My Hidden Lives // Prose

36. about sleeping in on the weekend

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He wasn’t a person I’d wanted to fall in love with. I drank too much while I was with him, ignored my other, more serious, appointments and stayed up till dawn arguing about who-said-what and why-it-even-matters. We spent a whole winter merely learning each other’s vocabularies to avoid future arguments.

When we met, I thought he’d be my excuse for not-thinking-about-That-Other-Guy. I thought, well, this is what life is about – experimenting – and, always a scientist, I took it upon myself to test the hypothesis that was him. The way he entered my body was incredible, taking over little bits and pieces here and there, never walking on egg-shells around my insecurities but stomping on them with two bare feet and then, always, repairing the damage. It was something I had never had before. Honesty.

This isn’t what I wanted to feel, I thought while he was lying beside me on a child-sized bed and stirred in the morning. I wasn’t used to waking up as early, or as together. An arm firmly wrapped around my breasts, a hand quietly searching for my own, a heavy set of legs draped over my body, swallowing me into a closeness I feared I was not ready for.

Together. Why didn’t it sound as frightening as all those other times, when I allowed it to escape the confines of my carefully guarded synapses and let it out into the reality of today?

Come on, wake up, get out of here – the voice in my head was saying over and over again – this is your sorry-but-I-have-to-run-time.

Only I didn’t. Didn’t wake, or run. I adjusted my body to better fit his own, so we’d both be more comfortable in the confined space we had to operate in. Took his wandering hand. Kissed it. Chuckled as I heard the sleepy sound of approval behind me.

Sometimes, important things begin as easily as that. They’re as easy as a kiss, or a Saturday morning when you decide you’d rather sleep in, after all.



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