Experiments
It's been a very revealing series of experiments recently. Quite possibly the most crucial long-term study of my life to date. The subject of the study is difficult to qualify, however. Her name is Sara Sidle. But I'm studying more than just her. It's also an experiment to see how our lives continue to mesh. How two singular people find a space somewhere in between solitary living and companionship.
I'll start out by specifying the location. At first, we only slept in the same bed a couple times a week. Easing into what's deemed by society as a relationship slowly. But we've made it into something that only belongs to us. Societal constructs be damned. Neither one of us clings to values that are imposed upon individuals in society. That's one thing I've always and will always admire about her. Her desire to create her own path, regardless of what others might think.
After several weeks of gradually weaning ourselves off of solitude, we had to make a decision. My place or hers. Lengthy debates ensued. Her arguments were emotionally based; mine were rational. And the more rational I was, the more adamant she became. I smile now when I remember it, because I have to admit, sometimes I would present an argument I didn't actually believe in but was highly rational just to watch her react vehemently. I've been doing that particular experiment for years, no need to stop now. I think she knows that I do it, and lets it happen anyway.
Neither rational or emotional won out, so in the end, we decided to find neutral ground. So much for my hermetically sealed townhouse, with its perfect concrete floors, the space I'd grown so accustomed to ever since I moved to Las Vegas. But she didn't care for the feeling of it. She said it was too sterile, like the lab, and that she needed a place that was more organic. How could I argue with that? I have to admit, it did sting, and I know it's illogical, but I identified with my rejected abode. As if she was rejecting part of me in the process. I'm older now, stuck in my ways. Or at least that's what she tells me. I know she's right. But I don't have to like it.
Nevertheless, I had objections to settling into her apartment as well, and stated those to her. I think she felt a similar small hurt, which comforted me somewhat. At least I wasn't the only one. Her place was too small, didn't have enough room on the walls for my butterflies, and not enough space for my bookshelves.
So we found a new place. A condominium in a nice quiet and safe area of the city. It's quite unique. Most condos are two or three story townhouses. This one suits my tastes perfectly, being one floor but more spread out, more open. It suits her tastes in that it has carpeted floors. She likes to walk around barefoot, and there must be something comforting about the softness of the carpet that she likes. I just like seeing her smile. I'll put up with the fact that carpet isn't as easy to keep clean and dutifully vacuum.
It took a relatively short amount of time for us to move in. Discussions over which objects of furniture were going to survive the merger ensued. Diagrams of possible configurations of furniture were made. Headaches were triggered. Compromises were reached. I wondered if peace treaties between warring nations were even this difficult. One thing I learned was that females tend to be more emotionally attached to furniture, and no amount of arguing rationally about which sofa would fit better in the room had any influence on the outcome. Words were said. Tears were shed. I gave in. Waved the white flag and decided to focus on other things, such as going through my belongings and giving to charity what I could bear parting with. It gave me much needed time alone. At that point anything was preferable to experiencing a silent, hurt Sara. Especially because I'd been the one doing the hurting.
Neither one of us wanted to move too quickly, lest we make a mistake. It's no secret to either of us that we are both incurable perfectionists in our own right. But no matter what obstacle has appeared, we've met it head on, battled over the trivialities, and been able to reach mutually satisfying conclusions. Like two scientists, each hell bent on proving his or her theory correct, it's always intellectually stimulating. It's amazing how two such sophisticated people can debate on topics such as which way the toilet paper should face, with the end on the outside or the inside; or how to fold socks. Things I never gave any thought to until I was told I was doing it wrong. Yes, this has been an interesting experiment. I always knew Sara Sidle would have definite ideas about things, should I ever decide to make that leap into a domestic relationship with her. But I had no idea that she'd have an opinion on just about everything, many completely contradicting my own. I'm glad I have so much patience. Any lesser man would certainly be contemplating his other options at this point. But to me, there are no other options. From the moment I held her trembling body against mine as I kissed her, my ability to even fathom other options flew out the window, never to return.
