May 6th, 2016
When I ask Sam who she’s thinking of during sex, “him or her”, she responds one of two ways.
She looks at me with a sneer, like a badger guarding it’s den from a predator. Or she’ll look away and there’s something defenseless about her demeanor, her shoulders drop and I can hear her breathing softly.
When she sneers, I think she’s thinking of Dennis. She seems to think that to say that she wished it was Dennis pushing into her, insanely ripped and chiseled Dennis, that it would somehow be some impeachment of her character. Maybe that she deserved the way he’d treated her or maybe that she despite it all she can’t admit regrets leaving him.
When she looks away, I think she’s thinking of the four nights she spent with Becky before calling me in tears to pick her up. When she looks away, I see another person lost in the confusion that I felt for so long. And sometimes I hate her. I hate her because I know she feels alone in her pain and confusion, like she’s fallen into some torn-out without narration, an existence that could have never been foreseen or predicted, not meant to be and somehow her personal curse.
I hate her for feeling that way because I felt that way. Sometimes I wake up and still feel that way, invalidated and forgotten. I had loved Becky, or love her, as stupid as it may make me, as much as it plagues me. But for Becky I’m nothing more than a guest-appearance in a forgotten episode, a D-list actor, one of many. To see Sam sit there like only she could understand that pain means that my own experience has been forgotten, by her, by Becky. The price I paid for my feelings is unknown to anyone.
It confirms I am alone.
I really don’t know how I would feel if Sam looked down while she was straddling me and looked into my eyes and saw me. I don’t know how I would feel if that look of ecstasy and elation turned to vulnerability. I don’t know how I’d feel if she suddenly smiled, thankful and aware. I don’t want to know.
Maybe if Sam were thinking about me… I would know she was on the list of people I’m going to lose one day, like I lost my sister. Which as I write it sounds weird, like I should have said Becky. Sam won’t ever be Becky, but it doesn’t mean that having someone during all this darkness hasn’t been important to me.
Maybe what I like about Sam is that I think some part of her hates me without reason, the way I’ve come to hate everything else, the way the last year has made me hate people before they can lash out at me and betray me.
Without that hate, I wouldn’t feel worthy of her time. I’d feel less than… one more person.
I don’t know that this is making any sense.
I know that she doesn’t hate me, personally. Every time she starts a fight she expects me to finish, I know she’s trying to make me stronger, into what it is she thinks I need to be to survive.
Because I’m not. I’m going to survive.
Not on my own.
Last night, she leaned into me for no obvious reason. She leaned in and after almost a minute said, “I think I found a place to live.”
“That’s wonderful,” I told her. It felt like watching someone drink freely when you’ve been throwing up all night and can’t keep anything down. “Where are you moving?”
“For both of us, idiot,” she said, elbowing my shoulder. “It’s not ‘moving in’. It’s temporary. These people invited us to stay with them for a few nights.”
“How did you find that?” I asked.
“I found them online,” she said as she put her phone in front of me.
It was a long conversation that had started on Twitter.
Under the trending tag #SaveADick.