his finger is in her ass. he finishes that way. sometimes it's the other way around. he finishes with her finger in his ass. sometimes she finishes that way too.
if you ever write about us, and this, try not to make it too absurd. he tells her. she nods. she thinks he's stupid to fixate on the details like this one. a finger in the ass, one way or another, it takes up so little of their lovemaking time, let alone their time together. that it's silly.
she'd get to it, sure. why not. but only for a little levity. that's what she craves, at times. a levity, a freedom from the addiction to his weight.
a story by a woman
written by her
He drew me somewhere deeper and then became the only way I could breathe. Unfair, right? Especially because he was such a flake about it.
He called it solitude, that thing he wanted most he said.
Days would pass, storm by, and then he'd return to me disheveled and worn out from his time in solitude. I didn't know what I believed about him and what I made up. All I knew back then is that I wanted to be the ground he walked on, barefoot, all the time. I wanted to be the planet that contained him, gave him fertile rains and just the right amount of sunshine. I wanted to be the rocky soil that sometimes buried him. Then I'd be the Saint Bernard who sniffed him out of his hole and rescued him with my slobbery tongue. Desperate, right?
I know I seemed desperate for it but that's not it. It was about breathing remember?
It was about being able to breathe.
And he didn't need to kiss my face all tenderly like that. He didn't need to make me feel better about my history. Or like, how I saw myself. That, I liked myself more when I was around him, with him, cuz I could forget about myself. He had a way of lighting up a room. I say that, but he really did.
I know I must sound like a battered woman, a woman without inner confidence. But that's not it. This is about respiration. Being able to breathe. Feeling a reason, inspired, as long as his smell remained on my skin. I would've tattooed it on, his smell, if it were possible.
But it wasn't. It isn't. Life isn't that way. Like, we grow up but then suddenly stop. Like potted plants, our potential is already pre-determined until a gardener has a vision, pulls us out by the roots and transplants us into wilder earth. The wilderness. I feel like I'm in the wilderness, unable to breathe. And I'm cold.
So he hurt me once and when he did, I stayed where I was, away from him. In the cold, for awhile.
The End.
he said his friend said you can't shatter what was already broken. that she would rather disperse than wait around for your clumsy hands to put her back together just for the sake of easing the worries of your clumsy heart. he, still, he would've liked the chance to tell her he was sorry - for whatever it was worth, the role he played in their messy and brief affair.