I can breathe now. My pulse actually has returned to its normal rate when I walk into our place. The first month was a trial. For both of us. Each one staking out our claim on private spaces, nestling into shared spaces, bickering over the placement of my bugs, her vast and eclectic CD collection. I relented on the decorating. I was too tired to voice an opinion. Her victory smile was priceless, anyway, so it was worth it. Learning to trust is an issue we both have. So the fact that I trusted her to pick out curtains was somehow very gratifying. It turns out that she has amazingly good taste in home decor. That has surprised me. I have a feeling many things about her will continue to do so. The beauty of becoming closer and letting someone into one's life is not measured in the grand things, but in the very small minutae of daily life. Domestic bliss is possible. Not just in the bedroom.
One of my findings that has gone exponentially past what I thought is the extent to which she's my every fantasy come to life. I have been with women in the past who have excited me, intrigued me, even on some level understood me. But compared to her, they're the river, she's the ocean. Even things I didn't realize I craved, I've found in her. The way her hands roam. The way she lets me believe I'm the one in control. The simple yet wholly seductive way she can reduce me to a speechless lustful man just by the arch of her eyebrow over a cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle has led me to act so impulsively, I almost don't recognize myself at the time. She tells me that is when I'm showing my true self to her, revealing my soul. I never knew that part of me existed until now. She just smiles at me and strokes my cheek reassuringly, calls me baby, and tells me it'll be all right. Then her fingers turn to fire again and I'm helplessly aching to make love to her. Some days, not much gets done around our place in terms of housework. Or any other kind of work. Some days, we spend all our time exploring each other, doing experiments that I'm fairly certain will not be found in any scientific journals.
One thing I've learned about her is that she doesn't like to sleep nude. On certain days, after we've made love, she'll lie in my arms for a while, until she starts to squirm. I think she feels too vulnerable on these occasions. She'll slide out of bed, take a quick shower, which I'm usually not invited to join her in. I'm content with that, as long as there are times that I am able to share the experience. I understand that sometimes she just needs a little room to breathe. When she returns to bed, she lays beside me and rests her head on my chest, and we talk about anything and everything. It's these times that are the most peaceful and blissful, even if I have to force myself to stay awake. Men are programmed to go into deep hibernation after sex. Self-discipline is required to remain conscious. And even still, sometimes she'll tell me to go to sleep. The guilt remains, but biology seems to wait for no one, and I tell her I love her as I leave the waking world, hoping that she won't feel too wounded. We've grown so close now that even when one sleeps, it feels like a separation too great sometimes.
One day, recently, we got home from work at the usual time. Around 8 a.m. Neither one of us could bring ourselves to eat more than an english muffin and tea. The air around us was heavy. The stench of death penetrated our clothing and our skin. Our condo has two full bathrooms, which had been one of the prerequisites, and while she soaked in a hot bath filled with oils and flowers, I took a long laborious shower. After all these years, it's still difficult to get the smell of the lab and of death off of my skin.
The case had been heart wrenching. Every case is. Violent death is never pleasant. It's part of our job, but never becomes ordinary. Each victim has a story. It's our job to tell it. Most of the time, we can put our emotions elsewhere and just focus on the details. But that night was horrific. The despair drew everyone who was involved with it down. As the leader of the team, I maintained my usual outward demeanor and reminded everyone to focus on the evidence. But even I couldn't erase the images that I'd seen when I closed my eyes.
Foster home. Seven children. All starved to death and locked in a storage shed. It took all my self-control to remain professional as Jim Brass and I interrogated the suspects. A middle-aged couple who were as pathetic as the rusted out mailbox and dead grass on their property. I looked into their remorseless faces and decided that some people were not part of the human race. Some were beneath it. Some didn't deserve to breathe the same air the rest of us did. I generally try not to judge, but that night, I judged. It was difficult for me. But multiply that by infinity for Sara. My chest still aches painfully when I think of that night. The way she folded her arms across her belly, to hold herself in. The haunted look in her eyes. Others saw it, but only I completely understood it. Only I felt it. Her unshed tears were poison in my veins. Even putting these murderers in prison for the rest of their lives fell so much short of justice, it made us all literally ill. No one worked overtime. Just in case anyone had been thinking of staying late, I ordered everyone to go home. We're only human, I explained. No one questioned me.
