Seachange

He brought me cheesecake.

The soft yellow of the primrose in the garden against the green of the leaves draws my eye. He brought me cheesecake, for my bad day. It’s never so bad as when he’s being good.

He rests his chin against my shoulder, and he does not speak, he simply breathes, against my ear. I am known. His hands trace the swell of me and my eyes fall out of focus, softer than the yellow of the primrose in the garden.

It is never so bad as now.

I wait to see what move he will make next. He must feel how I have changed, my form shifting, melting, edging closer to the drop. My breathing deepens, my breathing depends; depends on his next move.

He holds me, and it is that which is the worst thing. Being held and no question, no demand, just the encircling of someone’s arms, the muscles in them strong enough to take the weight of your floating body. You’ve dreamed about this, all those other times, when muscles’ strength demanded of you; call and response of hunter and hunted.

I stiffen, ossify, become the frozen statue; petrified, dipped in lime, left to dry.

The primrose in the garden that closes its eyes each night at sundown, that unbuds again each morning. Pretty and dainty in daylight hours, the epitome of spring, at night it closes off.

He will tire of this soon. The tracing of his fingers against my skin, along my lines. The appreciation of my all too female form that gives up nothing, closes off at night, rests gentle, soft and calm all day. He will tire of the null response, and find some other form, some other curve, some other belly to swell.

I move. The spell is broken. We go about our business, here in this kitchen, looking out on the garden. He opens the fridge door, takes a beer out. I fill the kettle, place a tea bag in a mug. The moment is gone, and I breathe normally again, in and out, without thinking. Without awareness of how he makes me breathe.

Is this love, then? And if so, why?

Why him, of all people, with his eyes like mine, the colour of the sea, changing with the light, reflecting back the sky? Why him, after all this time? Why not nobody?

I choose nobody. And then I see. Choice is not my privilege. Not just in the way I react, don’t propose. Choice isn’t my privilege. I have not earned it.

I want him to come back. Encircle me again. But the moment is gone. He is in the other room, with his beer, watching telly. His seachange eyes will be focused again on the world, not on me and the depths he might find by looking into mine. They will be flat, and I will have lost him again for another day, another night, maybe forever. Eventually forever.

And is it easier to push, easier to say, “Look at me, then. If you must look, then, here, see it all..”? Or is it easier to close my petals and withdraw? Save time and energy and let him find his own way?

His breath against my ear. I am motionless by the cooker; the kettle boiled; the tea unmade. His breath against my ear, and I am dying with the weight of it, the swell of it, the unbecoming crush of it across my chest that hurts and threatens to break until I tell him, “See. I’m here. You know me. I’m yours. Only, please be gentle. Please take care.”

But I never say it. I never tell. I never show him who I am and risk the damage of a gentle finger tracing my lines and curves and telling me I’m known.

Pushed away, then. Pushed out. He brings me cheesecake, brings me flowers, brings me words that slowly empty themselves of meaning, like the day empties itself of light, and my petals furl and cover over the place that is the heart of me.

I am full of longing for him, but I cannot let it out.

I am full of longing, and I cannot let him in.

© J R Hargreaves 2006