I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.

Surprise.

Remorse.

Aversion.

Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!

I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.

The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.

I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.

I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.

This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself and him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.

I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.

I didn’t think.

But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.

I didn’t move.

The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.

And I didn’t move.

I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.

The doorbell didn’t ring again.

After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.

And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.

I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.

I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.

But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.

I had a talent with that.

It was the only talent I had.

And I didn’t want it.

I just had no idea how to get rid of it.

It was the only part of me I knew was real.

So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hysterically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.

And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.