I cannot tell the difference anymore between a healthy fascination and a dangerous obsession. I’m no longer qualified to evaluate my own feelings. When you turn toward me, leaning into my space, I take a breath to stay focused. When you move toward me for a hug goodbye, instead of me moving to hug you, the image is indelibly printed in my memory, and I replay it over and over again as evidence that you could be back in my arms. When your arms linger around my waist and I feel their weight and their strength, I imagine intention. Intention to stay there, to hold me close. My heart beats, my throat closes. I stop my lips from brushing your neck. I know that this would be too much, because this is all my imagination. I am alone in my head. You don’t want me. You’re with her. You’re with her right? (You didn’t break up with her?)
“A year now”, or so she likes to remind you. “A year” you say to your friend in Seattle on the drive home from Whistler. My blood runs cold and skin feels grey. I concentrate to keep my smile. I’m your friend and I’m happy for you. I want you to be happy and as you talk about your upcoming trip to Europe, I want you to have a good time, I want all good things for you. But I think about the last time you kissed me, the last time you were inside me. Pulled me against you as you leaned against a building on a dark side street. Pulled over to the side of the road, by a warehouse. Leaning across the driver’s seat your hand between my legs. I’m so wet, like my body is pulling you in. There’s a man walking up the sidewalk past the car, dark hair and a dark grey jacket. I wonder for a moment if you’ll stop and I play with the idea of pushing your hand away, but it would be futile. You’ve no intention of stopping and I don’t want you to. I send you an email later that night, your name, and three dots… you reply “Hi, :-)” That was not a year ago.
I can’t speak on the way home from Seattle, can’t think of what to say to make myself laugh, to engage you. “What’s up? You ok?” No. I’m not ok. I want you. I’ve wanted you from the moment you laid eyes on me. But you’re not my guy. Or so you tell me. And I have a feeling, that as you read this, you’ll tell me that you never pulled me toward you into that dark side street. You’ll tell me you didn’t move toward me to hug me just now, that I initiated the contact. You’ll tell me now that your arms aren’t lingering and that you’re not wrapped around me while I stand here holding my breath, concentrating so I won’t kiss your neck. You will say you don’t notice a thing. There is nothing out of the ordinary in this embrace.
So I remind myself that I’m crazy. That I imagine things in the wanting of you. And I realize I’ve lost control of myself. I’ve lost control of myself for someone who doesn’t want me. And I promise myself it will stop.
I commit to Brett that I will focus in, that I’m back. That couples the world over get through all kinds of attractions and non-attractions and affairs and dull points and many of them don’t make it. But some of them do. Some of them focus in and find a new path. Some of them go to counseling, some of them learn to meditate, burn incense and learn the tantra. Some of them learn to play with leather, some with chains. Dan Savage advises that couples should invest time and learning, should prioritize intimacy and sex in their schedules. That choosing your future sexual agenda and planning it deliberately brings great happiness and reward to many. So I reinvest. And for a week, I’m walking on my own two feet again. I’m on solid ground. I’ve corrected my dangerous fantasy that you want me. I will never again reach for you.
We make plans and you ask me whose house – I say mine. Brett will be home, but no big deal. I’m finally seeing clearly that there is nothing you want from me any longer. That my imagination had a good time for the last month, but now it’s back to using my imagination for the good of my current relationship.
Then you tell me you’re not with her anymore.
Fuck you. Fuck you for making me doubt myself. It wasn’t my imagination.
Fuck you.