The warm, yeasty scent of beer and the low murmur of conversation wash over me as I step into the dimly lit pub. It's a Saturday night, but this place, a few miles from our usual haunts, is pleasantly quiet, the crowd a mix of regulars and after-work stragglers. My eyes scan the room, quickly landing on my target--a figure impossible to miss.
Marcus sits at a corner table, his large frame dwarfing the wooden chair, his presence radiating a quiet strength that draws the eye. He's reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, but as I approach, he looks up, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Mike," he greets me, extending a hand. "Good to see you."
"Hey, Marcus," I reply, shaking his hand.
I take a seat across from him, feeling a strange mix of ease and apprehension settle over me.
"What'll you have?"
"Just a beer, thanks," I reply, and he nods, signaling to the bartender.
We fall into easy conversation--sports, the weather, a new restaurant we both want to try. Casual, meaningless chatter that fills the silence.
The game flickers on a TV screen in the corner, a distraction we both pretend to be interested in.
Our beers arrive, frosty mugs sweating on the worn wooden table.
"So," Marcus says, after a long pull from his glass. "What brings you out this way? Everything alright?"
"Yeah, all good," I reply, forcing a casualness I don't quite feel. "Just wanted to... well, wanted to thank you again for those tips on the Peterson deal. Your advice really helped. We closed it this week."
"It was nothing, Mike. Happy to help."
"No, seriously, it was very helpful," I insist. "You saved us a lot of time on that one."
"Glad I could be of service."
A silence falls between us then, heavy with unspoken words and shared memories.
I think back on all the times we've crossed paths since that night--the awkward elevator encounters, the brief chats at the gym, the occasional beers after a game. We've never talked about it, never acknowledged the elephant in the room.
Except once.
Our first encounter, two days after that night, had been excruciating. He'd apologized profusely for coming inside Emma, his face etched with worry. I'd mumbled reassurances, telling him it was fine, that she was on birth control, hating the way my cheeks burned with shame. He'd seemed relieved, asking after Emma, about how we were doing, before the conversation mercifully shifted to safer territory.
Gradually, our meetings became less strained. He'd offer me workout tips at the gym, share gossip about mutual acquaintances in the parking lot, slip back into the easy camaraderie we'd enjoyed before... everything changed. Well not exactly but still it was not that awkward anymore.
We'd gone to a couple of games together, just like we used to, but even those had been tinged with a new kind of tension.
He's good company, really.
That much is true. Kind, friendly, a genuinely good guy... or so he seems.
But why did I keep seeking him out? Why not just avoid him completely, like Emma did?
I take a long gulp of my beer, trying to swallow down the questions swirling in my mind.
"This beer's really good."
"Yeah, it's a local micro-brew," he replies. "They use honey from a nearby farm in the brewing process. Gives it a unique... flavor."
"Ohh, interesting. I should bring Emma here sometime, she'd love this place," I say, watching him closely, gauging his reaction.
His expression remains neutral, open. "You should. I'm sure you guys would have a great time."
I nod, but his words do little to ease the unease that's settling in my gut.
We lapse back into silence, the game on the TV providing a welcome distraction from the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. I finish my beer, the cold liquid a welcome balm against the sudden heat creeping up my neck.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to change tactics.
"Have you seen Rhonda and Chris lately?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but the words catch in my throat, betraying my nervousness.
"No, they moved out a few weeks ago."
"Moved out? What? When?"
"About a month ago, I think. Chris got a great job offer down in Miami, so they decided to pack up and head south."
"Wow, didn't know that. Good for them," I say, genuinely surprised by the news. It felt strange though, a little unsettling even, to know that they...... were suddenly gone.
"Yeah, good for them. They deserve it. Chris has really worked hard for it."
The conversation stalls again, the silence stretching out between us, punctuated by the occasional clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter from the bar. I drain the rest of my beer, a sudden restlessness taking hold.
"Excuse me for a minute," I mumble, rising from my chair.
The bathroom is small and dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and disinfectant. I step up to the urinal, relieving myself, the sound echoing in the confined space. Then, I splash cold water on my face, staring into the mirror above the sink. My reflection stares back, my eyes bloodshot, my face pale under the harsh fluorescent light.
I return to the table, my heart pounding in my chest. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in my stomach.
"There's... something I wanted to talk to you about."
He raises an eyebrow, setting his beer down. "Oh?"
"About... that night."
Marcus studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "What about it?"
My mouth opens, then closes again. I suddenly feel foolish, unsure of how to articulate the jumbled thoughts swirling in my head.
"I just... I don't know...I'm surprised you never brought it up."
He chuckles softly, taking a sip of his beer. "It wasn't really my place, was it? I figured you and Emma needed to talk about it, work things out between yourselves. It's not my business to pry. Besides, I could tell it was... awkward, especially for Emma. I figured you both needed some space to process things."
"Yeah, it's been... strange, for both of us," I admit, thinking of Emma's stiff silence whenever Marcus was around, the way she practically fled whenever he is in vicinity.
"I noticed." He pauses, then recounts an incident from a few weeks ago. "I ran into her in the lobby the other day, and she... well, she practically ran in the other direction."
"She didn't mean anything by it," I say quickly, feeling the need to defend her. "She was just--"
"Mike, you don't need to apologize," Marcus cuts me off, his voice gentle but firm. "I get it."
"You... you do?"
"Of course I do....Look, it's not easy, is it? Everything in our society.... programs women to be ashamed of their sexuality, to deny their pleasure. It teaches them that wanting something like this... wanting to be
wanted
... it makes them dirty, wrong. It starts young--the slut-shaming, the double standards, the constant message that their desires are somehow wrong, dirty, something to be hidden."
He pauses, taking another sip of his beer. "So yeah, I get it. Emma's embarrassed. It's a natural reaction. It's all good. There's absolutely no need to apologize. It's a shame, really. Women deserve to explore their desires, to experience pleasure without shame. It's... well, it's a beautiful thing. When they allow themselves to let go."
"Sometimes, Marcus," I say, shaking my head, "you sound like you're running some kind of feminist sex cult."
He throws back his head and laughs, a deep, resonant sound that draws a few curious glances from the surrounding tables. "Maybe I should start one," he replies, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We could call it 'The Church of Embracing Your Pleasure.'"
The laughter fades, and a more serious expression crosses his face. "But seriously, Mike, is everything okay between you two? I never wanted to... mess things up. That wasn't my intention at all."
"No, you didn't mess anything up," I say, meeting his gaze. "If anything, you... well, you made things better. Emma's been... amazing since that night."
"Amazing, huh?"
