Addiction: the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Caleb Whealdon wondered if that was what this feeling was: severe trauma. He figured that was a pretty accurate description of his current state. Every moment was spent yearning for, aching from, and coping with being without her. Adalia de Lorraine enslaved him, albeit unintentionally. He had an addiction, and it was not one that could be solved through some anonymous meetings.

It seemed strange that he could be addicted to a person whom he had known for only a few weeks, gone on only one date with. It couldn’t be described as simply lust or an infatuation; it was an overwhelming desire to know more about her, discover her likes and dislikes, her weaknesses, her being. It all came down to an addiction. Dali had become his drug of choice. He was suffering the pains of withdrawal.

Thinking about her was second nature. It was like breathing – he was doing it without thought. She was plastered to the back of his mind and nothing could make her go away. He had accepted it, though, and wasn’t that the first step to recovery? Lying on the sofa, stretched out across its entire length, and stared at the ceiling, he pondered this. Did he want to get over her? The answer came immediately: no. Of course not. He wanted to become further enthralled by her. Not that it would be very hard, what with the slightly sun-kissed glow of her skin, the long locks of honey-colored hair, and her remarkable hazel eyes that captivated him in the first place.

She wasn’t even that nice.

That was the strange part. She didn’t seem to want to give him the time of day. The one date that they had seemed almost like a throw-away – pity that she had taken on him. Most of what she said came out in short, snarky sentences that often did not pertain to the conversation topic.

Despite all that, there was something there. As he sat across from her, sipping his wine (nervously, of course), their eyes would occasionally connect. She would stare back at him with seemingly deep, hazel eyes that he swore he could get lost in; and before that, Caleb was sure that it was impossible to “get lost in” something like eyes. (Perhaps it was another drug-like effect she possessed over him.)

It was the lingering looks that, for him, proved something to be there. Something that allowed him to see past the sarcastic remarks (and even further past her attractive outward appearance).

He went over all this in his head as he lay on the couch, still sprawled out in a position that emulated comfort. He sighed, beginning to wonder if he’d become one of those men who were featured in True Hollywood Stories; one of those men who, in their old age, realized what they had – or lack thereof – and decided to stalk bright, young women. As these frightening thoughts played out in his head, the phone rang, startling him.

“Oh – ‘lo?” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

It was a quick, short note of a greeting that gave no time for him to register the speaker’s voice. As a result of this confusion, an awkward moment of silence settled over the receivers. He was about to hang up, determining it to be either a prank call or a telemarketer, when the voice spoke again.

“Right. Um. Wrong number, I think.”
He was now able to identify the speaker as Dali. “You called me,” he said simply. Caleb now sat up, both feet planted firmly on the floor, shoulder-length apart. He slouched forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Yes, I know,” she said snappily. “It’s just that, I was going to call Lara.”

He blinked, an eyebrow raised and goofy grin slapped across his face. Her antics, he thought, were yet another reason to be wholly ensnared by her. “Oh. But you . . . decided to . . . call me instead?”

“No. Jesus Christ, Whealdon. You’re so goddamn dense.”

He paused, waiting for more – an explanation, perhaps, that would put two and two together, for he certainly was finding himself unable to. “Oh.”

“You know, I don’t even remember dialing your number. I think my phone did it on its own, you know. Pushed a button accidentally.”

“Yes. So, I’m in your phone?” He grinned even wider, picturing her reaction on the other end.

“What?” she squealed, snorting. Caleb could practically hear her roll her eyes. “Mighty full of yourself, aren’t you, Whealdon?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, this has been fun and all, but I’ve really got better things to do!”

This was the part in the addiction where his eyes glazed over; where he felt a lack of control over his actions. The part where the withdrawal was becoming overwhelming and something – anything! – had to be done in order to satisfy what he was missing.

It was at that moment when he disconnected the phone call, grabbed his car keys, walked out the door, and got in the car, driving away.

_

When he arrived at her flat, the adrenaline coming from the prospect of Dali allowed him to not even bother with knocking. Luckily for him, the door was unlocked and he did not have to go far to find her.

“Is that my Chinese –”  

She was promptly cut off. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in closely against his chest. Her lips were parted in a small ‘o’ shape, as if she were trying to get out a sound but was unable to do so. Hazel eyes met green ones, and he noted recognition. As her expression changed from surprise to some form of anger, he brought his lips upon hers. This action did, in fact, satisfy not only his own addiction, but hers as well.