unwelcome distraction
It’s always easier in the dead of night.
Under the cover of the silver moon with nothing but the stars as judgment, shedding my uncertainty is as easy as shedding my clothes. Blanketed in darkness, my shame can’t taunt me from the mirror, and the rationality in my head screaming all the ways this is a terrible idea is silenced by his rough lips against my neck, his quiet words of affirmation.
It’s easier to block the noise and red stop signs as calloused hands travel up my bare skin. When his body presses against mine, rushes of relief slide down my chilled skin and all the walls I boarded up between us melt away. The lines between what I want and what I need blur together so closely that crossing them is like crossing an abandoned country road.
His shadow dances on the wall, encouraged by the lit candle on my nightstand meant to cleanse the heady air with sweetness and wash away the sins I’ve made against my own virtues. The ghost once haunting my empty hall now has a physical body, one he maintains until the universe says it’s time for him to pass on again.
We shouldn’t do this, I whisper.
The best things in life are worth pursuin’, he answers. I see myself in those hot whiskey eyes burning with endless desire. I see what he sees, but it doesn’t truly reflect the agonizing loss of face threatening to overcome my very sense of self.
Yet, I offer him everything I promised myself I wouldn’t. My body, my heart, my soul; he carries it with him in the back pocket of his jeans, shuffled with his lighter and the pack of those cigarettes he cherishes on my back porch.
It’s easier to do this when the world is sound asleep and we’re the only ones whispering our deepest secrets in the unlit night.
The moon faded in the black, though. The stars twinkled out, and the ashes from our fire stain my bedsheets and our tangled limbs. The golden sun creeps along the blue horizon, casting its soft light through my pale curtains. Birds chirp and chitter their wakeup calls, but the only sound louder than that are the hushes snores tickling the shell of my ear.
Strong arms lay coiled around my body, the subconscious notion that if he lets go, I’ll float away and never return. I turned my back to him, but he only pulled me taut against the broad expanse of his chest. Even when we’re asleep, I can’t let myself become a stranger to everything locked inside my heart.
My soul tears in two the more my bedroom blurs into focus.
I’m a traitor to myself. All the promises I made, all the vows to move on and forget what he’s made of me lay tattered on the floor amongst our trail of clothes. What happened to the woman secure in her independence, the one who didn’t need his baritone reassurances or that beautiful smile or that laugh that leaves her heart fluttering? There are plenty of men out there that won’t leave me feeling like a leaf crushed beneath the heel of his boots. Why am I letting him suffocate me with his silver tongue and cigarette smoke?
The worst part is, there’s a part of me that can’t hate this. Through the dredges of shame and the haze of self-made empty promises, there’s a glimmer of hope. I should stamp it out, because glimmers turn to sparks which turn to flames which turn to ashes. But I can’t.
When he’s beside me, holding me like I’m the one thing anchoring him down to normality, the truth isn’t as black and white as I want it to be. I’m not ashamed. I’m not proud, either, but I cling to the idea of what we should be the way I’m clinging to him now. I want to believe so badly that deep within his soul, he’s the same.
But I suppose there’s a difference between what we should be and what we are.
I slowly remove myself from his grip, careful to not wake him. I’m not sure where he was before he knocked on my door last night, but exhaustion pulled down his heated movements as he guided me to my bedroom. If there’s anything I know about him, though, it’s that pillows and blankets are far and few in between. That wandering soul needs peace, even if it’s for a little while longer.
My body protests against the absence of his hat, and goosebumps quickly prick my exposed skin. There’s a crisp bite in the air, a warning of the changing seasons. Autumn slipped through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, but winter . . . winter will slow down the clock. It always does.
My heart aches deep within the confines of my chest, frozen from the cold truth and melting from all the tender feelings he stirs up. The familiar sting of anguish pricks at my eyes as I push back the strands of auburn hair falling in front of his face, my fingers brushing his temple. The three words linger on the tip of my tongue, begging to be whispered in the voiceless morning, but I swallow them down. I can’t remember the last time I let them free.
The first thing I do is collect my pajamas and slip them on. The cotton shorts and tank top don’t fare well against the cold, but it’ll do until my hands wrap around a mug of coffee. Two years ago, I would’ve buttoned up his shirt over my own torso, leaving half of it undone to leave little to his imagination, but time changes things in the littlest ways. This was one of those things.
Crossing the few feet from my bed to the mirror, I catch all the details that build up to make him so familiar. His boots under my bed, that gaudy belt buckle glinting in the morning light beneath his jeans. His hat was abandoned somewhere at the front of the house - it was the first thing to go.
There are billions of people in the world, all with their own stories and unique individualities. Just as our thumbprints or the snowflakes that will soon blanket the grass, none of us are the same as another. We’re intricate beings, crafted specially by our experiences and everything we’ve ever loved.
But there’s just something so uniquely exceptional about him. There are other men out there, but none will fit the hole he leaves in my life. Despite everything, all his flaws and mistakes and regrets, his past is nothing more than a stained footnote in the story of his life. He’s got both feet on the ground and marches toward a bright future he’ll create with his own two hands.
He’s the eighth wonder of the world.
And he chose me.
Why?
He could have anyone he wants in his bed. He knows this. He uses it to his advantage. He’s as rare as a blue moon hung in the night, yet he wastes this on me. In the sky full of stars he shines in, I’m the dwarf who’s fading light barely flickers upon our world.
