The Door Push

"Turns out the most devastating thing someone can do after sex isn't say the wrong thing. It's reaching across you to open your door, pushing it wide, and waiting for you to leave."

Falling back into my seat, I felt the rapid pounding of my heart gradually begin to subside, each beat still echoing through my entire body like aftershocks following an earthquake. My breathing was still uneven, coming in soft gasps that I couldn't quite regulate back to normal rhythm. Each breath felt like a testament to the raw emotions that had been unleashed—not just desire but something deeper, something that felt dangerously close to love finally being acknowledged.

The air in the car felt thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of sex and sweat and us. The windows remained completely fogged, our private cocoon blocking out the rest of the world, and in this moment I wanted to stay suspended in this bubble forever. Just Karl and me and the perfect understanding we'd finally reached.

My body still hummed with residual pleasure, every nerve ending alive and singing. I could still feel where Karl had touched me, where his hands had gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks, where his mouth had been on my neck and breasts. The slight ache between my legs was a sweet reminder of intensity I'd never experienced before.

I turned to look at Karl, unable to suppress the wide, satisfied smile that spread across my face. He looked thoroughly debauched—hair mussed from my hands, lips swollen from kissing, his torn shirt hanging open to reveal the scratches my nails had left across his chest. He was beautiful like this, unguarded and real and mine.

The word settled into my chest with surprising comfort. Mine. After months of dancing around our attraction, after today's emotional intensity culminating in this physical expression of everything we felt, surely that made us something. Surely this changed everything between us.

"Still want to go and see Gladys?" I asked, unable to suppress the playful, cheeky edge to my voice. It was a tease, an acknowledgment of how completely we'd both forgotten about the investigation in favour of this. My tone suggested what I really meant: How could you possibly think about work after what we just did?

Part of me hoped he'd laugh, would pull me back into his arms, would suggest we drive to my place or his and continue this properly, without the constraints of a car's interior and the awkwardness of public space. We could talk about what this meant, about where we went from here, about finally being honest with each other about feelings we'd been carrying for so long.

Karl closed his eyes for a moment, and I watched his expression shift—waiting for the smile, for the acknowledgment of what had just happened between us, for some indication that he felt the same earth-moving significance I did.

When his eyes opened again, something had changed. The warmth I'd seen during our lovemaking—the vulnerability, the raw emotion, the connection I'd felt so certain of—had been replaced by something cooler. More distant. Professional.

My stomach dropped slightly, but I pushed the feeling away. He was just gathering his thoughts. Processing. Karl always needed a moment to sort through emotions before expressing them. That was fine. That was normal.

"No," he replied, his voice firm and decisive, carrying none of the warmth or intimacy of moments ago. "I think it's time to pay Beatrix a visit."

The words landed like a bucket of ice water, shocking in their mundane practicality. We'd just had the most intense sexual experience of my life, and he was... thinking about the investigation? About interview strategy? About the next tactical move?

"Beatrix?" I echoed, confusion flooding through me even as my body still hummed with the aftereffects of what we'd done. My mind struggled to shift gears, to move from the emotional and physical intensity we'd just shared to investigative planning. "Who the fuck is Beatrix?"

The question came out sharper than I'd intended, confusion mixing with the first stirrings of hurt. How was he doing this? How was he compartmentalising so completely, so quickly? Five minutes ago he'd been inside me, gasping my name, looking at me like I was everything. Now he was discussing investigation leads as though we'd just been having a routine case strategy session?

"Beatrix Cramer. Gladys' sister," Karl answered, already reaching across to the back seat with movements that suggested his mind had already moved on entirely from what had just happened between us. "I've done my homework."

His hand emerged holding a small duffel bag I hadn't noticed before. From it, he pulled a fresh grey t-shirt—clean, dry, prepared in advance—and began pulling it over his head.

The sight of that prepared change of clothes hit me like a physical blow. He'd planned this. Not the sex specifically, maybe, but he'd known he'd need fresh clothing. He'd prepared for whatever was coming next in his investigation while I'd been too caught up in emotion to think past the immediate moment.

The casual way he delivered the information about Beatrix—as though it were obvious, as though we'd discussed this, as though this was just normal case progression—made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. When had he researched Gladys's family? When had he developed this lead? And why was this the first I was hearing about it?

"What! Now?" I blurted out, my expression shifting from satisfied contentment to complete bewilderment. The transition was too jarring, too abrupt. My body was still warm and loose from sex, still humming with oxytocin and satisfaction, and my mind couldn't reconcile the tenderness of what we'd just shared with this sudden cold pivot to work.

Surely he wasn't serious. Surely he'd look at me, see my confusion, and realise how bizarre this was. Surely he'd acknowledge that what had just happened between us required at least some discussion, some acknowledgment beyond immediately jumping back to the investigation.

"Yes," Karl replied firmly, his voice slicing through the air with unwavering certainty that allowed no room for discussion. He pulled the fresh t-shirt down, covering the evidence of our encounter—the scratches, the marks, the physical proof that moments ago we'd been as close as two people could be.

