January 23, 2008
So every now and then he treads upon my doorstep, following my smile inside. We fumble through what was meant to be a hug and, before I pull away, I feel the slight tingle of what isn�t quite complete.I never tell him this.
Instead, I ask about his weekends on the ice, inquire about his family, wonder at his recently shaven face. He doesn�t ask about me but I tell him how I�m doing anyway. He doesn�t ask how work is going but I give him all the particulars, including the melodrama, and I wait until he picks up on something he recognizes. He always recognizes something � the moved pieces of furniture, the assorted letters on my desk, the clothes that I�m wearing.
He never seems to notice the notes in his hand writing that I keep close at hand � the ones I review daily. I forget they�re there or else I might be so inclined to show him.
�Look at this,� I would say. �Here�s proof. I have proof!�
But I never tell him that I know and I never tell him that it�s me who needs convincing. I never tell him that he loved me.
When he comes up behind me, close enough to caress, I notice the new scent upon his shirt � the difference between then and now. New soap or laundry detergent. It�s stupid so I don�t mention it. But I notice things, too.
I notice how he kisses my back. The way his hands fall gently on my skin. I notice the way he watches me and I notice, too, how his eyes wander away. I never ask him where he�s going when he looks away.
We�ll lie together silently and he�ll stare straight up at the ceiling and I�ll be tempted to ask if he�s juggling the meaning of this all but I�ll be stricken with the realization, just before I open my mouth, that I actually know better. He�s likely thinking about what needs to be done �back home,� who he needs to call and all the other things he could be occupied with as of right NOW. He always has somewhere to go.
And he will.
I�ll watch him leave.
I�ll whisper the things I didn�t say to the window, watching the words stick with my breath, his taillights disappearing �round the corner. I�ll think about the night � that night � when he says I lost him but I won�t remember what it was I did or what it was I said. Perhaps I�ll never know. I want to know but I�m afraid to lose him all over again. I want to tell him I�m sorry for whatever it was about that night that made him step aside. I want to tell him, while he�s here, looking down upon soul with those honest eyes, that I love him still...