melancholy
I’ve been quiet all morning. We had a wild night last night. You saw my primal side trot out to play and your backside is still tender to the touch. We cuddled in bed, remonstrated about the state in which we left the kitchen, living room and bedroom, and kissed as the rush hour traffic died down outside.
But I’m quiet at the sink, mechanically washing up in my accustomed order: glass, plates, ironware, pots, the water starting off so hot the first items on the draining board are dry in seconds.
You come up behind me and slip your arms around me. Beneath my T-shirt you feel me stiffen. At first it makes you worry you did something wrong and you begin to pull back, but then you see me bow my head. A glance at my face confirms it: I’m fighting back tears.
You swoop in for a tighter hug and feel the muscles in my chest spasm in a stifled sob. With your cheek on the back of my shoulder, you tell me, “It’s okay, Andrew. What’s the matter?”
“Just drop,” I answer. We’ve talked about drop before: the backwash many people get after play, when the happy hormones retreat and feelings fray. I told you that many people get insecure or remorseful in its wake.
“Shh, it’s okay. Tell me about it.”
Your closeness, the softness with which you’re speaking, both seem to break me a little. You feel me breathing rapidly, trying to get myself under control, though a sob breaks through every now and then. I dry my hands with a towel and turn in your arms to look at you.
You take a good look at me, too. My eyes are red and rimed with tears but I smile to look at you. Then another wave of whatever’s on my mind crashes down, and the corners of my lips turn downward.
You take my hands and lead me to the couch. You indicate that I should sit on the floor, which I often do, and seat yourself behind me with arms wrapped around and knees squeezed either side. “Go on.”
“It’s silly. Right? But it’s this: I don’t want it to end.”
“Who says it has to end?” you say softly. My hair tickles your nose as you kiss behind my ear. Inhaling, you smell faint eucalyptus, an echo of my shampoo.
“It’s built into the start. And I love it and I hate it. I suffer from too much life, too much time. You shelter me from that. Instead of the… the emptiness out there, it’s you, standing in front of me and burning bright like a goddess.”
More kisses, your arms tightening to wrap around my chest. You’ve been with me long enough to know that talking like this with someone is the only way I seem to be able to work through what I’m feeling.
“And I don’t deserve you. No one could. So I give you deeply of myself. And I want to give so much more. But I can’t. And it kills me.”
“Shush,” you say, a little thoughtful yourself. “You give me plenty.”
“But you deserve everything. I dunno.” I raise my glasses to wipe my eyes dry. “I think this is because last night I took from you, not just gave. I… you enjoyed it, right?”
You nod, sending long black hair ticking all over my shoulders. I love the sensation. “It was nice to see you wanting things and taking them. Even if sitting on the couch is hard this morning.” You pinch my shoulder in fond remonstration.
I give you a bright grin, clearly feeling better. It fades quickly but leaves a mark: my expression is more peaceful.
“Sometimes when it gets bad, I think about how I could someday give you everything of myself. You’d take me away from pain.”
“Eventually.”
“Like a goddess.” I sit up on my knee and end up kneeling in front of you where you sit on the couch. My hands are so gentle where they hold your cheeks, like you’re an indescribably precious piece of art. “And I don’t want it to end. But I can’t wait. To give you everything. You understand?”
“No,” you say with a certain finality. It elicits another grin from me. Of all your prey, I know you only understand those who kick and scream.