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now I watch you falling into sleep
watch your fist curl against the sheet
watch your lips fall open and your eyes dim in blind faith
I would shelter you, keep you in light
but I can only teach you
night vision
-Suzanne Vega
Sometimes she is willing to allow him to believe he is in control. These nights she will put on a little playacting to soothe his ego, in an effort to somehow make this less imbalanced, if only for a while. Of course, the mutual understanding that she is only pretending to surrender power only further reasserts the fact that she is in possession of all the cards, whether or not he is only pretending to give his to her.
She considers this her gift to him, an almost generous show of affection. Perhaps in return, he takes her by surprise one night. It is not long after the usual exchange has transpired between them. She lays still, feeling his weight beside her on the mattress although they are not touching. Her eyes are closed and she mimics sleep, waiting for him to leave. When it is his own bed, he will imitate this courtesy long enough for her to gather her things and depart. It is unnecessary--she does not believe either harbors any delusions about the nature of this--but maybe it's just a pleasant respite from the coldness that would be expected.
Twenty-five, thirty. She keeps her eyes closed longer than necessary, but it brings little relaxation. She's jittery, wants to get up, move around. She stays still instead. This is so horribly wrong, the way everything's gone so far off-track. Regardless of her initial purpose, whether it was temporary comfort or the alleviation of boredom or the resolution of tension, to continue to play out this charade is ridiculous.
No. It would only be ridiculous if it meant something, and it doesn't mean anything, not to her, not to him. She'll cut it off immediately if there are any signs of such illogical ideas developing in either mind. Of course.
The night's too long. After this, she'll wander around, look through the windows at tonight's location until the sun rises. Sleep is a luxury she hasn't had in years, but living without it has almost become a point of pride. Deprivation equals willpower equals strength. It's a good philosophy that's served her well over the years; dwelling on what has been lost is an activity without merit, so it is better to simply take care never to repeat past mistakes.
And she almost feels sorry for him, so young and already so cold. But the truth is that love is an addiction in which it is safer not to indulge; if he must resolve this particular brand of tension, it is wise not to become entangled with the deeper connections people foolishly imagine themselves capable of forging. She is not unaware of his dalliances; a blonde here, twenty minutes in the men's room; a brunette there, lucky enough to spend the night, unlucky enough to spend it with someone she'll never see again who won't remember her name, if he ever knew it. Why not? There is nothing binding involved here, and he suspects she will never truly be disloyal to one particular past mistake she seems destined to repeat.
She wants to reassure him, sometimes; to tell him that it's an act, like everything else. But it isn't worth the effort, and it isn't worth what it would cost her.
Ninety-nine, a hundred. She opens her eyes. Why isn't he gone? His head is bent awkwardly, one arm slung off the bed entirely. Yet their bodies still do not touch, as if there is a line separating his side from hers. She resents this; it is her bed, all sides belong to her. He is a transient, occupying space where he does not belong.
But like a mother she feels compelled to readjust the errant limb, whispering a warning about gangrene; she refrains.
This is disturbing, and she sits on the edge of the bed for a long time. It is an indication of trust and of comfort, to surrender the ritual. He is trusting enough to leave his body prone on her home ground, aware that her next whim could involve eliminating him entirely, aware that it won't. She is almost touched, almost tempted to stay, to lie beside him until morning, surprise them both.
But that would be the wrong lesson. It would give him false hope that a thing could be what it is not, that honor exists among the heartless, that trust is something to be achieved and not betrayed. To let him indulge in that fantasy would only be harmful. To kiss with your eyes closed, to sleep beside a lover from midnight til dawn; she knows where weakness leads.
She takes a last look and snaps herself closed.
This, truly, is her final gift; rather than demonstrating the foolishness of such an extension of blind trust, she will simply bring this to an end before anything worse happens. He will not consider this luck, but he will never allow it to happen again. That is the mark of a lesson well-learned, and it brings her something approaching satisfaction.
The next night she lies awake in her bed, waiting. When he arrives, she plays possum until he retreats. If he realizes it is an act, he says nothing.
Variations on this theme happen again and again, until he no longer comes to her door. For him there are blondes and brunettes every night of the week if he wants.
