I am tired, but sleep will not come. As I lie burrowed underneath my bedclothes, the bitter cold outside my window tries to seep in and work its way under my sweats and t-shirt. I am not cold, though, lying stretched in my bed, even though it's twenty degrees below freezing outside and probably not much above it here in my room. Maybe it's the whirling mental activity going on in my head that won't let me rest and is forcing me to sit at my computer in a darkened room at four o'clock in the morning, wrapped in an afghan, typing the first thing that comes into my feverish mind.
And maybe it's the remembrances of him that are keeping me awake. Summer nights that give new meaning to the term "humid" lurk on the edges of my sleepy consciousness, those nights in Mississippi when the air decides it doesn't want to be air and tries to go straight to water. "Steamy" might be appropriate. That would certainly describe the air, and the atmosphere, and the stolen looks that both of us pretended we didn't see. The sultriness of a summer three years ago warms me now on a freezing February morning. Of course, the cold reminds me, too -- reminds me of a frosty November evening last year when I stood in the freezing rain, the backs of my legs aching as I leaned into a warm car which was being made warmer by the minute, and caressed his face, whispering words of love to him and kissing him hungrily in the dark. I press the afghan against my face and blow into it, trying to warm my nose and fingers.
Fingers... his fingers, tangled in mine. The first time he held my hand... those big hands of his, curled around a Camel straight... his hands cupping my back, soothing it as he kissed me... his fingers lightly and delicately tracing the outline of my face as I leaned back against him, shivering at the touch of him. His brown hands entwining and meeting each other in my hair, gently pulling through the tangles, creating their own whispery rhythm in time with his tongue.
When did I first see him that last time? For that matter, when did I first see him, period? When did I first lay eyes on that man that brings me to my knees and breaks my heart again and again? I honestly don't remember. I wish I did. I wish I could say that our eyes met across a crowded room, and violins played and bluebirds sang, and we all lived happily ever after. I think we actually met at Jennifer's nineteenth birthday party in Dave's dorm room, and we all ate cake and sat around watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. He was more interested in Bobbi when we first met. I was going out with Kirby not long afterward. Neither of us planned to fall in love.
The memories flood my brain, forcing me to write. I hadn't planned on this, either; I was trying to get some sleep so I could get up at a decent hour tomorrow. It's been a while since I thought about him; maybe that's why he suddenly invaded my mind, demanding to be noticed. Not like I could ever forget the four years we spent together and apart and together and apart. And not bloody likely that I'll ever cease to remember the four crazy, scary, blissful, hazy days we lived through last November. We tumbled on through them, riding high on a wave of fantasy, until the wave crashed on the shores of reality. What a bloody stupid analogy; oh well. The point is that if I don't spill this out to someone, or something, the accumulated weight of MEMORY will cause critical mass in my head, and I may topple over.
So let's spill some memories.
I'm walking toward FCH, nervous as hell, feeling like my body is on automatic pilot with my mind free-floating somewhere in the immediate vicinity. I'm watching myself from the outside, wondering how my hair looks and if this jacket looks okay with this shirt, and do I smell good after the four hour drive I just made? And I'm thinking that I'm going to look back on this moment for years to come, so it's important to remember just what I'm thinking at this point. And I don't really know what that is, other than the aforementioned dress and hygiene concerns. With my flair for the dramatic, I suppose I ought to be concerned about my breathless anticipation and eleven months of not having seen him, but all I can really think about right now is putting one foot in front of the other and not dropping my bookbag from my trembling hands. As I draw nearer to the appointed rendevous -- God, how prententious that sounds -- I notice that I am holding my breath. Then I round the corner and look deliberately at the spot where he should be, and --
-- there he is. Oh my God. He's sitting there, he's actually here, but his eyes are closed and he hasn't seen me yet, which means I can still run away, only I know I'm not going to, and oh God, what do I do now? and I watch him slowly lift the Camel to the lips which I have not yet kissed, and he breathes deeply, holding it and then letting the smoke curl lazily up above his head into the warm air as he leans back against the wide white column, legs stretched out in front of him. My stylish jacket is soaking up the sun and suddenly I'm entirely too warm, although I don't think it's only from the sun's rays hitting corduroy. I manage to shuffle a few steps forward, despite the fact that I think my knees may go at any moment; in fact, there's a thunk from the ground near my feet now. Wait, it's just my bookbag falling from my hands; why can't I keep a grip on it? Because the trembling has driven itself into the pit of my stomach and worked its way back out again through my whole body; it was either the bookbag or me. I'm still staring at him, but my vocal cords don't seem to be working yet. It doesn't matter; he opens his eyes and sees me. He catches his breath and whispers, "Jesus," -- whether in amazement or supplication, I don't know. I leave the bookbag and stumble toward him, hearing myself tell him I still don't know what to say, and then I grab him and my mind and body rush back together, and I cling to him as though my life depends on it; maybe it does. Eleven months separation go into that hug; eleven months of aching, overlong silences and monumental pauses and letters that say more between the lines than the actual lines do and dreams that cause me to wake up in a sweat and longing and yearning and seeking and praying. My entire being surges and roils in me and all I can do is ride it out, clutching myself to him, gripping his shoulders and pressing my face against his white cotton shirt, eyes clenched shut.
