Inviting the new neighbors to a BBQ – 2

At some point during the night the need for sleep must have won the war going on in my brain. It was 11am before my bleary eyes started to open. In the sober light of Sunday morning, and no longer under any influence of the alcohol and weed, my brain ruminated about my actions and what the future was about to unleash on me. My actions last night were serious, a far cry from the responsible, hardworking, social, and fun-loving neighbor that I formerly thought of myself. Poor Deni wasn’t even as old as my daughter. Where had my self-control gone? how could I have allowed myself to let things go so far and end up raping my beautiful young neighbor? It wasn’t sex, it wasn’t making love. I had exploited her intoxicated state to satisfy my own lust. I couldn’t even convince myself that she had wanted sex, she made it clear, even tried to wake her husband. I was surprised that the police had not already come knocking at the door. I made myself a coffee and tried to think my way out of this seemingly impossible situation, my mind constantly debating the consequences of what I had done.

Sunday dragged by; it felt more like a week than a day. Not even an emergency call to fix someone’s heating or air conditioning, which in one way was a good thing because I was in no fit state to concentrate on fixing anything let alone drive somewhere… I couldn’t possibly have concentrated. I wanted to apologize to her, but that would have been crazy; no way I could just knock at their door and say “Im sorry I raped you last night”. I was convinced that either the police would come to arrest me, or Dave would show up with a gun and shoot me. I resigned myself to whatever I had coming my way.

I avoided going near the window, I avoided going out into the garden, even though there was still the clear-up from the BBQ to do. I flicked on the tv, but I couldn’t concentrate to watch it.

Sunday turned into Monday, which turned into Tuesday and then Wednesday. I hadn’t even shaved and ate so little. I still felt nauseous inside. By Thursday I started to relax somewhat, a little less concerned about the police, but still not dismissing that possibility. I hadn’t been shot, so that was also reassuring. I showered and shaved, made coffee, even had some breakfast and tidied up the back yard. I still felt incredibly guilty and debated whether I needed to move, which seemed to be a realistic and probably best course of action. I didn’t want to move, but rationalized that moving to another part of time might be the best course of action for me and for poor Deni.

The week passed slowly, another neighbor phoned at one point and invited me to visit over the weekend to watch a game, but I made excuses and declined their invitation. As day after day dragged by, I gradually became less anxious, grateful that I had not had any visit from the police, but the overwhelming sense of guilt about what I had done, still dominated my mind; it couldn’t even touch the subject to imagine how Deni must have been feeling.

The weekend came and went without incident and l was doing my best to get my life back on track, although my sleep was still restless.

Monday morning, I woke at my normal time, determined to get myself back into my regular routine. I made coffee, had breakfast, and scanned the morning tv news. I heard Dave’s car start up and fade away as he headed to work, which was a kind of surreal normality and I determined that later in the day I would go to the HVAC wholesaler and pick up some much-needed supplies.

Aside from my truck, I had a small vintage car in my garage that I had been periodically working to restore in my spare time; a dark green 1976 Mk2 Triumph TR6, a small British roadster. I figured if I got too old for it, it would make a great gift for my daughter.

I grabbed my tools, opened the garage door to let some light in, and popped the hood. I was busy replacing a hose when I heard the sound of a feint, but familiar, softly spoken voice of Deni.

“Mr Stevenson… can we talk?”

My stomach clenched and my mind raced through a million scenarios of how to respond. Somehow saying “Hi Deni, how are you today” or “Sure, what’s up?” seemed so inappropriate. The best I could manage was to stumble out a pathetic and hesitant “hey”.

I looked out from around the hood to see Deni’s petite little figure silhouetted against the sunlight in the garage doorway, her arms down her front, one hand on top of the other, held low across her hips. Her head was angled slightly down, avoiding possible eye contact.

I moved around to the side of the car and started to blurt out an apology… “look, about what happened… I’m so s…”.

Deni interrupted me “it was so wrong… it was just so wrong”

Feelings of guilt washed over me like a breaking wave, soaking my emotions to the core.

Deni moved further into the garage, still preserving a healthy distance from me, maintaining her lack of eye contact by keeping her gaze focused on some unimportant point on the garage floor.

She was wearing a baggy t-shirt that went down to below her hips, a pair of soft grey athletic shorts, trimmed with white edging just visible below it, her feet a pair of running shoes and little white socks.