For her there remains the memory of what has been lost that should never have been gained, twice over now.
now I watch you falling into sleep
watch your fist curl against the sheet
watch your lips fall open and your eyes dim in blind faith
I would shelter you, keep you in light
but I can only teach you
night vision
-Suzanne Vega
Sometimes she is willing to allow him to believe he is in control. These nights she will put on a little playacting to soothe his ego, in an effort to somehow make this less imbalanced, if only for a while. Of course, the mutual understanding that she is only pretending to surrender power only further reasserts the fact that she is in possession of all the cards, whether or not he is only pretending to give his to her.
She considers this her gift to him, an almost generous show of affection. Perhaps in return, he takes her by surprise one night. It is not long after the usual exchange has transpired between them. She lays still, feeling his weight beside her on the mattress although they are not touching. Her eyes are closed and she mimics sleep, waiting for him to leave. When it is his own bed, he will imitate this courtesy long enough for her to gather her things and depart. It is unnecessary--she does not believe either harbors any delusions about the nature of this--but maybe it's just a pleasant respite from the coldness that would be expected.
Twenty-five, thirty. She keeps her eyes closed longer than necessary, but it brings little relaxation. She's jittery, wants to get up, move around. She stays still instead. This is so horribly wrong, the way everything's gone so far off-track. Regardless of her initial purpose, whether it was temporary comfort or the alleviation of boredom or the resolution of tension, to continue to play out this charade is ridiculous.
No. It would only be ridiculous if it meant something, and it doesn't mean anything, not to her, not to him. She'll cut it off immediately if there are any signs of such illogical ideas developing in either mind. Of course.
The night's too long. After this, she'll wander around, look through the windows at tonight's location until the sun rises. Sleep is a luxury she hasn't had in years, but living without it has almost become a point of pride. Deprivation equals willpower equals strength. It's a good philosophy that's served her well over the years; dwelling on what has been lost is an activity without merit, so it is better to simply take care never to repeat past mistakes.
And she almost feels sorry for him, so young and already so cold. But the truth is that love is an addiction in which it is safer not to indulge; if he must resolve this particular brand of tension, it is wise not to become entangled with the deeper connections people foolishly imagine themselves capable of forging. She is not unaware of his dalliances; a blonde here, twenty minutes in the men's room; a brunette there, lucky enough to spend the night, unlucky enough to spend it with someone she'll never see again who won't remember her name, if he ever knew it. Why not? There is nothing binding involved here, and he suspects she will never truly be disloyal to one particular past mistake she seems destined to repeat.
She wants to reassure him, sometimes; to tell him that it's an act, like everything else. But it isn't worth the effort, and it isn't worth what it would cost her.
Ninety-nine, a hundred. She opens her eyes. Why isn't he gone? His head is bent awkwardly, one arm slung off the bed entirely. Yet their bodies still do not touch, as if there is a line separating his side from hers. She resents this; it is her bed, all sides belong to her. He is a transient, occupying space where he does not belong.
But like a mother she feels compelled to readjust the errant limb, whispering a warning about gangrene; she refrains.
This is disturbing, and she sits on the edge of the bed for a long time. It is an indication of trust and of comfort, to surrender the ritual. He is trusting enough to leave his body prone on her home ground, aware that her next whim could involve eliminating him entirely, aware that it won't. She is almost touched, almost tempted to stay, to lie beside him until morning, surprise them both.
But that would be the wrong lesson. It would give him false hope that a thing could be what it is not, that honor exists among the heartless, that trust is something to be achieved and not betrayed. To let him indulge in that fantasy would only be harmful. To kiss with your eyes closed, to sleep beside a lover from midnight til dawn; she knows where weakness leads.
She takes a last look and snaps herself closed.
This, truly, is her final gift; rather than demonstrating the foolishness of such an extension of blind trust, she will simply bring this to an end before anything worse happens. He will not consider this luck, but he will never allow it to happen again. That is the mark of a lesson well-learned, and it brings her something approaching satisfaction.
The next night she lies awake in her bed, waiting. When he arrives, she plays possum until he retreats. If he realizes it is an act, he says nothing.
Variations on this theme happen again and again, until he no longer comes to her door. For him there are blondes and brunettes every night of the week if he wants.
For her there remains the memory of what has been lost that should never have been gained, twice over now.