She had been staring meditatively at the crisscross of light and shadows outside her window but sleep wasn't forthcoming. A myriad of thoughts slowly snaked into her mind, languidly coiling and uncoiling, seeming to offer a glimpse of clarity before dissolving away in a tease.
A part of her wanted to blame the man lying at her side having drifted off into sleep after their exertions. It was he who caused their asymmetrical relationship, keeping her awake amidst a tangle of limbs and troubled thoughts.
Not that there was no reciprocity of feelings - she just couldn't equal what he so ridiculously, uncomplicatedly felt for her and had no qualms about broadcasting it for the world to see. Her love for him could never be gainsaid, but what kind of love was it? Why was it so damn necessary to give a name to what she felt, to pigeonhole it, distinguish it from others on a scale of ardour? Of course she could dismiss the whole issue under a philosophical veneer; claim proudly that love needs no identity. But the blurry lines had been insidiously creating a crack in their dynamics that she could no longer ignore. She knew all too well the precariousness of every apparent constant in one's life; their profession had instilled in all of them a grin consciousness of the transience of things. Though he had been there so much more than someone else, she had been left completely alone once. That despair had forged her soul but she wasn't sure if could survive another unraveling.
Though she sometimes hated the fact that her happiness, her sanity depended so much on others, it was an undeniable reality of their lives - they couldn't, like those fabled hermaphroditic (and immensely unattractive) creatures she had read about, live a glorious life of absolute self sufficiency. They needed each other.
The experience, in itself, had been really, really enjoyable. Of course that activity was axiomatically pleasurable, but an outpouring of all his devotion into that had transformed it into something profound. She had almost felt deified by those intense eyes and worshipping caresses. Despite all her attempts there still stuck to her skin splashes of dignity dismembered in her formative years. And this enmeshing of bodies felt so much more than mere friction of flesh against flesh.
It had felt healing.
But why exactly did she bring herself to this particular juncture?
To confirm her own inclinations? To exorcize ghosts of crimson and ash? She didn't know. It chafed at her. Terribly. The glaring contrast between his artless surrender and her wavering conviction. A sliver of drool over her face abruptly broke off her weighty contemplation. As she carefully shifted her body to look at the face of her companion, his face aglow with contentment and beads of dribble reflecting the streetlight, a faint impression of closure settled on her heart.
For her it might have been torturous, but he surely excelled at extricating Byzantine situations. It seemed to be the prerogative of dunces, she thought, a wry smile touching her lips.