I have one picture of you. Okay, I have two, but I have one -really good- picture of you. Wide-eyed, slight surprise into the camera. And, you know, you’re beautiful and all that so it’s a certainty that if I open that picture and examine it for awhile, I’m going to slip down a well, pulled by some potential of a good-god-just-grab-me-the-fuck-now love singularity. I love thinking about you. And, I love thinking that perhaps you are thinking about me.
Two months back, around the time it became clear to me that the attraction had progressed beyond a crush, I committed myself to an oversoul’s contentment about you. It’s like I have you emotionally enveloped in a peaceful white light whose source is waaaaay more awesome than anything we get to experience on Earth, which keeps you warm and safe and appreciated all the time. Protected from the adolescent neuroticism that occasionally surfaces as a reflex to all of my pre-marriage happenings with girls who deserved far more than I could ever give them.
Sometimes I do wonder if you return my sentiments. I know you love me because you tell me all the time, even if I didn’t say it back the time before. Nothing is what you expect out of me and to me that is home. I know that a deep-seated part of you feels close to me and wants more of that because even if you are a cuddly person I don’t see you reaching for everybody else’s hands the way you reach for mine when we are near one another. I am kind of always watching for these things. Call it selfish curiosity. But sometimes the younger person in me wonders . . . do you want me the way I want you? I don’t want to steal you away from your life. I just want to touch you with my lips. To put my mouth on you for awhile. To press my body against yours with the frivolous hope that you’ll feel everything you’ve left right here. Excuse me, madam, but is this your bag? Did you know it’s been sitting here for the last eight times you’ve travelled in this direction?
Let me take a minute to tell you what I do know. Or, perhaps more accurately, what I *think* I know: You do like me to some indeterminate extent. You want to be physically close to me as you reserve my seat and invite me to sit next to you on the couch. You want me to hug you, opening your arms or leaning in when you feel the moment slide you an excuse. You want me to touch you . . . as you tilt your head with a pang of intrigue and watch me auto-manipulate my hands from across a room. You mirror my gestures. You inhale deeply through your nostrils when our bodies press together. Sometimes you even smile through your eyes at me while your face holds steady, as if it dare display no evil.
I think that you want me to grab you when we are under a blanket together. To touch in ways that would be more obvious. I want to, and the pulling force of all the stuff you leave in my bubble is physically overwhelming but, baby, I have control. I have contentment. Happiness of magnanimous proportions over the fact that I have gotten to meet you at all. To bring you in so close in my life. To know that even if we never go there with each other, we’re already *somewhere.* I love how I feel about you. Of course I want you. Who the fuck wouldn’t? But what I want from you, even more than that pestering idea that we could one day hold onto each other in a way that purifies the muddiness in our shared interactions, is your trust. I know that I already have it. I must be so careful with this. I have to be careful with you.
So, no touchy. At least not like that. I purposefully push the envelope out in the open, where they can see everything, fully enjoying the advantage that we are both women and can get away with it. Holding hands. Hugging for 25 seconds. When I am alone I defer to this photo as I hug and tenderly stroke a pillow, pretending that it’s you, dwelling on the complicated mess of contentment and unrealized desire that lives here.
However, that control thing? It has an upper bound. I believe that that lies at the intersection of space and time where and when you do the obvious thing first. The moment-place when and where the “accidental” brushings turn into a real caress or an explicit grab, you will have me. I will touch back, revealing every caged wanting that resides in my body. I will shower you with inappropriate gestures and bring you as close to home as I can get you. I’m not a zen master of stillness. Not a statue of temperance. You will hear the urgency in my breath. See the continental-length longing behind these eyes. Smell the pheromonal sweetness. Feel the response slide up your leg. And, when they leave us to our own devices, you will taste my mouth.
I want you. Right now. Perhaps even always. I want you with the urgency of perceived reciprocity. Like you’ve sprinkled nano-bots in my cereal.