Wednesday, August 25, 2010


I like to shower in shadow.

In younger days, at my parents' house, the best time to shower was in the late evening, when dusk washed over the air with a hazy, quasi-darkness. Not wanting to interrupt nature, I would shower with only that semi-light of dusk, or, if the moon was out (which was always visible from my shower window), by the light of the moon.

Tonight, I shower in replicated shadow--without a window, and considering the fact that it's long after dusk, I create shadow by leaving my light off and cracking the door a bit. Though the room will never get hot enough for my body, I'd rather be slightly chilly in shadow than to be warm and cozy in artificial brightness.

I step into the shower, arched right foot first, thinking that, maybe I should touch myself tonight. The thought of you persists in my mind, so maybe touching myself will help me be closer to you, or, maybe touching myself will help me clear my mind so I can sleep without wanting to wake up next to you.

It's clear from the moment I step into the shower that my physical pleasure is not on the menu for the evening. Though I slip my hands all about my wet flesh, I can't bring myself to slide my fingers down to that quiet, hungry place. I realize that, she's not hungry at all. Not right now. She lies dormant, while the rest of my body and spirit long for you.

I fold my arms upward and squeeze my shoulders with my hands, enclosing my breasts between my forearms, letting the warm water run down the side of my face, onto my neck, then onto my chest. Somehow, this makes me feel safe and warm, the way I do when you hold me while I'm falling asleep. Somehow, I know that, in your arms I will never trip, will never fall, will never be in danger of anything, except drowning in further need of your protection.

I can't let my fingers slip down to the hungry, quiet place, because tonight I need more than a moment of fleeting physical satisfaction. I need something deeper than the hushed groan shitohmyGodgoddamnit and uncontrollable quiver of an expertly-elicited orgasm. I need the way looking at you makes my heart smile; the familiarity of the routine we've built that we shall soon break.

I continue standing in the shower, not doing anything but bending my arms up in front of me and letting the water pour down my body. I rack my brain for a song I could sing, and settle on the beginning of "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston. I only sing the opening line of the song, and I'm not even sure if I got the line correct, or whether I added words that fit the way I needed them to.

In the end, I have yet to figure out whether her logic is admirable or flawed. She sings her song soaringly about a woman who lets her lover go, because she knows it's best, all the while ensuring him that she will always love him. They say that if you love something, let it go, so maybe it's admirable for this woman to know that it's best to let her lover go, while still being selfless enough to vow to always love him. Or, maybe it's foolish of the woman to let a true lover go; maybe it's the easy way out for her to let him go, assuring that he'll always be loved, instead of fighting for the love she so clearly feels.

Regardless, her logic goes undetermined, and I turn the shower off abruptly, welcoming the rush of cool air onto my warm skin. Maybe I should have just touched myself after all.

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