Behind the Front Door May, 2013. volume 1. | Page 17

17

It would have never occurred to me he would notice if I stopped looking towards the water for answers, last summer. But tonight at dinner, while I was playing with my mashed potatoes, he asked me if I was still with him.

Of course I am, I answered. I'm sitting here with you, eating food...I'm here. I tapped myself between my breasts and picked up my fork to finish playing with food. He keeps looking at me, as though waiting for something else. I start fiddling with my can of Pepsi, wondering what else I had to answer for...this seemingly rude interruption to my inside thoughts...thoughts on the inside.

He sighs that beautiful sigh and looks over his glass of wine, into my direction. He's not meeting my eyes, and I think perhaps he's not really seeing me.

I just noticed last summer; you didn't go out to the waters edge as you normally do. You know...for the whole 'thinking' bit you always do, every year...at the water, he says.

I think back to the summer, realizing that I indeed hadn't spent any time at the water. I think back to what I was doing last summer. I was reading. I was writing. Taking photographs. Making love in the old chair by the window...with him. How could he think I wasn't with him then? I wonder if this is the 'talk' that people have when they decide they can't last with another. I wonder if I should say something about the potatoes or the wine to take the attention or the direction away from what we really might be talking about.

I'm with you, I say...staring into those dark brown eyes...I want to draw circles around his eyes with charcoal. He doesn't blink. I think that perhaps I shouldn't blink either, to indicate I am taking this whole thing seriously. This is adult relations?

I'm starting to feel ill, I say. I feel like throwing up. He puts his wine glass down, gets out of his chair and comes to my end of the table. He lays a hand on my hair, brushing it away from my eyes. He leans in, and lays a kiss below my ear. Nausea retreats. I close my eyes, wondering what the hell is happening. What am I supposed to say or do here?

I only ever wanted this, he says. Whispering in my ear so I feel the words, rather than hear them. I nod my head slowly. I think of mashed potatoes. I think of him, looking up at me from that old chair by the window last summer. I think of the insides and how he seemed to know exactly where to lay his hands and other parts so that I knew it was him and not someone else. I didn't have to open my eyes at any point during the whole thing...with him.

I open my mouth to say something, not even knowing what was coming out until the words rolled around in my mouth and fell into the silence between us.

All we have is this, I say. Why do I have to say it all the time, I ask.

Flash