When I came to bed, it was 9:37 a.m. We'd blocked the window to the bedroom completely, since living a nocturnal life was essential to our schedule, any sunlight into the room would on further the confusion to our brains, disrupt the circadian rhythm. The only light in the room came from the lamp on the bedside table. The only sound was an occasional sniffle. She was lying on the bed in a tight fetal position, her face buried in the pillow, her body shaking with silent sobs. I'd learned those were the worst kind. I can't say I didn't feel something inside me wanting to be released by tears as well, but for me, crying doesn't help, it only gives me a migraine and leaves me feeling drained and wishing I was dead. Not at all cathartic like it is for her.
I eased into bed and rested my hand on her arm. A simple gesture. I thought it would make her feel reassured of my presence. She only tightened into more of a ball and tensed. Some people would take this as a personal rejection. But I'm not them. I understand that sometimes she doesn't want to be touched. I believe it's because in the process of being touched, it causes her grief to increase. My theory is that she feels guilty and ashamed for her own hellish feelings and even more guilty for causing someone else to feel even a small portion of them. I'm still continuing to gather anecdotal evidence on that one so maybe someday I'll be able to explain it.
But for now, I know that there will be no consoling her when she's like this. Any comforting words I try to speak will be met with those haunted tormented puffy eyes, tear stained cheeks, begging me to stop talking. At least she doesn't retreat to the couch anymore. We talked about that and came to the agreement that I needed her to stay in bed, even when she felt suffocated by my presence. This might not be a traditional relationship, but it just wounds me too much when she leaves the room like that. She agreed, under the stipulation that I had to adhere to the same guidelines. And that sometimes I had to understand that sometimes she didn't want to be held, no matter how much I wanted or needed to hold her.
This night was different, though. She'd never tensed up like that before. Her sobs were so deep and shattering, the bed literally shook. Not so ironically, it felt like the foundations of my world were crumbling. After I quickly centered my emotions, I had an idea. I went to the bookshelf and selected my old worn out copy of "Moby Dick" and slid back into bed. I propped myself up on a couple of pillows and turned to the first page and began to read aloud. The familiar words were like a lullaby. The bed stopped shaking. I read on. After some sniffling and nose blowing, during which I paused the narrative, she turned to face me and her eyes asked me to continue. I gladly obeyed, content myself to be distracted from the horrors of the previous night. By the time I was on the fifth page, her head was nestled against my neck, her breathing steady and warm. I fell more in love with her in that moment than I ever dreamt was possible. She was beautiful. More than beautiful, but I don't have any other words that can possibly describe her better.
By the second chapter, she allowed herself to smile, a small one, barely tugging at the corners of her lips, but it was enough. My heart rate slowed down to normal, my chest allowed me to breathe and my headache subsided. She reached over and closed the book, laid it gently on the bedside table and intertwined her fingers in mine. We kissed. Forgot death and embraced the living. We became one and I kissed her tears away and replaced her sobs with shivers of ecstasy. That night she did sleep afterwards, her warm skin touching mine, her body so tightly embraced, I almost couldn't tell where the separation between us was. Quotes about love floated through my mind, wonderfully perfect ways to express what we had in that moment. But my voice wouldn't cooperate. My brain couldn't override my emotions. As we drifted off to sleep together, I wept silently inside. I don't believe it was grief alone. Surrender was its partner. The sweet delicious life changing surrender that I never thought I'd be able to experience, but now, thanks to her love and devotion, I now know what it means to have a better half. For she is mine. For now and for always.
I have come to a conclusion. The experiments are ongoing. More study is needed. But the preliminary results are in. I love you, Sara Sidle. And I always will, until the day that my heart ceases to beat inside my chest. And even after that, if there is an afterlife, I'll love you there, too.
And it has been said that Gilbert Grissom would never be devoted to anything other than his job. They don't know my true heart. The job gives me a purpose. Loving Sara gives me a reason to live.