I don't know what to do with what I see in his eyes now, with what I feel
in his touch.
It was so easy that first time, knowing what he wanted, reading it in his
eyes. It was not a look that I was unfamiliar with. Call it what you will-desire,
want, need. It was lust, purely and simply, directed at myself as the nearest
available person.
I understand this.
This I accept.
When we returned to town, the look was gone from his eyes. Not a word passed
between us to give credit to the act as having occurred. This, too, is not
unknown to me. So many have wanted my body in the heat of the moment, in
the sheltering darkness of night, but with the cool, dawn light comes the
dampening of ardor, the return to normalcy, if you will.
This, also, I understand.
This I expect.
But he came to me again. There he was at my door with the same heat, the
same lust in his expression. Why did he come to me? There are many in this
town who would have him. But he chose me. Why? Is it that he wants the comfort
of the familiar, the opportunity to let his guard down, however briefly,
with someone who understands what keeping the peace in this town takes from
a person, what it gives to a person? This I could understand. Or is it possible
that it is me that he wants? That only I can quench the need I see in his
eyes?
This is not my experience.
This I cannot believe.
Even if I should dare to want to.
It alarms me how the situation has changed. He wanted my body to satisfy
his need. This I was willing to give. But now…. Now I've grown used to the
faint aroma of his tobacco clinging to the pillows, the limpness of sweat-soaked
sheets in the morning. A craving has settled in me for the feel of his rough
hands on my skin caressing me ardently, yet gently, into pleasure before
he takes his own. No one has ever done this for me. And never have I desired
to believe more the look of want in a person's eyes then when he reached
to take my mouth with his that first time. Every time.
Want. For me.
But I can't believe.
Not yet.
My need brought me to him tonight. It was my hope that I would be able
to accept as truth the feelings I see in his eyes. Desire, want, need. For
me. For the whole of me. No one has ever wanted to love me before. This
I cannot trust. So I turn away and close my eyes. And feel his sigh of breath
across my cheek as he moves his lips to my neck instead.
I want to believe.
Until then, I cannot give myself.
For now, I'll cherish the feel of his mouth against my throat, that touch
meant for my lips, and imagine the day when we can both give freely.
The End
Follow-up story: Watershed
