We
wake up late. And waking, there is this feeling of a cloud in my
head.... which feels so heavy. I cannot move from where I sleep.
Slowly, I realize I am caught in Bran's limbs and fingers.
We
have nothing planned for the day. Tomorrow we meet again with Jean
Paul and others from the office.
There
is a vague disturbance I cannot place....
I
think about how it felt to kiss him under the Parisian sky.
Forgetting we are in public. That other language people speak in,
where the real truth is spoken without words and sometimes through
fetishes. Those secrets that come out in the bedroom by someone who
has stumbled upon a legend. It feels, with him, there are no taboos.
That is the mind fuck with him. It is what I am addicted to about
him.
I
think about last night. There is something about being with him.
Being under his influence. It brings out something. Secret
doorways.... with long-lost buried keys. Keys that are
legends. But what is the point of keys and legends if the master set
has been usurped by another master? He never asked permission.
That
feeling of losing one's self. I fall through his eyes into his soul.
With all the trappings of baggage and bondage. His and mine. It
feels as if something that I had long thought to be true about myself
has been proven false.
As
I lie awake, I don't move. There is a part of me that wants to pull
away. Hide. But I am caught in him, tangled in his arms and fingers.
Seaweed arms that wrap like tentacles around my mind. I am not used
to this. I am not used to closeness. It scares me. Usually.
I
know that I am in love with him, but I cannot say the words. Not out
loud. Not to him. Because to say them to him, it would seem there was
an ulterior motive. But it is not the words; whether said or not, or
thought or not, or admitted or not.... it is something else which
disturbs me. I am confused why
I let him in. Because I should know better. As we only have short
intervals together-- only I think this is why .... it seems
safe because I can see the exit clearly. But this is a delusion. And
I am deluded. Because I don't think I let him. I didn't. But every
time we are together again he passes more cleanly through my walls.
And each time it takes him less time to accomplish this. And, really,
there is no need to run away, when running away is what we will
inevitably do. We will run back to our real lives.
So,
really, this is the dream.
I
know next week I will be back in Detroit and all of this will be
over. Why does that life seem like a lonely, sad, dream that I
finally got to wake up from? My relationship with Bran is like
constellations you see in the sky that seem to move away, or planets
and moons that move in orbits. We come close and then we part. I
wonder how long it is possible to keep doing this. Because each time
we become closer. And each time it becomes harder to say good-bye. To
let go. The loss each time we part. And each time, I am slammed by
something like a tidal wave. Left emotionally beached. Emotionally
stranded.
He
says in a husky whisper,
“I
know you're awake. What are you thinking about?”
I
go to move but I am still caught in his fingers. I say,
“that
this is the dream.”
He
sighs and coaxes with his fingers, he strokes my hair to keep me from
moving. Like I am a pet. And then it makes me feel too sleepy to
move.
“Beth....”
And for awhile there is silence, but I know that he is thinking of
what to say. I feel his mouth kiss my head. He says, “I know that
what we do is deceptive to the people in our lives.... but... I
realized something about life when we weren't talking.... we do
choose what we have.... and I realized I can't stand the idea of you
not being in my life.... life returns to being flat and tasteless....
when there is no you.... but I can't leave my family and I know you
know that and I know you can't leave your life either. At least not
now.”
“No,
I would never ask you to leave your family....” I tell him and sigh
too because this is an exhausted subject. But after awhile I find
another one to change it.
“I
see now that you obviously had all of this planned,” and turn to
look up at him, “all this with Jean Paul, I mean.”
His
smile is wolfish and reminds me of last night, how we made love. How
we fucked. And feel it burn everywhere through me.
He
smiles,
“your
skin is transparent, I can see you blush everywhere.... Open
your legs.”
He
moves over me, his hands on my knees, opening me more as he sinks
down and into me and pulls me with him into his rhythm.
****
Later
we don't feel like going anywhere. We stay in while it rains outside.
He has brought his guitar with him and he plays for awhile. I like to
listen and watch him when he plays. He has a nice voice when he
sings. It is an acoustic guitar with a warm and deep, hollow sound.
And then when he says that he is hungry, I go into the kitchen and
find things to make from things we picked up at the shops. I make one
of my own inventions, spinach “pesto” with feta cheese and
pasta. I put things out on the glass dining room table and set
places, fold napkins. But when he comes over, he wants me to sit on
his lap instead. What is this need between us to have to always be
wrapped around each other, always touching? Like a compulsion. And so
we eat this way, sharing food.
He
says putting food in my mouth,
“you
need to open a bank account.”
“You
know we have one.”
He
says,
“no.
Your own.”
“Bran,
Dean will think this is strange. It will make him suspicious.”
“Beth--
he needed money and you saved his ass, didn't you? So....” and
shrugs in that way he has, “tell your husband it is a business
account. There's a European/American bank I use. We can open an
account tomorrow. After we see Jean Paul...”
“Why
does this matter so much to you?” I ask.
“Because
I think you need someone to teach you about money,” he tells me
very seriously.
I
don't answer. It is ridiculous. I don't care if he is right ….because
it is possession. And it is control. And loss of control. And it is
loss of control from the ones in control.... it is in love.
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