Bonfire (Working Title)

The Seventh Terrace of Purgatorio is maliciously pleasant.
A place of fire, a place of wanton need, a place to be cleansed by fire should we so choose – though our fires were of an altogether different nature.
That night, Hell had houseguests and we didn’t plan on helping clean up.
It was June but at 11 p.m. Warm Beach was anything but. The Tulalip Indian Reservation had somehow become the place to go when we needed to cut loose and burn just for the simple sake of burning.
The beach was lit by flames that spiraled heavenward as the progeny of Dionysus danced around the fire pit in the throes of excess; drunk and wild, without a care beyond the moment, nothing forbidden.
Nothing.
The rocky shore made for tremulous footing, so I had claimed a comfortable perch situated close enough to the tremendous heat of the bonfire yet far enough away to not become a casualty of the evening’s festivities…
…moans came from the woods as people made love against trees, bushes, tall grass and along the shore, farther down the beach in the dark.
…someone had brought a bong that was nearly five feet in length and a large, greedy circle had formed around it to worship.
…bottles of various spirits were passed around, pouring the contents down their throats, onto their bare chests, into one another’s mouth.
And through it all, I wandered. All that was missing was Virgil and Beatrice had decided to be fashionably late.
She had come with a lesser mortal, a fucking fringe I had met at a previous social occasion whose name and manner was tragically forgettable. That she had chosen plankton as her rebound infuriated me.
I didn’t like the idea of being so easily recovered from. The break up had been akin to a head on collision, something that had taken weeks to get over and I had hoped that it had been the same for her; crippling.
Yet here she was, walking – walking towards me.
She didn’t say a word and took my hand, leading me down the beach silently until the bonfire was a pillar of light in the distance.
Then she kissed me.
Her mouth tasted like beer and pot, but her hands were strong like remembered them as she grabbed the back of my neck, my hair in her fingers. She pressed herself against me and what at any other time would have been an embarrassing erection became an invitation.
She looked at me and nodded quickly, panting. We struggled with each other’s clothing, she was wearing that tattered Western hoodie I hated and as I pulled it over her head, her brown hair came loose and fell around her shoulders.
She yelped and jumped back, clutching her chest. I raised my hands and blinked, confused.
She stared at me, sullenly, from behind her brown bangs and equally brown eyes, chewing her bottom lip.
“Are you still using?” she asked.
I let out a long, exhausted sigh – air that had built up with a promise of a reunion of flesh had suddenly become trumped by an argument that was worn and tired, like her. Like me.
“Nice to know you still care,” I muttered as I shook my head and bent over, grabbing my t-shirt and pulling it over my head. I don’t know how many times we could have the same argument with the same conclusion; her crying and me walking away.
And by God, while my feet were predisposed to turn and walk away the rest of my body remembered hers, and how being inside her made me feel born again.
She put her hands to her face, her breasts jiggling slightly as she started crying.
“Fuck,” I whispered, feeling my anger abate. A crying girl is kryptonite.
The rocks crunched under my feet as I went to her, folding her in my arms as she cried into my chest.
“I’m so sorry Justin, I am so fucking sorry,” she whimpered. “I never should have left you. I should have tried. I could have saved you.”
I bit my lip, my eyes began to burn. I could feel her hot tears against my skin; her gasping, sobbing breath was warm and sent vapor swirling around us.
And like that, I remembered how wonderful it was to be with her. How she had, if but for a moment, pulled me from my own private purgatory and showed me what living might be like if I had ever chosen to live, but that was a life denied.
She looked up at me and whispered, “Please. Just tonight.”
I closed my eyes and whispered, “No.”
She grabbed my crotch and tried to bite my chest.
“I said no,” and pushed her back gently.
She screeched and slapped my chest, scratching me and leaving a bright red line down my torso like a whip mark. “Why?” she shouted.
“Because you’re trying to fuck me to forget me,” I said angrily, “and you’ll be going home with that idiot Abercrombie underwear model back there.”
“You are such a bastard,”
“You are such a cunt,”
“Why do you do this? Why do you have to ruin everything? Why do you have to ruin what’s perfect?” she asked.
“Everyone has a hobby,” I quipped. “If it was so perfect then why did you leave?”
“Because I couldn’t watch you destroy yourself,”
“And yet here I am! Miraculous! Do I look destroyed?” I yelled.
“You’re a fucking junkie,” she shot back, “you look horrible.”
“Bleeding Christ, why does everything have to be a fucking after-school special with you? Why are you so fucking melodramatic? I wasn’t using to push you away Amy, I was using to… fuck… to just deal,” I said through gritted teeth. How is it she still had this effect on me?
“You said that in the past tense,” she said.
“Yes. So?”
“So have you stopped using?” she asked.
I nodded.
“For how long?”
I held up my hand, four declarative fingers testifying to the length of my sobriety. She smiled and whipped away an errant tear. “That’s good,” she said.
I shook my head.
“Maybe we can try again, right?”
I shook my head again, dropping my head to my chest.
“Why?” she asked, pleaded. “I’ll come back to you if you’re clean.”
Salty tears collected on my lips as I struggled to control the shredded remnants of my will. “Because you left me when I needed you the most – and now I don’t need you at all.”
She looked at me, her hand slightly held out as if to touch my hand. I stepped back.
“I never want to see you again,” I whispered hoarsely. Our rolls had become reversed as she walked away leaving me crying bitterly on that rocky shore.
Down the beach, the bonfire continued to burn brightly.
I turned and made my way toward its hedonistic glow.
Four months clean – fuck it.
Tonight, I would burn just as bright.