*
In bed, he answers my questions, sharing a long snaking ribbon of women starting with junior high crushes, high school sweethearts, art school fuck buddies, long-term girlfriends. He first kissed a girl when he was twelve. He lost his virginity at fifteen in the basement room of a girlfriend, her mother watching TV in the room above, loud enough for them to hear the muted sounds of the show. Sex has been easy for him, a natural part of his life. I picture these women. Each one brings a quick stab of acid to my mouth. I want to know their names, their ages, which ones he still keeps in contact with. I keep smiling as he reveals everything. It’s clear that he has never been taught shame.
Then he turns those blue eyes my way, nestles his head against my bare shoulder, sucks the skin in a kiss, and asks, “What about you?” I throw an arm over my face, say, “There isn’t a lot to tell. I lost it at twenty-two. In college. A guy.”
“What guy?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t remember his name. He was the brother of a friend. He was spending the night in the house we were in. It isn’t important.”
He rolls over me, pulls the arm away from my face. “It is important. It’s important to me.” I look everywhere but into his eyes. But he holds my head carefully in his hands and won’t let me look away even when the tears well up in the corners of my eyes. His gaze feels like knives carving away layers of my skin.
I push away from him, sit up with my arms around my knees, and say the easiest thing. “It’s fine for you. You grew up in America, where virginity is no big deal. But where I’m from, it’s the biggest deal. It’s a matter of life and death. It’s what mothers look for when they choose a bride for their sons. When the couple comes back from their honeymoon they have to bring the sheet with them to prove she was a virgin. Otherwise the family can decide she’s spoiled goods and discard her and then no one will marry her. And an unmarried woman … she’s nothing back there. That’s what I was brought up with. That’s why I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-two. Are you happy now?”
He pulls me gently back into his arms, kisses my face, whispers, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” I sigh into his shoulder. I have misled him. But this is what he expects to hear; this is the narrative people expect from me. Is it so bad to give it to them?
Later in the fogged bathroom, the heated water pulsing against my flesh, I wonder, when did I lose my virginity? Was it at twenty-two when that boy entered me? Or was it much, much earlier? Was it when I was a little girl with a spot of blood upon the curve of my foot? Was it in the months and years after that, when every footfall felt like a threat? And what was it that entered me? Who? I try to think about it clearly, but a white fog rises, makes me sleepy until the question itself loses meaning.
*
At first I say I can’t spend the night. I say I can’t sleep in a bed that isn’t my own. But a few months into our relationship, I get up to leave and he tugs me back and I fall asleep cradled by his body.
The nightmares come. Sharp objects. Skin tearing slowly. A child crying in a hidden place. Water crashing over my head. I gasp awake, gulp air. Daniel’s hands are trying to soothe me. He whispers, “Shh, shh. It’s all right.”
I regain myself quickly, my thudding heart reclaiming its pace. He says, “Jesus, what were you dreaming about? What happened? You were fighting me off. I’ve never seen anything like that. What was it?”
“Nothing, just bad dreams.” I grab my thrown-off shirt, wipe off my torso. He says, “Maybe you should see someone, see what they have to say. Seems serious.”
“Everyone has bad dreams.”
He says, “Not like yours. What was it?”
A corner of the room flares alit. Samson’s eyes. He is here, water falling from the surfaces of his face. He is alive, watching. I am filled with the certainty that, as was true in my childhood, there is nowhere to hide.
I say, “There’s nothing. I don’t remember. They’re just bad dreams.” I lie back.
He picks up a long curl of my hair, kisses it, says, “You can tell me, you know. It’s okay. You can tell me anything.”
I nod, but I know that there are some things you cannot tell. If I tell, he will know what I am, he will see through to the corrupt core of me. He nestles against my back and falls asleep, and I lie wide awake, jaw clenched through another half spin of the planet.