And how sometimes we nearly make it

Nothing has changed, Mack.

It would be the same if I walked into your hotel room tonight. I would still spend less than 30 seconds on my side of the couch. My legs would still snake over yours, and I would still play with the soft of your earlobe as if it were mine. I would still kiss your mouth hard and fast, and over and over, in the style of kiss you seemed to permit.

I would still follow you to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub while you showered, and I would still pretend not to care. I would still breathe deep at the sound of the water hitting your skin, and feel the familiar liquid start to flow. I would still see this in the too-lit mirror – carefully careless dress falling off my shoulder, teeth on candied lip, eyes a little glazed and blinking too fast.

I would still have needed to throw back the vodka shots when getting ready – my ritual of nerve and consequence when the sun went down. Did you ever know how my throat burned and my knees wobbled every time I knocked at your door?

So much time has passed, but you could still set me spinning. Still cause my hand to tremble when lifting my glass. Here it is now, curled around the stem – an erotic embrace you once called it, but really it was the only solid thing, and the red you poured felt like a consecration.

It would still be the same. Naked and cleansed, you would invite me in. We would still make an alter of our hotel bed. We would still make you the ready and willing sacrifice, still soak the sheets in a kind of communion. I would be so tender in your destruction, Mack. One does not need god to be devout.

And after. My faith, and your lack. It would be exactly the same. I have not wavered once in this affair.

The only truths I ever told were with my body, Mack. Every time I laid us down. The sincerity of the body has been much maligned by the idea that words are more honest than a beating heart. This is what I have learned since then, that my body knew us better. Every confession it ever made, those revelations in your arms. They were the only truths of our seven years, the history of us that deserves to be told.

Our bodies tried to tell us this truth, time and again. Honesty was traded from limb to limb, prayers were written across the skin. I have to believe this is what lasts, Mack. That truth and faith are actually one and the same. That while we are busy telling our little stories, trying to make our characters fit, our bodies remember a different truth. A leap of faith made when hands reach across the widest of chasms.

And how sometimes, Mack, we nearly make it.

Image by Joanne Piechota
Image by Joanne Piechota

Published by Eidyia

I am only three things for sure - an Atheist, a Feminist, and a Writer - one who obsesses over the grand themes of love, memory and connection.

2 thoughts on “And how sometimes we nearly make it

  1. I had to read this again. It felt like I didn’t have time to absorb everything you said when I read it in a rush, as I do most things at the moment, last week. And I loved it even more this second time and I wanted to tell you what you know already, that your writing is superb and that it lingers enough for readers to go back to what you wrote and read your words again. It’s beautifully written and felt. Loved it and can’t wait to read your next post!

    1. Thank you so much. This piece was really what I was writing toward when I started; it means a lot to me, and even more that you would take the time to write me about your response to it.

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