When I think back to that night, the whole plot unravels. I’m so sure I have it all sorted in my head until I remember the way you held me, the reassurance you needed, how well we fit together. You were always an excellent lover, and certainly never shied away from touching and cuddles, but that night it wasn’t just sex for you. I wanted so much to reduce it to the physical that night and you flat out refused. The things you said to me when I kept prodding you to talk dirty still make me gooey and are on regular rotation in the spank bank.
After you fell asleep in my arms, I kept waiting for you to wake up and shift away. You were always so conscious of your own space and comfort when we slept, allowing me to cuddle up to you but only to a point. Keeping yourself turned away ever so slightly, not in rebuff or rejection, just in independence. You were always so afraid of the cling, lol, and I know it disconcerted you when I didn’t.
I absolutely assumed that you’d have reclaimed your distance when I got up to pee … but when I got back and you needed me there, pulling me so seamlessly back into the spot I’d vacated, that’s the square moment I can’t force into the round hole.
To be sure, there are other moments, other memories, that call the whole thing in to question but most of them are little things. Small details that can be framed as inconsequential or misread, especially when held up against all the bits that prove my point.
That night though. It doesn’t fit. I can’t explain it away.
Most of the time, I forget about it entirely. It doesn’t fit with the narrative I’ve concocted and so I ignore it. I can pretend it’s an obnoxious outlying point on an otherwise nicely grouped scatter plot; pretend that if I zoom in a little, I don’t even notice it.
What do you tell yourself, I wonder? I’m guessing it’s the same for you but in reverse. You’ve crafted a narrative to fit the evidence, same as I have, though instead of using the events that shaped us you’ve chosen to focus on the tale your fears told you … Wow, that was judgy. Makes me think of her self-righteous claim that she bases her actions on logic, whereas I’m locked into feelings that aren’t based in reality. Hypocritical much?
I’m not sure how else to interpret it though. I know what happened – I even know how you reacted to what happened – I was there. I saw you. I FELT you. When we were together, I know you were unhappy about it but I also know that you were mine (just as I was – as I still am – yours). Yet, seemingly out of nowhere, you were parroting a whole new set of beliefs. It isn’t my imagination that you needed to keep your distance in order to maintain your new facade. It boggles my mind that you refuse to admit how fragile it is when you’re so worried that I’ll hold up the mirror and you’ll see all the bullshit you’ve smeared across yourself.
I think back to that last date, if one can even call it that, and the rawness of your pain. I noticed it at the time but it never occurred to me that it would be the last chance I had to address it. I believed you and so I figured there’d be plenty of opportunity to hash things out “properly.”
I think I knew, though, even then that you were saying goodbye. You gave me too much. You let me see what you needed – worse, you let me provide it to you – and so I had to go. No one’s allowed to know those things. You hide them from yourself. How dare I come along and insist on the integrity you claimed to espouse? How dare I believe in you and expect you to be the man you want to be? How dare I, indeed?