A Proverbial Waltz

It would never fail. On the nights it would rain, those were the nights he would come. And they were to few.

And on those nights were the only time, as his fingers etched a butterfly in my stomach, that the raw hate I held for him would lessen. Why I hated him was only a flighty memory. Just like him. Sometimes I thought I was going crazy when I thought about him.

But falling asleep, the screenless window open just enough for a looking eyes to see and the rain drops, I knew what I was waiting for. And he would only come after I was asleep. Like a love-obsessed Santa for a twenty-year-old. I would wait for the cold and still damp fingertips to trace lines against my sides as he crawled above me. The thin sheet clutched against my chest and waist, leaving the rest of me exposed, in my short shorts and sports bra, all to his eyes. What he saw in me, I would never wanted to know. He was a mystery to my just like the places he went when he left me cold in the middle of the night.

There was never a need to speak to him. He seemed to understand what my body told him. But I guess my body never told him how I hated him. He would lift his fingertips to my shoulder and be on me, lips to mine and I would only then react to him, moving my own hand to the back of his neck and holding him against me. My other hand was where I held my hate so that he wouldn't have to read it.

There was some kind of warped beauty in the way we fit together. I would sometimes watch the lovers on the waterside, the way they held eachother. And I just thought that no matter the way they dressed, the way they looked, what the said, they always seemed to fit perfectly in the sleeve of absolute chaos, and at the same time, absolute beauty. Like the jigsaw puzzle that was love. And I knew, somewhere inside me, that was never going to be us.

His hands running up my sides, his body somewhere above me, but still so far away. And then our mouths molded together. Somehow the sheet would always be on the floor in the morning, and besides the empty pit in my heart that was my only proof that he existed. And then somehow my shorts and sports bra would be gone, I never found them in the mornings. His cloths, dripping wet would have been shed when he entered the window. The pressure on my hips was always near to much. The grinding that followed nearly sent me to screams. I hated him then. I always hated him.

And then he would draw his lips from mine and lay them on my neck, pulling at the skin and making me gasp and sometimes nearly cry. But no matter how many times we danced this motionless waltz, he would always lay his lips back on my as he enter me. Habit from the beginning. And then just as quickly they were gone, and I would feel them on my neck, collar bone, or chest moments later. And then the real dance started.

When had our proverbial waltz started? Had I been fourteen, fifteen maybe. Living with my parents still, laying his lips on mine as he entered to stop the scream that entering me used to make. I washed my own sheets and they never had an inkling of what transpired on the nights that it rained. But now I was here on my own living in the apartment that I had for near three years. Was this harassment maybe, rape. No you can't rape the willing, and I took him in just as he took me. These were the things I thought as I hated him. As I wanted to nail my window shut and put bars against the glass. But I knew I could never do that.

Holding me against him and rocking back and forth, in and out, I knew I could never do that. I needed to fell this fakely-transpiring love inside me. As I took him in and the let him out and back in, I knew that I didn't hate him, just wanted to, needed to hate him for leaving me cold every morning. But as he held my neck against his lips and moved inside, I knew I would always leave my window open, and I would never be able to hold another.

And then it collapsed. Crashing around me like a brick wall. He only slowed for a second before the moan in my throat drove him in continue. Always. This was our proverbial and perverted waltz. I knew that, given history, I would collapse another five times before he came close to coming. That was just the difference between us. That was why I knew I could never hold another man and love him as much.

And so it was. The second time he stopped only for a short few seconds for me to get my sense about me again. The third fourth and fifth times melted in on each other as one big reoccurring pleasure. And then the sixth time I nearly passed out afterward, only from consorting this much with him was I able to stay half coherent. And then the seventh and eight climax fell in both on separate entrances. And then he joined me. Wriggling in this consorted love that we were making, I held his head against my chest and ran a hand through his rain and sweat soaked hair.

While I held him there, slipping between coherent and oblivious, I prayed and somewhere in the back of my mind, I was screaming for him to stay with me. So I could wake up with him next to me. But in the front of my head I was just softly cursing him and wishing he would go now. His breath evened out and his eyes remained closed, but they always did.

He was beautiful. From the lines of his back to the look in his eyes when I would see him look at me. It had been so long since I had been able to see him in anything close to light. But the feel of his near-velvet skin was what made him beautiful to me. And that was the last thought I would have before falling into the sea of hard sleep.

That was the last though that I would have before he would leave me.

The next morning I woke up clinging to a fluffy white pillow that had somehow managed to stay on the bed through the ruckus of the night. I look over the spotless wooded floor that was partially covered with the white sheet from the bed. There were no clothes on the floor. I sit up a little leaning on my elbow, the rest of my arm still covered by the pillow, while the rest of my body was shallowly exposed to the sun coming through the now closed window. The rain had stopped in the middle of the night, after I had fallen asleep though. It always did. I knew that, as always, the streets outside would be wet and the cars would have to run their wipers to discharge the rain drops. I was tired of what I always knew was coming on the eve of a rainy night.

Maybe I was just tired of loving, and at the same time, hating him.

Looking at the window, I had to close my eyes and bury my head in the pillow as I screamed. Now I just hated him.