don’t touch me

noFood

There are, I believe, two diametrically opposed elements that narrate our desire to keep coming back to each other.

One is our not even remotely knowing each other.

And the other is knowing each other so completely.

He’s allowed one overnight visit every four to six weeks. Today he showed up after an absence of 21 days.

“That’s cheating,” I wanted to say.

But I didn’t.

When I am quiet and submissive, I am never sure if I am being considerate of his feelings— his life—or my own.

“There’s no food in the house,” I tell him.

“I didn’t come for the food.”

After he rests, we go out for dinner.

The hostess leads us to a table with two chairs opposite a booth. My son and I slide into the booth side.

“Are you all right with a chair?” I ask him, after the fact.

He closes his wide hands over the chair’s crest.

“What?”

“Do you want the booth?”

He’s huge. Not just his physical body, but something about his presence. He towers over the young hostess, who is nervously waiting on us to get settled.

Eyes never leaving mine, he pulls out his chair and sits.

“I like this side,” he says, as our hostess relaxes slightly and starts to hand us our menus.

And then, “It reminds me of my time in prison.”

The sweet hostess turns and stares nakedly at him for a fraction of a second before blushing and hastening away.

I spread my napkin slowly across my lap, smoothing the soft fabric with my fingertips, fighting the tug at mouth’s corners.

When I gain enough composure to look up, I realize he has been staring at me the whole while, awaiting my reaction to his little performance.

This is a perfect example of our intimacy. A joke that makes no sense whatsoever, played on the unsuspecting, simply so that we can be pulled closer in each other’s orbit.

How pleased with himself he looks. And how it tears at my heart to see his looking such.

He’s profoundly beautiful to me. Many lifetimes ago I knew him as a shy, tender boy.

I can’t conceive of what I’d think of him now, had I not known him then.

Sometimes I try.

“Would I like you if I were meeting you for the first time?” I asked once, out loud.

“I doubt it,” he answered honestly and, probably, accurately.

He sleeps with his hands balled up in angry fists. He claims that he spent our years apart in the arms of whores. He’s abrasive and ill-tempered almost all of the time.

But somehow, when I look, I still see adorable innocence spilled all over him.

101 thoughts on “don’t touch me

      1. This is true, and the best ones are sometimes the craziest. i love this entry, and will definitely be reading more entries 🙂 i love the artistic touch you put on this, and this reminds me so much of someone i know!

  1. Oh, my. *mental shivers* Part of me is desperately curious to hear more and know if this is a true story or fiction. The other part thinks it doesn’t matter – either way, you’ve captured so many of the base notes of love. Attraction. Resistance. Doubt. Longing. A strange hope? The sense that nothing has ever been as real or exquisite as this one person.

    Thanks for sharing.

  2. This was beautifully written. I may not know the context or any of the backstory, but I still love the post. It definitely deserved being Freshly Pressed.

  3. New follower here. Your writing is evocative & compelling. Are these entries from a larger piece of work, or personas slipped into depending on….it’s effective and powerful.

    1. many are part of a larger work. here i have tried to group together vignettes that share a subtext. something in me likes the vagueness of “personas slipped into depending on…” thank you for this.

  4. This was do well written and enjoyable to read. Funny, it’s right along the line what I’ve been writing about, felt like we’ve shared some common experiences. : )

  5. Really enjoying these pieces. Couldn’t find an ‘about’ or a general page, so I’m posting here, but definitely keeping in mind the general body of work.

  6. Sensitive subject, but it seems a pretty real scenario…which is why I enjoyed it so much. I liked his performance but mostly “your” reaction to the performance, it is a emotion/nuance that writers seldom translates into words. Nice.

    1. oh, fresh ginger, please dry your tears. do you think this is about my son? it isn’t. (although that is such an interesting take.)

  7. i hear ya delusia…i was welled up reading your post – you took me to a part of my personality….fallen for someone so precious – so pure – so good that the good turned evil and yet i wanted to keep that relation yet i didnt have it.
    i wish you well. you are brave.
    moodsnmoments

  8. Is it fair to say, that you see the best in people? despite what their exteriors clearly say? congrats on freshly pressed by the way 🙂

  9. I first thought I was reading of a budding romance … until of course, the restaurant scene. You have a most beautiful way with words; don’t give up, I too was a broken soul.

  10. Wow. Excellent entry. I don’t see deep content like this much often. And in the form of novel/fiction, too. Great read! I’d love to see how the story progresses!

  11. Wow. This relationship is deep and complex and the writing evokes just those exact feelings.. I want to read more of back story on this! Reading this makes me want to know more about these interesting characters.

  12. I’m absolutely fascinated by your style of writing…love how the story unfolds to reveal your inner feelings.I’d love for you to visit my site and critique it whenever possible.
    Definitely following your blog! Cheers!

  13. Congratulations on being Freshly Pressed. I read your blog like religion..it’s grabs my soul and infuses me with the talents of your writing. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. Enjoy your newfound fame…you’ve certainly earned it.
    ~Dennis McHale http://www.dlmchale.com

  14. Goodness, are you writing about your own experience? Sorry, I’m new to your blog and I absolutely love it.

  15. I like the concision here. I personally think of blog posts as a light, fresh fruit that we nosh on between heavy meals of our long, tedious days.

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