I like to think I’m secure in my own skin, but with him, there’s always a nagging in the back of my head dropping seeds of doubt that root into my brain and spread like weeds. My reasoning assures me that I don’t need to be threatened, but the long-standing shadow of insecurity that lingered long before he kicked through the window of my normalcy begs to differ.
I shake these thoughts off, even if they’ll just crawl back in through my ears later.
But I can’t deny these weeds tore apart the faith I harbored that I could be the only woman he presses his lips against. I don’t know where he goes when he’s gone, and at this point, the sickening anxiety that knowing will shatter my bandaged heart stops me from asking. Ignorance is bliss, and he silently acknowledges this when the brush of his fingertips against my cheek forces me to focus on what’s in front of me rather than what’s in my head.
When I step out of the bedroom, the house is hauntingly quiet. It’s a far cry from the hushed whispers and soft moans that echoed through the halls last night. Shameful heat rushes to my cheeks as the memories rise to the surface of my sleep-laden mind. Every touch, every burning kiss tingles my skin as my body wakes up and retraces all the steps it took in the darkness. We shouldn’t have done this. Every time we do, it just complicates the web of heartache we’ve woven.
On my way to the kitchen, I cross the exact spot I gave into the feelings I promised myself I’d keep locked behind my caged heart. His worn cowboy hat lies on the hardwood floor, mere feet away from the front door. I gingerly lift it up, wipe off the speckles of dust that gathered overnight, and place it on the coatrack. How is it that a detail as minor as this makes me agonize inside all the same?
Remnants of him scatter throughout the house. An extra toothbrush next to the bathroom sink, more plates and forks than a person living alone would know what to do with. Outsiders gather the courage to ask where my husband is, and through the stabbing pain in my chest that’ll one day rip me to shreds, I answer that it’s just me, it’s always been just me, it’ll always be just me. The second coffee cup I pull down from the cupboard means nothing, the extra brewed espresso is for me and me alone.
I squeeze my eyes shut to dam up the flood of tears desperately rushing towards their escape. Wishing things were different is the greatest way I torture myself. So many times, I pray I could have lived life without turning down this path, but I couldn’t stop my feet from traveling when he took my hand and promised the journey wouldn’t hurt like this.
I’m constantly torn between embracing this reality as it is and indulging in fantasies. Every day I wake up and I’m reminded of everything I have and everything I could have, and it tears my stitching in two.
I’d never force him to choose between me and the life he wants to lead. He’s a vagabond; the last thing in his racing mind is settling down. He’s assured me that it’s what he wants . . . eventually. Neither of us can tell when ‘eventually’ will be.
The moment we met, I knew he was capable of breaking my heart. Men like him don’t settle down in one place for very long, and being mixed with someone like me, who craves stability and wants to love and be loved, was the perfect recipe for disaster.
Everything I’m mad at myself for isn’t out of selfishness, it’s out of what I feel for him. Moving on would mean he’d be able to live the life he chooses. Not needing him means he’d pursue better things. Every time he knocks on my door, it’s a painful reminder that he still feels the nag to be with me when there are more important matters in his life, things that are far more crucial to his being than me.
There’s a quiet acceptance in his eyes when he looks at me. He won’t force my hand into staying. I could scream at him all the horrible thoughts that overcome me when I’m at my loneliest, and the only thing he’d do is tip his hat, nod, and ride off into the sunset. I could wake him up right now and tell him to never come back, and he’d walk out the door and never be heard from again. My choices lay as bare as we do in the morning, and he ensures I know that no matter what, he’ll take the ending as it comes, whether it’s the happily ever after or the tragedy that leaves both of us scarred.
This is part of what makes it impossible. Staring out at the pale morning through frost-fogged glass, my inner truth fades into view. It’s obscured by the lies I tell myself and the shadow of doubt, but it’s there.
I think there’s some part of him aware that our way of doing this isn’t enough for me. There may be a deeper part of him that knows it isn’t enough for him, either. We could talk in circles all day, protesting and reassuring and spouting ‘what-ifs,’ but we can’t waste anymore breath without losing what little time we have together.
I could walk away from him. He’s given me the green light. He won’t ask me to wait if I don’t ask him to stay.
But the truth is, I’ll never be able to shut him out.
The love I have for him runs deep in my veins. What started out as a quiet emotion became a part of the oxygen my body needs; without it, I’d suffocate. His rough hands and lips are the medication, the Band-Aids that heal wounds I can’t reach. When he’s neither in promise nor bodily presence, all that remains is my love for him. Even if I were to move on, my heart stopped its search when we first met. It no longer seeks the path of devotion because it reached the end when he held out his hand and coaxed me into paradise. It was so simple for him, with his eyes and voice, his touch, his unwavering confidence and intoxicating charm. No one will ever compare. I don’t want them to. My heart was locked in a different room, and he was the only one with the key. If I abandoned this, whatever we want to call it, it wouldn’t be a betrayal to him. It’d be a betrayal to me.
I can’t go back. Now that I’ve felt the real thing, trying to revert to what I once was will be like crawling inside a shell that doesn’t fit anymore.
All the miles between us are lined with the memories of the brief time we have together. It’s so silly. It’s so real. So frustrating. So painful.
No matter how much I try to tell myself it isn’t worth it, that a day will come where I’ll shed the skin that craved him, I’m a liar in the mirror.
A liar whose heart will one day kill her.
