If She Only Knew

I read this story, once, about a watch gifted by the devil in exchange for untold success. This watch, see, had the power to stop time. The bearer chose the time and place he was most happy, most content, and pulled the knob on the watch so he could live in that pristine, happy moment forever. Only that moment never arrived.

It was a gift from the devil, remember? Wise in the way of human nature, the devil could make such a deal because humans are never happy in the moment, they don’t appreciate what they’ve got without dreaming of something better. In the story, this poor slob lived the high life, enjoying wealth, women, and song, eyes always fixed on something better that never came. If there was a moral to the tale I can’t rightly remember, I only know what I got out of the story. Few humans realize what they have in the moment of having it. What a waste we are.

I think this is the moment to stop time, as we lay here, only one of us sleeping. The blinds play a game of light and shadow against the ceiling for me. Early morning, the sun peeks through the shaded window at us, entwined. She sleeps away the afterglow, dark hair tangled in mine, snoring softly against my neck, oblivious to the demons sharing our bed.

I told her not to love me, once, I told her about the demons in my head. She just laughed-I’ll love them, too-kissed me, and took us both to bed. Going to bed cures everything, and she believes this with all her heart. Sometimes, when I won’t talk-when I can’t talk-she’ll sit on the edge of the bed and rub my back. Like she actually understands I couldn’t form words to save our lives. I usually end up crying, and she understands that, too. We create life between us in this bed, as much a child of our own making as biology can give. So far, it works for us.

There was another woman in this bed before she boldly introduced herself to me. Another woman a little older than us both; unfortunately no wiser than any of us. The other woman filled my bed, but left nothing in her wake. The sexual energy was incredible! It arched between us like a circuit breaker in a lightening storm. A tingle, a delicious pain, a desire to experience the shock a second time. In that afterglow I felt blinded by darkness, vaguely sated and aching for more.

And when I got more it only left me feeling starved. I love you was a game with no winners, played to enhance the chase. She told me, once, that she would ruin me for another woman. Part of me hates her still. For leaving. For showing me what love can be between two women. For opening my eyes to the things I hate about myself. I hate her for the things about myself I won’t change. If I could have her back tomorrow I wouldn’t know how to say no.

The real-life woman pressed warm and tight to my side at this moment, she knows there were other women before her. She knows I came to her less than she deserves. And she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care to talk about my previous relationships, preferring to let the past die a natural death. The worst she ever says of them, after tears are dried and I’m back in my own head, is a gentle commentary of me. “You had some lousy taste in women, sweetie.”

She moved into the scary place inside me, but the emptiness she displaced can feel bigger than us both, on a morning like this. It never leaves quietly, I’m told. I am in an awful dilemma. I ache when we are apart. I feel whole and good when we are together. I want to cling to her but I don’t know how to do that without losing myself into her. She wants more than what we have; she said so, asking for a special gift in the moments after passion was spent last night. I knew it was coming as surely as I know I will give in to her request. I am selfish, I do not want to go through what she asks.

Yet I will concede, because I do not want her to think me selfish. If I deny her this will she leave me to my demons, as others have before her? Will I lie awake on another morning, with another woman in my arms, old memories of her ripping at my soul? If she suspected, for an instant, how close I’ve come to cutting myself off from the normalcy she represents, would she hate me as I sometimes hate myself? I don’t have these answers this morning.

I want to shift, to move away from her patient heartbeat pounding into my side. I am afraid my poisonous thoughts will infect the special relationship we share. We are too close; she is too aware of me for my own comfort. This is all too frightening to contemplate, a woman who loves me as I love her. She knows every inch of me, inside and out, she must know the magnitude of what she asks of me. I am appalled at the trust she places in me, terrified by the commitment it confirms. How can I be ready for children when she makes me feel like a newborn child myself?

My desire to move, the subtle tension of muscles where there had been nothing but cool flesh to soft skin, has woken her prematurely. I can feel the soft brush of short eyelashes on the curve of my right breast as she orients herself. I feel her satisfied smile as her hand cups my other breast and my nipples respond like the traitors they are.

“We can start with a puppy, if you’re worried about being a good parent,” she says, sitting up with the covers over her modest chest. It gives me the space she knows I need. “I wouldn’t ask if I thought you’d fail. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

I wish she’s stop reading my mind like that.