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My Hand on His Back

June 2, 2014

Sometimes when he was lying next to me, I would reach over and put my hand firmly on his back, or his stomach. I liked to imagine that everything that I felt for him was flowing from my heart through my hand and into his body, his heart and his mind. I imagined that by touching him I could transfer the truth of what I felt for him into his consciousness and he would know. He would sense what he was to me. He would understand all the things I couldn’t articulate with words.

The last thing he texted me before he got on a plane to India back in May of last year was, “I LOVE YOU.” We had met a month before. I thought he was young and foolish. But then I guess, I was too. Foolish, that is. Because I fell for him and told him I loved him too. He never said it to me in person. I don’t know why. He texted it often. “Love you,” or “my love,” but never to me directly. It would be the last thing I said to him as I cried in his shoulder.


I never really got mad at him, exactly. But I got annoyed or hurt a few times. It was then that his character would show itself and I would know why I was so drawn to him. Why it worked between us. One night, he was on the phone with someone speaking in Hindi as he lay next to me. I heard the words, “tomorrow afternoon, ok……tomorrow morning,” as he spoke in part Hindi and part English. It wasn’t until after sex that he came out of the bathroom and said, “I have to go. I have to meet someone first thing in the morning.” I was pissed. Not that he wasn’t staying the night but that he knew he wasn’t staying the night before and didn’t say anything. I coldly said goodbye and he left.

The next time we were together I asked if he was staying. “Yes!” he answered emphatically. “You were so mad at me last time.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I lied.

“Yes, you were,” he said. “You barely kissed me goodbye.”

I denied the truth. He pulled me in his arms and snuggled his face against my neck. “You can’t be mad at me,” he said.

“Oh, really?” I answered, teasingly. “Why can’t I be mad at you.”

“I have to do something so0000 bad, so awful, that it takes away all the good things I’ve done. All the meals I’ve cooked for you. All the great sex we’ve had together. All the kissing. The dinners and movies. The time we walked in the rain. How can I do something bad enough to take all that away. All I did was go home.”

I melted. I pushed myself down in the bed until I was eye level with him, held his face in my hands and looked into those eyes that had me under his spell and kissed him.

Once I was annoyed with him for another reason. I can’t remember what it was. Something about a cricket match. I did the usual Marie-thing and shut down. He asked to come over and I said, “Not tonight. I have a lot on my mind.” I was walking in the park and brooding.

He didn’t let it go. He asked questions and poked and prodded and teased and joked and cajoled until I let him in. He knew how to break the walls down. He never let me get away with shutting down. When he wanted to be with me he figured out how to be with me. By the end of the walk I was smiling and rushing home to shower and change, looking forward to being with him again.

The sex between us was wonderful but once, for whatever reason, I just wasn’t really into it. I don’t why. My chemicals were off. I enjoyed it but in a this-is-a-nice-message kind of way unlike the usual fireworks-are-going-off kind of way. As soon as he came out of the bathroom, he came right over to me, took my face in his hands, looked at me intently and said, “What’s going on in your head. Tell me everything.”

Whenever he knew I had something on my mind, he would get it out of me. I told him I wasn’t good at expressing myself. That I had never learned to do that. “Use lots of words,” he would say. “I’m not going anywhere. Keep talking until you’ve said everything. We have all night.”

Recently, we woke up together one Saturday morning. He turned over and cuddled up behind me and put his arms around my chest. I took his hand in mine and moved closer to him. He said in a whisper, “I want a picture of us, like this.”

I have that picture in my head.

I love you Z. Thank for showing me what a man can be to me. I hope you’re not the only one in the world.






From → Rantings

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