"And I need to go alone," he added, his tone carrying the same professional decisiveness he used when giving operational directives. Final. Non-negotiable. Case closed.

The words hit me like a slap.

I need to go alone.

Not "we should split up to cover more ground." Not "maybe you should head home and get some rest." Just a flat statement that excluded me completely from whatever came next, delivered with the casual indifference of someone giving routine instructions rather than dismissing their partner moments after the most intimate encounter possible.

I remained frozen in my seat, staring at him with eyes that must have looked as wounded as I felt. Wide and confused and increasingly hurt, too many emotions competing for dominance to settle on any single expression. My mind was racing, trying to process the whiplash from intense intimacy to cold dismissal, trying to understand how we'd gotten from there to here in the span of minutes.

That had been the most passionate sex I'd ever had—by far, by orders of magnitude that made every previous encounter seem like pale imitation. The intensity, the vulnerability we'd shown each other, the tears on his face that I'd read as emotional breakthrough, the way we'd moved together like we were trying to merge into a single being. The way he'd looked at me afterwards, his hand cupping my face with such tenderness.

It had felt transformative. Sacred, almost. Like we'd finally acknowledged feelings we'd both been carrying, like we'd crossed a threshold that couldn't be un-crossed, like everything between us had fundamentally changed.

I was so certain—absolutely, completely certain—that what we'd just shared meant something profound. That it was confirmation of feelings neither of us had been brave enough to voice. That afterwards we'd talk about what this meant for us, for our partnership, for whatever was building between us.

Did I misunderstand?

The question echoed in my mind with growing insistence, each repetition feeling like a small betrayal. Had I projected meaning onto something that was purely physical for him? Had I mistaken intensity for intimacy, passion for connection? Had those tears meant nothing?

Was it not good?

The thought brought a flush of humiliation. Maybe I'd been so caught up in my own experience that I'd missed signals that he wasn't as satisfied, wasn't as moved, didn't feel the same earth-shattering significance I had.

As these thoughts spiralled, Karl reached across me—his body stretching towards the passenger door with casual efficiency that suggested this was perfectly normal, perfectly reasonable. His long fingers found the door handle, those same fingers that had been gripping my hips moments ago, that had touched me with such focused intensity.

With a single, firm motion, he pushed my door open.

The click of the latch releasing seemed impossibly loud. The door swung outward, letting in a rush of cool evening air that felt shocking against my overheated skin, still flushed and damp from exertion. The sudden temperature change made me shiver, made goosebumps rise on my exposed flesh, made me acutely aware of my dishevelled state—clothes scattered, hair wild, body marked with evidence of what we'd done.

The door hung there for a moment at the apex of its swing before gravity and cheap hinges pulled it back. It fell closed again with a dull, resigned thud that somehow perfectly captured the feeling settling into my chest like lead.

The gesture was clear. Unambiguous. Impossible to misinterpret no matter how desperately I wanted to.

This wasn't Karl being helpful. This wasn't casual. This was dismissal. This was rejection. This was "get out of my car" rendered in action rather than words, somehow crueler for what it left unsaid.

The realisation crashed over me like a wave of ice water, stealing my breath and leaving me feeling like someone had punched me in the stomach. The emotional whiplash was so severe I felt physically dizzy—from the heights of profound connection to the depths of casual dismissal in the span of minutes.

He'd used me.

The thought crystallised with horrible clarity. He'd needed release, needed physical catharsis from whatever internal pressure was building, and I'd been convenient. Available. Willing. And now that he'd gotten what he needed, I was being discarded like I was nothing. Like the past thirty minutes had been meaningless. Like I was meaningless.

My hands trembled as I gathered my scattered clothes—underwear from the footwell, my jacket somehow wedged behind the seat. My vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall, pride warring with hurt and losing ground rapidly. I couldn't see clearly, everything going soft and indistinct, which felt almost merciful because at least I didn't have to see Karl's face clearly, didn't have to watch his indifference.

With movements that felt jerky and disconnected, like my body was being operated by someone else, I threw open the car door with force that matched the violence of my emotions. I stepped out into the cool night air on legs that felt unsteady, my body still uncoordinated from sex and emotion and the complete disconnection between what I'd thought was happening and what actually was.

"You can be such a prick sometimes, Karl," I spat the words out, each syllable loaded with hurt and betrayal and confusion I couldn't fully articulate. The words felt inadequate—how could one sentence possibly capture the devastation of being so intimate with someone and then immediately rejected? But they were all I had, all I could force past the tightness in my throat.

His name on my lips felt wrong now, tasted bitter where moments ago it had been breathless pleasure. I'd said his name so many times in the past half hour—gasped it, moaned it, cried it out at the peak of pleasure. Now it felt like poison.

Then, channelling all the frustration and betrayal and hurt churning through me into a single gesture, I slammed the car door with every ounce of strength I possessed. The sound was spectacular—a gunshot crack that echoed through the empty car park, reverberating off concrete and the Entertainment Centre's facade. The whole car rocked with the impact.

