Almost Love: Part Two

He asks me to stay late with him, which isn’t the same as choosing me. I stay because there’s nowhere better I need to be, which isn’t the same as choosing him. Both together, though, is usually close enough.

Months have passed, and he’s become a bad habit, but not one I’m ever quite sick of enough to quit. Whenever I see him I want to unwrap him, like it’s my birthday, but I’m never sure if I mean his clothes or his heart.

His clothes fall away, but I leave mine on because I want him to ruin them. I want to feel like he really wants me, and I know he won’t-can’t-shouldn’t say the words, so I must give him other ways to show it. I want it fast and electric, like lightning, striking so fast it burns.

I’m always tempted to leave a mark on him, but that has tones of possession and if there’s anything I don’t possess, it’s him. I let him leave marks on me, though, mostly because I like the feeling of hiding them. The one part of him I can claim is this secret. It is the only thing we allow to be uniquely ours.

We both finish with our eyes closed, and I think that says everything relevant about our relationship. We are out of breath, running from our problems this way. Pretending they aren’t real, and devastating, and chasing us.

He still loves her, whether or not he’s spent the last few hours in my metaphorical bed. I can’t decide if I think staying with her is admirable or unforgivable. I wonder if there’s a difference; if he can be both at once. I wonder if he thinks about me when he’s with her. Maybe he thinks about her when he’s with me. I wonder if either of us will ever become what he wants, or if what he’s really saying is that both of us together is still not enough.

“You’re quiet,” he tells me, which is something men say when women are making them nervous. He’s wondering where my mind is, but that answer, too, is privileged. Telling him what I’m thinking is somehow more intimate than everything else we’ve done. I can’t tell him that any more than I can tell him what I think of his Queen. Neither conversation would be fair to him, and both would be more than he bargained for.

I tuck my emotions neatly away and finally meet the eyes of this man who doesn’t actually want to know. He tucks my hair behind my ear, reflexively, like he’s done it a million times but it wasn't me he was touching. I hate the implications. I think about them constantly.

“I’m fine,” I lie, because that is important for him to hear, even if he can see through it. He needs to believe I’m fine, and I care enough to let him hear the words. Plausible deniability. Let him imagine that all is well. Let him believe I am not tortured and conflicted, that the current status quo is my comfort zone.

I never demand more of him, because I am too afraid of what his response would be. I’m too afraid of knowing exactly where I stand. What’s that saying, about ignorance?

It breaks me a little every time we’re together, but I don’t tell him and probably never will. I tell myself I’m one of those people who’s better broken.

This is Part Two of a ten-part series called Almost Love. Please consider leaving a tip if you like this work!