Monday, February 16, 2015

love is a verb

twenty eleven

I knew I shouldn't have divulged like that.

So early, in the dark... With the lights out, his facial expression was concealed (if he even had one).

I love you. I said, though I couldn't be sure it was true. He just felt so big to me. Like someone who could finish what he started. Like someone whose arms fit right around my damage, my weary, my hope.

Before that, all he had ever mustered up to say was I think I'm falling for you after three or four too many drinks. Since the first night we met, it was no secret that I don't play hard to get. I was there for the taking. But instead I found myself giving (against my therapist's advice).

He didn't respond right away (he never does). But at least he held my hand through the night.

twenty fifteen

No one has ever asked for the privilege like that.

As if this were our first time and he wasn't sure if I might regret it in the morning. Tonight, it is my expression that is hidden.

May I make love to you? Plain words, but disarmingly sincere. He whispered in a voice very new to me. To be honest, the phrase make love solicits a somewhat hostile disfavorIt sounds trite. And it reminds me of New Year's night years ago when my sister was a baby and my step-dad insisted on making love to my mother in a hotel room so small I could feel their breath from the adjacent double bed. So, I guess that means I much prefer to fuck. Perhaps because my ex husband treated me like a B-side porn star. Perhaps because then, at least I know exactly what currency with which to bargain. Perhaps because I don't know the difference between a good love and a good fuck (giving it, getting it, wanting it).

A barely audible yes.