Sunday, August 8, 2010

the easy way

He isn’t my boyfriend, not really. He isn’t my anything, which is an arrangement I like because it means that I am not his, either. That’s important.

He says I deserve a real boyfriend. He says he wants to take me out to dinner. When he is putting his clothes on and I am rolling over and pulling the blanket tighter around myself, closing off the spaces he left behind, he says that he is going to be a good boy and call me soon. He starts work at six. I sleep until eight.

We have sex with the lights off. His hands and mouth stay within designated safe zones. He does not try to touch my stomach, where it begins to fall over itself, or the sad, inverted curve where my waist meets my hips. His hands move, always, upward from my knees, never the other, more perilous, way down.

And maybe he does this because I have made it the easier way. I wear skirts that slide up, that sometimes don’t even need to be moved out of the way, they suddenly just are up, or fallen down, as if they’ve been like that all along, just waiting for his hands to cover the gaps in the fabric.

Maybe he does this because he is as wary as I am of the other direction. Maybe he recoils, a little, as I do, from the body I try so hard to hide.

His hand moves up, and as it moves, it flicks off, one by one, the switches in my brain, like the last man leaving the office and turning off the lights for the night. First I lose words, then vision and hearing, then smell. Once smell goes, I lose memory. I no longer exist in a time and place, I am no longer part of a sequence of events and so I cannot tell you how long I last there, in limbo, until his hand moves to the last light, where his hand lingers, where his hand pushes and rocks and the light goes out and I am lost.


kina sai said...

this is beautiful angela, this post. as you are beautiful.
i owe you a tiny something in a matchbox which has been a long time coming...

kina sai said...

update: i just read this again and i saw there was a comment on it and i thought, i bet i wrote that comment, and sure enough.
it makes me so annoyed because there aren't hundreds of comments on your posts and you have not yet quite reached world domination status like angelina jolie. it makes me angry because when i read this post again, and you know, all the others i've just stayed up ALL NIGHT reading, it makes me want to give up on writing. and now i am also freshly annoyed with myself because i haven't sent you a small something in a matchbox even though i promised you about two years ago and i walk past it several times a day. i am so irritated by my own feebleness right now i must go to sleep. x