She asks same question over and over: “do you love me?” like interrogation, as if trying to find a pattern, an anomaly in my response. Every time she does this, her pupils grow bigger covering most of the iris of her eyes, her expressions tense and her grip tight on my arm. Then when I say exactly what I said the last time, the way I said it, and the time before that, she kisses on my cheek, rubs my arm a bit, detaches her eyes, and sits at the edge of the bed away from me, pulling her shirt back on. She is into fiction and that makes me worried if she is secretly scripting her antagonist into my life. She is really good at finding out outliers so I make sure that my tone, my words don’t hint otherwise.
While she focuses at my mouth that just a moment ago had her tongue inside it, when I’m about to spill out those words, I sense again that the grip of her hand on my arm has deteriorated, the size of her pupils is a little smaller than the last time, her heartbeat isn’t as fast as it used to be, and her expressions calm. Although just like every time, I’m about to say I love her, I sense a growing hollowness inside me as if this would be the last time. I’ve been feeling, like I have this thing in my fists, a thing like sand, and no matter how hard I try to hold the grip, it is slowly slipping away through my fingers.
I don’t say anything this time, even when probably I love her even more. I’m not ready for the last time yet. She turns and sits at the edge of the bed, shirt over her shoulders, still unbuttoned. She looks calm from behind and I feel defeated as if she is leaving me with this hurricane inside my head and hard-to-spill love in my heart. She shuffles a bit in her position and my heart shudders thinking she is standing up to leave. I sit up, my motions swift, and hold her from behind. My palms land on her breasts, and my lips on her neck when I, with no power left in me, say it without stopping. I can feel the moist of my own breath twirling on her neck like it was my last, as if I’m about to die. Then I see her face in the mirror – satisfied, smiling, and her heartbeat through her left breast gains its pace again. But before I notice (that’s what she thinks) that she has been training me like a lab rat, she gently pushes my palms on her breasts, and starts guiding them in soft circular motions.
Originally published on ExposedEmotions.com