Temporary Bride

I give him my mouth and he pushes me down onto the mattress. I tell him things to encourage him. I whisper his name and hear my own, spoken warm and urgent in my ear. His fresh skin, hidden away since he was an infant, is available for me, reacting to my touch. He smells of himself, but even more so, the scent of cologne, his warm temperature and his long fingers, things I’ve been aware of for days. Every bit of him is familiar to me but at the same time different and new.

“Thank you for letting me into your privacy,” he whispers before pressing a condom into my hand. I realise he is in an unfamiliar position, needing me to guide him and tell him what to do. But aside from that small gesture that keeps us separate, ensuring we can leave no permanent imprint on each other, everything else he does is his own, the will of his hands, his own body.

I am afraid to look at the time, to acknowledge the quiet that has grown outside, the things that hasten to separate us. There is no question of his leaving, his parents will grow suspicious. He still has to make it back outside unseen. It would be so easy, in another place, to just fall asleep together. Instead the darkness reminds me he is only on loan to me, that the only thing left to do is for him to return home. I watch him as he stands and dresses, admiring the sight of his body without clothes. He shows no embarrassment at being naked in the soft light, pulling on his jeans and his shirt over his head.

I wrap the blanket we have been lying on around me, walking quietly with him to the door. He reaches to stroke my cheek with his hand, turning me gently to look at him. 

I can see by his face it feels wrong to leave me, wrong to say good night and part this way. I experience the same, helpless distress as always. But we are at the last station, there is no further place to go. I want to tell him ‘Don’t go. Stay with me.’ but these are words I can not say. 

“Please be careful,” is the most I can tell him. He turns toward the staircase, disappearing into the darkness to make his retreat home. I listen intently for the sound of his footsteps on the stone floors and hear the heavy thud of the front door close behind him.

I sit and smooth out the surface of the bed. The sheets and pillow are covered in his small, dark hairs. At first their significance is lost on me and I begin to brush them away with my hand. But we are now more to each other than either of us had imagined, in a place we cannot be thrive with or without one other. I look at his hairs still clinging to my pillow and wonder if I should gather some of them to keep.  But I don’t need any of that to make me remember. I will never forget any of it.