Caroline

The shudder subsided, and all I could hear was our breathing, his and mine.

La petit mort, the French called it. “The little death.” The moments following climax. I called it the closest point to knowing God. That period of feeling no pain, no worries; of disembodiment; of connecting to heaven with my soul; of absolute rapture.

The smell of the vanilla candle was overpowered by the muskiness of his sweat, his cologne and lotion, his merging of bodily fragrances. Tomorrow morning, I’d awaken to his scent on my pillow. It would evoke memories and feelings, perhaps smiles, and I’d reach for the empty space and miss the warmth of the person who should have been sleeping there. But tomorrow seemed so far away.

The flame cast jumpy shadows against the ceiling, glimpsed through strands of wild hair. His bodyweight was comforting, the muscles relaxed and pushing down on me. I had the taste of his sweat on my lips, the dew of our perspiration on my brow, the trail of wetness running down my neck. He placed a hand against my thighs. They were still trembling--the aftermath of our lovemaking. Soon, the shaking would diminish. Then my body would cool; my skin would dry; my nipples would hurt. I’d be me again.

I caressed his neck, kissed his cheek, massaged the spot on his back that he liked. I knew if we turned on the lights, I’d see the evidence of our joining: the scratches, the teeth marks, the red splotches from the friction. I was careful as I could be, but passion had a way of circumventing boundaries. There was the danger of biting too hard. Of leaving rake marks. He told me the risks were worth it. He said they were chances he was willing to take. That was because he was a man, a physically-minded being driven by his loins. What about the emotional risks, the ones we couldn’t see? The sense of loss when he left? The feeling of abandonment? The scarring from enduring a two-year relationship with gaping pockets of emptiness?

I wanted to whisper into his ear right then and tell him I loved him; tell him he was my soul mate, the only one. I never could. I’d come close, teeter on the edge, entertain the notion by staring into his eyes and swallowing slowly while entwining our bodies. I’d tell him I cared about him. Tell him he made me happy. Fed him cheap substitutes.

I pressed my fingers into his spot. Kneaded the warm flesh. Gave him what he craved while I contended with conflicting thoughts.

All I could think was what if? What if I expressed how I felt? What if I asked him for more? Asked him for everything? Would he open up and reciprocate? Or would he walk away? These thoughts, they tormented me.

Later, in the darkness, with the candle snuffed, lying naked and alone with the sheet pulled up to my neck, I would draw in his scent and brood over these things. I’d stay up late into the early morning hours, tossing, turning, cajoling myself with compromises, with concessions, with accepting the situation and not demanding more. I’d tell myself it wasn’t his fault. I’d say it was mine. Mine for wanting something that could never be. Mine for hoping where hope was not to be found. I’d cry. Pound the bedding. Bunch up the covers with my fists and squeeze. Then my eyelids would lower. The thoughts of what could have been would lull me to sleep. I’d dream of possibilities and contentment and awaken to a new day.

I shifted under him. He asked if I was all right. I said yes--he was just getting heavy, that’s all. A lie. There was nothing more I wanted than his body pressing into mine. So we laid in the candlelight, on our sides, fingers interlaced, my thumb rubbing his. Same as always. And we peered into each other’s eyes, smiled, looked away, then back again. Same as always.

Is everything okay? he asked.

I pulled close and ran the back of my hand down his stubbly face. You should go, I whispered. Her plane will be landing soon.

He glanced at the clock on the bureau and nodded. I’m going to shower first. Want to join me?

I kissed him and said no. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and I was alone again. Same as always.

THE END

©2010 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.