The violence of it felt good for approximately half a second. Then it just felt empty. Futile. Because no amount of door-slamming was going to change what had just happened, wasn't going to make Karl suddenly realise what he'd done, wasn't going to transform his dismissal into the tenderness I'd been hoping for.

I stood there in the cool night air, half-dressed and dishevelled, my clothes still clutched against my chest because I'd been so desperate to escape I hadn't finished putting them on properly. The temperature had dropped significantly as evening transitioned to night, and the chill bit at my exposed skin, my arms, my legs, anywhere Karl's hands had been hot against my flesh minutes ago.

With jerky, uncoordinated movements, I tried to put my trousers back on properly. My hands were shaking—whether from cold or emotion I couldn't tell—making the simple task of managing a zipper feel impossibly complex. I fumbled with the button, my fingers refusing to cooperate, muscle memory gone because everything felt wrong now.

Through the fogged windows of the car, I could see Karl's silhouette as he adjusted his seat, checking his mirrors, preparing to drive away. No hesitation. No second thought. No looking back to check if I was okay.

Just... leaving.

The engine started, and the sound felt like another blow. He was actually doing this. Actually driving away and leaving me here—without transport, emotionally devastated and physically marked from what we'd done.

I watched his brake lights gleam red in the darkness as he navigated carefully around the concrete bollards and painted lines of the car park. The car moved steadily away, putting distance between us. The lights grew smaller, more distant, until they reached the exit and turned onto the highway beyond.

Then they were swallowed entirely by the flow of traffic, disappeared into the river of other vehicles, leaving me standing alone in the vast emptiness of abandoned asphalt.

The finality of it hit me like another wave. He was gone. Actually gone. And I was alone.

The emptiness of the car park suddenly felt oppressive rather than private. What had been intimate isolation now felt like abandonment. The darkness that had hidden us now just felt dark. Cold. Unwelcoming.

Did he really feel nothing?

The question pounded in my head with the relentless rhythm of a drumbeat, demanding answers that wouldn't come. How could someone be that vulnerable—crying whilst being intimate, kissing with such desperate intensity, touching me like I was precious—and feel nothing? How could you share your body so completely while keeping your heart locked away?

Or had I imagined the connection entirely? Had I projected my own feelings onto neutral actions, read significance into tears that meant nothing, mistaken physical release for emotional revelation?

My body started shaking then—not from cold, though the night air was genuinely uncomfortable now, but from the physical manifestation of the hurt and confusion coursing through me. Every muscle trembled with emotion that had nowhere to go, no outlet except the involuntary shaking I couldn't control.

The contrast between five minutes ago and now was so severe it felt almost surreal. Five minutes ago I'd been floating, euphoric, certain that everything had changed between us. Now I was standing alone in a car park, clothes dishevelled, body still marked with evidence of intimacy that apparently meant nothing, watching the taillights of Karl's car disappear into the night.

"If Beatrix is that important to you," I muttered to myself, my voice cracking on the words, speaking to Karl's absence because I hadn't managed to articulate any of this whilst he was still present.

If investigating Gladys's sister was more important than acknowledging what had just happened between us, more important than making sure I got home safely, more important than showing even basic human decency after profound intimacy, then what did that say about how he valued me? About what I actually meant to him beyond convenient physical release?

The answer was clear, and it cut deeper than anything else: I meant nothing. The sex had meant nothing. All of it—the vulnerability, the tears, the intensity—had been in my head. Wishful thinking projected onto actions that carried no deeper significance for him.

I began to walk, my boots hammering out a furious beat on the concrete. Each step was both release and punishment, physical movement that let me do something with the chaos inside me. The sound echoed around the deserted space, bouncing back to me transformed, and in the emptiness it sounded less like determination and more like desperation.

Stamp. You were nothing. Stamp. It meant nothing. Stamp. You mean nothing. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

"Well... screw you!" The words burst out without conscious decision, erupting from somewhere deep in my chest as a defiant yell into the darkness. My voice cracked and broke on the words, emotion shattering through attempted anger, betraying the hurt beneath the fury.

It was protest and grief and wounded rage all wrapped into two simple words. They hung in the air for a moment before being swallowed by the vast emptiness, disappearing without acknowledgment because there was no one here to hear them.

The release I'd hoped for didn't come. Yelling didn't make anything better, didn't relieve the pressure in my chest, didn't transform the pain into something manageable. It was just noise, just me screaming into a void that gave nothing back.

Then the tears came—hot and unstoppable and utterly beyond my control. They streamed down my face in rivers, falling faster than I could wipe them away even if I'd wanted to.

I couldn't stop them. Didn't even try. Just let them fall whilst I kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other because stopping felt impossible, because standing still meant fully confronting what had just happened, because movement at least gave the illusion of purpose even when I had none.

But I kept walking, because what else was there to do?