It was him, walking around in a bedroom. I watched him until he plopped down on the bed and lay back.
I wondered why he had these monitors in here with me, and whether I was being filmed as well. I could see no cameras around the ceiling.
I turned to the windows. They were locked, but not barred. I glanced around the room for a heavy object to break them. The one-story jump couldn’t be fatal. But the stay could.
There was the lamp on the night table. And the alarm clock. But then my eyes landed on the bowling ball and hammer, either one of which would do much better. I picked up the hammer, and saw a handwritten note taped to its handle. It read:
Dear Anna,
Here are a hammer and a bowling ball for your convenience, so that you won’t try to use the lamp or the alarm clock to break the windows. I should warn you, however, that the windows are made of soundproof, bulletproof glass, and that trying to break them will only bruise them, limiting your enjoyment of the view from then on, in case you care about such things.
It was signed Damon. Unlike in the instructionless entrance hall, now I felt more like an informed Alice in Wonderland.