She looks down at the mat we’re both now standing on and back up to my eyes. “We,” she says. “You’re not alone, Seamus. I’m here.”
I hug her, and I let everything bad drain out of me. But I don’t give it to her. I let it siphon down from my head through my torso and legs and out my feet, just like opening up the drain in the bathtub. I can feel the fear and tension escape, if only for the moment.
And I feel her doing the same thing. The hug that started out strong, more physical than emotional, as if we both needed to prove that we were here and present for each other, lessened in grip and shifted to something more emotional and supportive. And it feels every bit as intense in strength.
“So much more than thank you,” I whisper in her ear.
“So much more,” she whispers back. And in those words I hear my soft place to land again, but I also feel a change in both of us. That wasn’t just acceptance of my appreciation, it was also an admission. A desire.
I’m at odds with my conscience. All too aware of the woman pressed against me. A woman I want to get lost in, if only tonight. I’m mapping out boundaries and lines in my mind. Lines I shouldn’t cross. And then my mouth is working on the specifics without me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Faith?” I ask it softly, like a wish, into the indentation of her collarbone.
“No,” she whispers.
I hear the word. I understand its meaning. But what makes heat thread through my veins is the hesitant, sadly hopeful tone of her voice. Hope that pleads for consequences…immediate consequences.
Consequences that have me arguing away lines and boundaries and touching my lips to her skin. Her shoulders lift slightly into the contact before settling out on a silent sigh.
I chase the sigh with my lips…and then with the tip of my tongue, tracing the hard line of her collarbone to the base of her neck.
Her hands twist up the back of my t-shirt in response.
I’ve always romanticized that physical intimacy should be a conversation. A loving exchange back and forth. I’ve never had a partner who was a willing conversationalist.
Until now.
Fingertips brush faintly up the backside of an arm, wrist to shoulder, raising goosebumps in response.
Warm breath against skin, exhaled on a patient pause between kisses below an ear, elicits a shiver.
A shifting of stance tucks one leg between two, the two hug it in return.
The initiation of a kiss, soft and tentative, is welcomed by parted lips.
A shirt removed is reciprocated with the shedding of the other.
Touch for touch.
Kiss for kiss.
Heart for heart.
Trust for trust.
It’s all traded until the line I drew in my mind earlier is approached, if not mildly crossed already. I don’t retreat, but I don’t take it any further. She doesn’t push it either and seems perfectly content to continue the conversation without the introduction of sex.
Even when we move to the couch and she sits on my lap straddling me, all of the conversation happens from the waist up. The pace and intensity vary like the waves of the ocean I love to watch. Some swells are low, no break, just a gentle ease. And some swells are high, all whitecaps, intensely crashing in with passionate frenzy. The ebb and flow is so natural that I obey every instinct without hesitation. Hesitation requires doubt or uncertainty, neither of which are possible when I’m touching Faith.
An easy hour passes, and as it does our bodies begin to meld with each other as the blissful, satisfying blanket of exhaustion envelopes us. Slowly, so slowly, we’re pulled under until her head is resting on my shoulder, my head tilted, her forehead against my neck, our torsos contently accepting each other’s touch as the precursor to a final hug. And the last thing I hear before we both fall asleep, is a whisper, “So much more.” It sounds like an appeal to my soul.
Botox, overcoats, and destiny
past
Seamus goes through ups and downs with his MS. It appears to subside and then returns in a furious, vicious, illogical circle. Not that I’m a supporter; I bear witness to the struggle when I’m home, which isn’t often. The feeling returned in his legs but was replaced by pain. He doesn’t complain, but I see how it affects him when he moves, when he walks. His gait isn’t fluid, there’s tenderness and a tentativeness that gives him away. It’s unattractive. I know that sounds callous, but even though his face still looks like a goddamn model, I can’t get past the incompleteness I know exists physically.
For the year after Kira was born, I turned to Seamus because Loren backed away from me sexually. I ignored the lack of attraction because in the darkness of our bedroom his performance was never lacking. I could have sex with Seamus and think of Loren.