If the sidewalk were to crack away and fall from under us, if the building were to come crashing down around our ears, if the whole world were to be swept away, it wouldn't make any difference; neither of us would notice in the slightest. I finally pull myself from him and look at last into his eyes, noticing with a start that they're a lighter brown than I remember, and tell him feverently, "I have missed you." I pick up the bookbag, shakily, and we start to walk to my car. He slips his hand into mine and holds it tightly. That one shy gesture tells me that something has changed, and this time things will be different.
And indeed they are. What a rush it is just to take his hand in mine. I'm still shaking, by the way; I shake all through lunch and into the afternoon. I feel like I've had too many Jolt Colas, to be honest, but I've only had one Coke today at lunch, so I don't think that's it. Where we go -- does it matter? The environment is incidental; the world only consists of us, tripping hazily in a bubble of contentment, hands joined, never separated except for the instant it takes him to push open the door for me. Then he takes possession of my hand again, claiming me, as if proudly displaying me to the world. Supper: we eat, stealing glances at each other again. At one point I get up and go to the restroom; yes, I have to take care of business, but I also have to catch my breath. This is a heady experience. He does the same when I get back, and I quickly take the opportunity to scribble some off-the-cuff poetry in my red folder, something about ethereal ecstasy or some such nonsense. I can call it nonsense now; it seemed divinely inspired at the time.
I'm wondering at this point when he's going to kiss me. Actually, I've tried to avoid directly thinking about it, as if the mere pressure of a thought would be enough to drive away the chance. Not that I should be worried about that, as much as I've fantasized about him. In a way I'm nervous. It's been so long since I've kissed anyone that I don't know if I'll do it well; I want to do it right for him. Kissing, I have been told, is an art, or possibly a science. But it doesn't do to dwell on that right now, in the Rocket City Diner, with him sitting across from me. I'm afraid I'll think too loud and he'll be able to read my thoughts off the back of my skull as though it were a movie screen. Maybe I should be plotting my move. Or do I want to plan anything? Is it best to just... let things happen? I don't like not being in control, but I quickly decide to let things proceed at their own pace. Somehow, in a dim way, I feel this may exonerate me from the consequences of our actions, if any. If I don't initiate anything, I can't be blamed. Is that it?
It happens on the porch swing by his swimming pool. I'm leaning on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of him so near to me, and I feel him looking at me. I lift my head and spear him with a Look, and ask, "Yes?" ever so innocently. He raises an eyebrow and asks, "Really?" Wondering what this is about, I shrug slightly and respond, "Yes," at which point he suddenly leans over and kisses me. My mind chooses this moment to soar into the wild blue yonder again, leaving me floating somewhere between the clouds and my body. If you've ever had to actually pinch yourself to ensure that you aren't dreaming, you will know somewhat how I feel. This is better. God, is this real? I've dreamed about this moment for so long, so long, and now it's here, I can't believe this is actually happening, now what do I do? Oh God... I'm floating again. Our lips separate after about a million years and I look at him, vaguely caressing his face, and I sigh.
