He slides his hands up my ribcage, thumbs tracing the bones, fingers wrapped around my flesh, a harsh touch that thrills me like nothing else from a man who generally isn't rough or anything less than gentle except for when he is tired, like tonight.
I don't know if this whole thing doesn't feel temporary but I think we need to stick with it and see how it plays out. He says this even as earlier tonight he caught me packing to run and as I took things out of drawers to put them in the suitcase he was taking them out and putting them back while we spoke in angry low tones to each other to keep it between us instead of declaring war with the entire household, or worse, the entire population of Point Despair here, where wayward bandmates go to languish and die. It's a hospice for the romantically doomed. It's a curse. It's a bleak rainy well-appointed prison. It's all mine.
It isn't his, as he points out far too regularly and I'm sorry but I used up all of my nervous energy in deciding to run. I don't have anything left with which to fight.
He was too quick to give up information. That isn't how he does things.
He said it himself. He's getting old.
So are we! But I gave up decades ago thinking time would make any difference.
I know but disappearing doesn't help.
Sure it does. It gives space and time and absence that either brings relief or brings us all to our knees. There is no happy medium here. You get extreme fulfilled joy or the most excruciating grief ever felt with no in-between and I wouldn't have it any other way.
But he isn't listening any more. He's unbuttoning my dress. He's kissing along my temple and jaw. He's delicate and rough all at the same time and involuntarily I shiver, goosebumps breaking out all over, eyes zeroing out, unfocused, breathing quick and heavy. My hands can't get purchase, can't gather him in, can't feel anything but his warm skin when my hands make contact.
I know what he means by temporary. We were supposed to play house. Just for a few years and then I would untangle myself and return to the show full time. Return to him full time. Return to my life out of a suitcase, always with a growly stomach and a wary trust. Always with a backup plan, an escape route and a stolen pair of brass knuckles hidden in the lining of my sweater though I can't throw a punch to save my soul, or I would have had it back long ago. Always a paycheck or three behind, always thrilled beyond belief with a sunrise, a book finished or a warm meal after days without one. A bubble bath or a glass of champagne were things on a movie screen and never once did I choose a bracelet in this imaginary gilded life without having a firm idea of what it will be worth when it comes time to trade it for goods on the run.
I want to see all the places I haven't seen but we're currently having a freak time-out, pretending to be people we're not in a world we don't understand or appreciate but never take for granted.
I unbutton his shirt, running my hands across his smooth chest, tracing tattoos, as many or possibly more words than the number that etch into my own flesh. We match perfectly. I start passages, he finishes them. A song finds its way into my skull and within moments he's sorting it out on guitar or piano. When he isn't here I can't find my way around, it's like my directions are gone. When he is here I want to be awake all the time so I don't miss out on a single breath that he takes, a thought that he thinks, a movement, a gesture. All the arguments in the world don't change this. They never change this.
