Vodka Espresso

15. bridesmaid

July, 2017

By the mercy of a generous stranger and a kind taxi driver, Edgar managed to carry Ingrid back to their hotel room, wrapped in a borrowed towel. He laid her down in the tub and ordered hot soup and tea from the reception while she bathed. When he heard what for, Sven arranged for some aspirin to be brought up on the tea tray to their room and sent his regards on a note because he couldn't leave his desk.

Edgar kept only one tablet of aspirin and sent the rest back to Sven, writing his thanks on the reverse of the note. He set up the tray for Ingrid on one of the nightstands and tried to explain what he'd prepared for her after she came out of the shower. Except she went straight for the blow-dryer and plugged it in.

Edgar resigned himself to silence, quietly walking into the bathroom instead.

He took longer than usual under the shower. There was a lot of filth to wash off. Not so much physical, as spiritual. He felt horrible for what he'd told Ingrid after she'd plucked the courage to share one of her most painful experiences with him. Remembering the words he'd said made him shudder with shame. She'd opened up, let him in and he'd trampled all over it.

Edgar stared at himself in the misty bathroom mirror. His palm wiped clean a strip through the steam, leaving behind drops of water. His face reflected itself in a distorted image, which cleared up as he stood rubbing at his hair with a towel. Ingrid must have finished and dressed up by now, he thought.

Grabbing his bathrobe, he tied it tight around his waist and walked out. The air in the room was comparatively cooler and it made his skin crawl. Ingrid sat nestled among the fluffy pillows, with a teacup in hand. She put it away when she saw him and clambered out of bed.

He gulped.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a timid whisper.

Her dark, clouded-over eyes scrutinised him. Her fingers teased the edge of his robe, tracing the V on his chest.

"It took months of... therapy," she whispered back, "to enjoy this again." Her hand fell on the knot of his bathrobe. "Which my friend paid for," she said as she untied it, "because she felt guilty."

Her hands slid to his bare hips. That simple touch made him tense up.

"I know that the Ingrid of today is the sum of everything I've endured," she continued, looking up into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ingrid, I – "

She hushed him with a finger on his lips. Her other hand reached down between them. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, exhaling shaky breaths through his nose. She tortured him with slow movements for half a minute, then suddenly stopped. Rising on her tiptoes, she brought her mouth up to his ear.

"And you have to earn her," she murmured and turned to saunter back to the bed, dropping her bathrobe on the carpet in the process.

Edgar watched her from afar, caught between guilt, anger and helplessness. As she lay down, stripped raw, she exuded an uncommon strength which made him weak at the knees. He felt vulnerable, exposed to her as he was, but she revelled in her nakedness.

This was his chance at redemption. He knelt at the foot of the bed and forgot himself as he delved into her pleasure. Nothing else mattered. Nothing, except her. It was the least he could do to make it up to her and he aimed to do his best.

As a result, he had to listen to her come undone over and over again, until she curled up away from him, all spent. He climbed into bed and hovered above her, dying for a kiss, but not daring to make the first move.

Ingrid sat up and pushed on his shoulders, to get him to lie on his back so she could straddle him. He craned his neck until it hurt, but still she didn't kiss him. She pressed on his pectorals until his head touched the pillow but still, she didn't kiss him. She licked her way down his chest and rewarded him for his earlier efforts but still – she did not kiss him.