Day Two hundred and seventy four - Goddess on a hiway

Three things I knew to be true about Damaris : one, she never said she loved me; two, she never stayed, and three : she never did want to be mine. After that day when we first fucked, I wouldn't see her again for a number of years. Oh, I returned there every single day while I was staying at my dad's, and then every time I visited I'd go there, but she was a ghost, a fleeting apparition. I asked my dad if he had ever seen her, I described her as best I could, but it didn't ring a bell. Sometimes I'd see people by that stop where she rode me to completion, and I'd enquire as to whether they'd ever seen her, but no one ever said they did. I pined for her desperately, and for long years after I'd masturbate every single day thinking about her. But time does pass, and I find myself being a freshman in college. I started by studying law, but I hated it. Then I changed my major to history, and yeah, though I did love it, all it got me was a job working as a mailman. So while I was trying to find my footing in academia, who do I find out is majoring in Engineering? Damaris, god damn Damaris. The first time we see each other, she pretends she doesn't know me. It hurts a little bit, but it's ok. I don't see her again for a few days, and then one day there's a knock on my door - I was reading some dreadfully dull book, almost asleep, and I jumped at the knock. I go to the door to see who it is - I thought it likely to be some other student come to ask me for something -  and as I open the door, I see her in her full glory. Her hair is long and black as night and glossy, it offsets her beautiful skin tone, it plays with my senses. Her smell is an assault of concupiscence, she smells of desire, and of fucking. Again, she asks me : 'What are you doing here?', and I thought it was obvious. I say I'm majoring in history, and she laughs. She walks to my desk, and leans forward, putting her hands on top of the desk. Damaris shakes her head, and says, 'What the fuck an I going to do with you?', and then... and then Damaris locks the door, pulls down the blinds, and tells me to get naked, and lie on the bed naked. I obeyed, puppet that I am in her hands, and she undresses and gets on top of me. I try to adjust my body, but she says no, she tells me not to move. She in relentless, she comes at me undinal, she breaks me, breaks in me, I break in her. It's savage but brief, and we're spent in mere moments. With me still inside her, albeit in a very limp manner, she lays her head down on my chest, her flowing hair going over the side of the bed. 'Tell me', she said. 'Tell me again.' And I couldn't help myself : I loved her. I always would.

That, alas, would be the only time she would grace me with her presence, though I saw her every day for five years. It was impossible not to see her, she seemed ubiquitous, the kind of girl everyone wanted and liked and lusted for, as well the kind of girl all other girls detested. I never dated anyone during my time in college, how could I? Who could compare to her, to this goddess? No one. Ah, but she would let others adore at the feet of her altar, and plenty of them. I tried to play it like I didn't care, but I did. It... hurt. Especially when she knew just how much I loved her. But I thought it best to give her a wide berth, and kept to myself, mostly. Very close to graduation day, I'm at a party - someone had told me that it was supposed to be a low-key affair, but it seemed like half the campus found their way there. I decide not to linger there overlong. My time here is almost done, I just have to endure a couple more weeks, and then I'll never have to return here. I drink a couple of beers, chat with some of the stragglers, and then decide to leave. As I leave, I see her sitting down on the stairs out front. I run down the stairs, and then turn to face her. She has her head buried between her hands. 'Damaris', I call. She looks up - I can see she's been crying. 'What happened?', I asked, 'Did someone hurt you?', and she just shakes her head. Then she says a number. 'What?, I say. She repeats it. 'OK. But what does that mean?', and she says it's the number of guys she's slept with these past few years. 'And that's not including you.', she says. I'm confused, did I matter that little to her? Curious, I ask 'Why didn't you tally me up, then?', and Damaris says 'Because I didn't love any of them.' Of course I press on. 'Do you love me, Damaris?', I asked her, kneeling before her so we are face to face. She says nothing. I can see she wants to, but she can't. No words leave her mouth. 'Is this how your heart treats all strangers?', I asked, and was offered more silence. I turned my back to go and didn't look back.

I regretted majoring in history almost instantaneously : I knew I didn't want to teach, I knew I didn't want to be in the confines of academia ever again, but I hoped I could find a job in some museum or whatever. Not that I tried very hard to look for those jobs, my attempts were always half-assed and whenever I got an interview I made sure to sabotage myself beforehand. So I did the next best thing, and decided to become a mailman. The pay wasn't that bad, I could support myself with it and it came with some benefits. And for some reason, the notion of being out on the streets delivering letters always seemed really appealing to me. I took to it naturally, and it also helped that I've always known the city pretty well. Luckily for me, I got a pretty decent route, no going through the dodgy bits of town, but rather a posh and upscale part of the city. Every day I'd get to the post office, collect my stack of letters and packages, and made my way over to where my route began, trailing a cart behind me. It's close to a year working at the post when, rifling through my stack of letters, I see one that of addressed to a 'Mrs. Damaris Scott', and I wondered just how many people called Damaris there are in this city. Oh, I knew the answer to that already - there's only her. Worst still, this is a registered letter, meaning that she has to sign for it. I panic, and see if anyone's up to change their routes with me for the day. No one is. What do I do? Do I just 'forget' the letter? I mean, I could 'lose' it. But no, it wouldn't sit right with my conscience. I grin and bear it, and go about my day. I eventually get to her address, and boy, is it posh. There's even a concierge, and he buzzes me in to deliver the mail. Had I never been here before? I let the concierge know that I have a registered delivery for one of the residents. He asks who it is, I say her name, and he exclaims loudly, 'Ah, Mrs. Damaris, very good. I shall let her know at once you are coming up.' I ask the guy if I can leave the trolley at the reception while I go up. He says ok, and off I go down the hallway, and up an elevator. I'm getting antsy, I shouldn't have done this. Beads of sweat run down my back, and just before I knock on the door, my stomach groans audibly. I take a deep breath, and then knock on the door. She takes a little time to open the door, and as she does, she opens it very slightly, as though she was suspicious of something. Then she looks at me, and opens the door a little bit more. 'I know what you're going to ask, but I am here to deliver mail for you. Yes?', I say, proffering to her a letter as well as a slip she needs to sign. As she signs it, I casually say, 'So... Mrs. Damaris, is it?', and she says nothing. Then she ducks inside, and comes back out and says, 'You can't come in. Not today. But leave me your phone number, I'll call you.' And to myself, I think 'Yeah, right.', but I jot down my number anyway. 'We'll talk soon', she says, and before I'm even out of the building, I get a text from her telling me to come again tomorrow after work. Of course I go. Of course I do. When did I ever have a choice?