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Tuesday, Aug. 27, 2002 / 11:40 a.m. ~A Spontaneous Surge of Affection~ They talked for hours, always for hours. The words were deep and heartfelt, light and cerebral, the topics veered wildly, nothing was out of reach, nothing was forbidden, but she always said too much. She�d hear the words escaping her lips, sometimes floating from her mouth, sometimes feeling spit out, regurgitated like they�d already gone in, but had no choice but to come back out. His reactions were varied. At times she could not read him, could not gauge, asked instead, tired of reading between invisible lines, yet he was evasive, his eyes betraying him. It was there, she felt she could see it if she looked hard and long enough, stared into those eyes. They were big and blue, surrounded by heavy dark brows. They looked inside of her, saw places she thought were hidden. She liked to think no one could see inside, no one could see what she chose not to share, but he could. This frightened her and intrigued her, and she loved him for his ability to know her like no one else had. After hours, always for hours they talked, a silence would grow, a logical conclusion to so many words expended. Quiet. They would pause and look into each others� eyes, still searching, looking for answers, for opinions, for emotions not yet expressed, and finding it in those moments he would reach for her as she turned away from him. A light brushing of fingers on neck, a casual rearranging of hair, leaning in for a kiss, always her neck, or her cheek, never obvious or bold, but subtle, almost a physical whisper. She questioned him, every time, for these physical displays seemed to arrive at odd moments. It seemed to her they�d reached an impasse, not just a silence. She�d gone far away from him in her mind, and was it precisely this distance which attracted him? Always, she asked, until she began to know the answer would always be that it was merely a �spontaneous surge of affection�, and it was that phrase she loved. That concept. That he simply had to express himself in that moment, he had a surge of feeling for her as she was turning away inside herself. She was gone and he loved her when she was gone, when she was wrapped up in anything besides him. One brush of a finger, or a rearranging of her hair and his surge electrified her. She was alive with sensation, felt it throughout her body, his surge became hers and every time it worked, every time it started them on several more hours of physical exploration. The psyches were left behind, only physical sensation was left to them. The rest was spent, exhausted, but the new realm lay left unexplored and they pursued it, explored it, all night long. He knew exactly how to touch her, every part of her body pleased him, and her responses pleased him more. He was sensation incarnate, his whole body moved with hers, their mouths were one mouth, their tongues one tongue, they melted into each other, got lost and came back out for air. Reclaiming themselves, losing themselves, over and over again, hours spent pleasing and feeling and pleasing again. A climax would occur, energy would be spent, they could go no further, and they would rest. His sleep was fitful, restless, and when he awoke he was someone new, a person she never could love, and he would be anxious to leave her. It was over. Every time she was left uncertain. Every time she never knew if she�d see him again, what it would be like the next time if she did. And she did. And every time was the same, but the talking was worse and worse, it affected the physical displays, and it burned itself out, all of it, consumed them, consumed her, and she gave up trying. Once she told him she could no longer try with him he was hurt, though he�d been pulling away the whole time. There were others, and he finally left her for one of them. He became engaged. He married. She saw him once, years later, whilst eating in a caf� with friends, their eyes met, she saw everything there, all the love and passion and pain and anger, in a flash. And now he remains a memory, one that glows brighter, sweeter, as time passes. The pain has dissipated over time, almost as if it never happened, almost as if she never felt anything but pleasure and joy, and she would have this memory remain in place of the pain. One long memory, made of pieces cut up and re-affixed. Small fragments missing, but there�s no question they are not sought, but the contentment is in letting them go. Cost of the War in Iraq
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