My breath is caught in my throat like a grasshopper in a bird’s beak. Is this the beginning of the end or will I continue to enjoy the sweet smelling meadow of our tumultuous affair?
I texted him earlier that I wanted his cock in me and would he make that happen? He’d said he’d try, but didn’t commit. I smiled to myself. At least it wasn’t a No.
I received this particular note a little before 10 pm last night. He rarely goes to bed before midnight. None of this makes sense if you stand it next to last week.
Last week we had sex more nights than not and spent nearly every one together. He was the catalyst for nearly all of it. It was passionate, tender, and fun, sometimes infuriating, mostly connected, a little confusing, and a lot loving.
It was a lavishly furnished room.
This week, I am standing in a white box with only a window.
And what looms large in my heart and mind is the fact that in November we will have not been dating for a year.
I’ve been sitting with this for days since we wordlessly picked back up again. My approach leans towards patience, while my heart roars for any kind of closure: together, apart; in love, in mourning; happy, sad.
I continue to dangle from a sliver of hope like an errant celestial being might from the moon. Where am I really going with this??
Silly me. Silly, silly me. I should know by now that my sweet, baby lover isn’t up for this and confusion is a permanent listing on the menu. I may be making him who he is as a man, but I don’t like the woman he makes me: off center, worried, insecure.
Ella said to me, “It’s the bitter with the sweet. You light up when he pays attention and dim when he doesn’t.” Am I really that dependent? That predictable?
I’m trying not too read too much into this. We watched a movie Sunday and he came over when I needed a friend Monday. It’s been comfortable, yet chastely innocent, I admit, but we are tinder boxes are we not? Perhaps I’m putting too much on sex. Or perhaps something has happened in his heart. I have to work hard to appear calm.
The next two weeks will be filled with my little person. Peyton’s father is traveling for work so my custody period is doubled. I love mothering and welcome the opportunity to focus on something other than the tangled mess that is my heart — there is always something more important, after all — but I can’t shake the worry.
I tell myself this all could mean nothing. Try to relax, Hy. Maybe he has a belly ache. Don’t over analyze! But then reality stalks me like a cutpurse and won’t let me be: He doesn’t want this, she whispers, he’s going to leave you.
Well, ok. If that is so then this time I will let him close the gap. My back is broken from all the heavy lifting over the last few months. If he has something to say, if something has truly changed, then it’s his turn to behave like an adult and end it. I’ll be busy focusing on other things. Or trying to, anyway.
Yet hope refuses to leave me and is as cruel a lover as any other. When you look up at the shiny crescent moon tonight, think of me will you? I’ll be lounging on the tip, my heart on my sleeve and my fingers sweetly crossed. You may shake your head at me, but I will remain on my perch.