I lean my head on one knee, feeling the imprint of the afghan on my forehead, rubbing my toes to warm them. This room is colder than it was before; the inner fire is gone for now. Most of what I remember doesn't replay itself in any kind of order; it all tumbles together, instances following instances, moments chasing the heels of happenings over the blur of our four days.
We kiss and caress in his den, lying on the floor, my glasses and barrettes scattered unheedingly across the room. He whispers his words of love and passion in my ear as I clutch to him, biting and sometimes gnawing his neck fiercely. Occasional soft gasps punctuate the air as our lips part and meet again and again, his tongue running along the inside edge of my teeth, flick-flick-flicking his soft, wet tongue against mine.
In the kitchen we lean against the counter, and I pull the yellow elastic from his hair, pushing my fingers through its dark softness, shaking it out. His mustache and stubbly growth on his chin are rough against my lips and tongue, playing against the softness of his hair.
In the living room, he sits in a chair and I lean back with my head resting on the edge, facing away from him. My eyes are closed and all I am aware of in this world is his hands on my face. His fingers dance over me, touching my eyes, my ears, my nose, my lips. Especially my lips. He runs one finger across my lips, between them, over and over. I open and take his finger in my mouth, kissing it and letting it slide out again. I am vaguely aware of my hands moving over his legs on either side of me.
In his car as he prepares to leave me for the night, I lean into him through the window and we grope for each other, kissing and mouthing each other, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Despite the sleeting rain outside, I am sweating. I have found out that I like teeth, as does he. He bites my bottom lip, pulling away slowly, causing my insides to churn. I sink my nails into the back of his neck and bite him back. He twitches and shifts in the car seat, shivering suddenly. When we finally break from each other, half an hour has passed, and he needs to go home. I take his face in my hands and tell him in a whisper, "I love you." He breathes, "I'm in love with you too." I close my eyes and sigh, "Say it again..." and he does.
I heave a sigh and huddle in my chair, the afghan shielding me from the chilly darkness. We never made love, you know. I don't regret that, really; I know I'll be ready for that soon enough. Even if I didn't believe in holding out for my future husband, I don't know that I could have handled being with him. Because to be so close to him, to share with him the most intimate, emotional experience that two human beings can have, to meld and mesh with him, and then to have to leave him -- it would have killed me. Maybe not literally, but emotional cripplement is often as paralyzing as physical dismemberment. And to have and hold him, for even a little while, would have bound me to him so closely that I would not have been able to leave him for good last month.
A pang of bitter guilt stabs me and I hunch over under the afghan, staring intently at my words glowing at me: leave him for good. I did. I left him about a month ago -- a month ago today, in fact, as I look at the calendar. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice echoing in my mind, a voice cracking with sobs. It's damned frustrating hearing him cry and not being able to reach out to him; sometimes I wonder if the telephone was such a good idea after all. I shiver. It's cold, isn't it? Separated by miles of wires and cables, I tell him it's not going to work, and I have to hear his voice break as he asks me why, why. I explain to him as best as I can with my own voice trembling, it's for the best, we'd only regret it if it went on, please try to understand. (Please forgive me for hurting you.) I still care for you. (Please don't do anything stupid.) Then -- and this sends me into numbing, damning anger at myself -- he asks if he can still call me. If he can still maintain contact with me. Sure, I say. (Yes, oh God, yes, I couldn't stand it if you disappeared.) Then he guesses he'll talk to me later. Later, I say. Both of us postpone hanging up and severing the fragile connection between us. I feel like if I hang up the phone that I'll be stepping off the edge into a bottomless black pit. I feel like I've stabbed him and left him to die, broken and bleeding. Never mind all my logic and all the reasons now; all I can think about is that the first man I ever loved is wracked with pain and I caused it.
And the gnawing fear, the thing that causes me to go white at the very thought, the dread that haunts me, is that I know how little he values himself; and I pray against this: please God, don't let him do anything stupid. Please don't let him walk out in traffic without looking like he's been known to do. If I knew that I was the cause of that, I couldn't live with myself. My friend Mary would tell me I'm being codependent (as I am wont to do), and that I'm not responsible for anybody's actions except my own. True, but probably unimportant. It doesn't keep the guilt and anguish and regret from sending me to my knees, and it keeps me up nights, driving me to pour my heart out to a computer screen.