O (Part 3 of 10)

He kisses me on the cheek first and then on the lips. This is what he always does.  And if he leaves before I do he always gives me a kiss.  I have no idea why since it is never long before we see one another again.  His kiss is exactly the same whether he is kissing me goodbye or hello, whether it is in the morning or right before bed, whether he just saw me 30 minutes ago or whether he’s come back from a long visit away with his family.  Always the cheek first, close to the corner of my mouth and then on the lips.  Half the time his lips are chapped and cracking and I hate the way they feel against mine but I never tell him this.  I never would have imagined the span of a few seconds can feel so tortuous. 

My memories are funny things and sometimes when I close my eyes to remember or I look through old photo albums – its weird being able to remember when photos existed more in binders and clear plastic sheets than on computers and phones – I can feel exactly how I felt during those moments.  But when I close the book or open my eyes the feelings leave in an instant and even though I know this is going to happen it is still always somehow a surprise.  I am detached from both the people in those old photos and what’s around me has started to look decayed.  There’s a dull throbbing between my temples and more and more it sparks a sudden rush of panic and my brain’s instant defense response – deniability – has become almost completely ineffective. 

Yet there is so much beauty to be found around me if I look close and if I have the will.  I want to create and give life to new and exciting things.  It springs forth from my fingertips without effort sometimes.  The image is in my brain and then it is reality and I can give it to someone and see them smile.  Or sometimes it is not effortless at all and it is grueling and painful but I love that too and there is almost nothing more to which I’d rather devote my time.  Why are we denied so much of this? 

I made you a scarf.  I don’t know why I did not tell him this.  I’ve made things for many people before.  What was different about this?  I only worked on it when he wasn’t around and even though it was only gray and black I spent a silly amount of time looking at different shades.  It took about five times as long to make as it should have and I loved every second of its creation.  I hid it in my purse one morning; wrapped it in paper and placed it underneath my gloves and checkbook and little orange bottles of pills.  My insides fluttered in a way I did not think possible anymore on the day I gave it to you.  I waited until no one else was around.  You said you loved it and I believe you.  It is a moment I travel back to often but only when I’m alone. 

On Sunday mornings I worship and I pray and then I spend the rest of my time sinning.  I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore.  Maybe that doesn’t make me as much of a hypocrite as I used to be but I imagine it’s all the same to God.  I don’t want to pretend.  I love both of you more than anything and that will never change.  Every morning I wake up and I still feel the same pride and happiness as on the first days that I knew you and the first days when we finally met.  But neither of you are going to be with me for much longer.  I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend when you’re gone.  That’s the fear that presses down on my chest in the middle of the night and makes my heart beat a little faster around closing time where our roles become more defined and far less easy to hide from. 

There is much more than this.  You were right when you said that to me.  Even though it’s something I’ve known for years I keep that thought locked up tight somewhere.  But why did you say that? How could you have such desperation in your eyes?  How could you feel exactly what I’m feeling?

I said you shouldn’t be walking.  I can give you a ride there.  That’s what I wanted to say.  There would be no harm in that.  I can give you ride and make sure you’re safe.  I’ll turn on the radio or put on something from my phone and we can talk about music.  You can tell if you liked that book.  You can tell me where you grew up.  We can talk about where we would go. 

I only feign indifference.  You must realize that on some level.  I want you to be happy.  This desire was unexpected and wonderful.  I’m not allowed to feel it but sometimes I let it happen just for a little while.  If nothing else I want you to remember that I wish you heaven.  I don’t know why it’s important to me but maybe if that’s all there is then maybe that will be enough.  When so many weeks pass by I start to worry we will never see each other again but this is never true.  You never stay away for too long.  I don’t allow myself to indulge but someone joked – thankfully not to him – that you are weak and powerless and in love.  I allowed myself to believe that for a day.  I experienced more happiness than I’d ever dreamed.  Then I banished those feelings.   

This is all only fantasy.  A wish fulfillment of the saddest and most obvious kind.  Of course, I am incapable of truly understanding.  This is all shattered ego and tortured desire screaming for attention.  But it is nothing worthy of a second thought. 

You told me once that you liked to paint.  I would love to see one of your paintings.