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Still dancing to the music, I finish off my glass of wine.
Then I pour another one.
I wander through the apartment, looking with fresh eyes at the life that Cam and I have built together. Furniture, mirrors, paintings, throws, crockery, glasses. Paid for out of our joint bank account. The product of a shared life, as impossible to divide as the paint.
How many people stay together because it’s too difficult to break up? Because they can’t face the notion of dividing up the items they’ve taken a lifetime to collect? Or they just can’t summon the strength they know it’s going to take to end it?
That’s not why I’m here though, I remind myself. I’m not staying because of shared plates or bedding or towels. I love Cam, and I’ve invested seven years in making this work, and I don’t want to throw it all away because a handsome guy gave me an orgasm. Or two. Or three.
But then that’s not fair to Henry, because even though I accused him that not everything is about sex, and he said Are you sure?, that’s not what last night was about. Or not only, anyway. It was about comfort, and solace, and friendship, and… love? Yes, maybe about love, too. Just a different kind of love from that which I have with Cam. Cam loves me—I have no doubt about that. But our love is like the Egyptian pyramids, constructed over time, built stone by stone with hard work and determination. Not beautiful exactly, but impressive nonetheless. My relationship with Henry is more like an ice sculpture, something created in hours that is breathtaking but fleeting, and won’t be around this time tomorrow.
Or is that unfair? I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Cam. We have a solid friendship. I’d trust him with my life. I would say I love him, as a brother.
No, not quite as a brother.
Would you rather be with a pyramid or an ice sculpture?
I want both. I want Cam to be like Henry, to be open and affectionate. To tell me he loves me with all his heart. To do romantic things like buy me flowers and jewelry. To leave me notes that say I love you on the bathroom mirror. I want his friends to say he talks about me all the time. For my girlfriends to be jealous of how he treats me.
I want him to send me texts that tell me he burns for me.
I wish… I wish he’d ask me to marry him. But he told me when we were first together that he thinks marriage is outdated and pointless, and he’d rather spend the money on the apartment. I didn’t argue, because technically he’s right. What’s the point of marriage? Of wasting thousands of dollars on a wedding and a dress that can only be worn once, when we could spend the money on something we really need? Rings are an outdated symbol of ownership, he said, a medieval stamp of possession and jealousy like a chastity belt.
But there’s something about the thought of a guy asking you to be his wife that just gives you the tingles, right? Or is it just me?
He sometimes says he loves me, but I don’t feel it. I want to feel his love. Is that too much to ask?
I finish off the wine and pour myself another.
I didn’t know about his abuse when I started seeing him. But when he told me, I made the decision to stay, to help him work through it. What kind of person does it make me now if I say I’m leaving him because I can’t cope? It’s not his fault. He’s experienced this terrible thing in his past, and he deserves to be with someone who’ll work with him to help him through all the aftershocks it’s caused. Is that person me? I want it to be me. I don’t want to end the relationship because it’s too hard.
It’s just… I wish he was… normal. There, I said it. It’s a horrible word, I know it is. Cam is normal—he’s a normal guy who’s had abnormal things done to him. But I wish he experienced love and sex the way other men seem to. I wish he looked at me, and desired me, and his body responded the way it should do, without caveats and complicated displays of power and control.
Henry didn’t blanch when I hinted at what Cam has asked me to do in the past, but I could sense his indignation and resentment. He said You shouldn’t have to change yourself to please him, or do things you don’t want to do. That’s not fair. But surely, when you love your partner, you listen to their problems, and you try to help?
It was such a relief, though, to have Henry kiss me, and to feel his erection, and to make love with him in such a straightforward, simple way. With no humiliation, no embarrassment, nothing except desire, pure and clear, like the air at Lake Tekapo in the middle of the mountains, where there’s so little light pollution that you can see the Southern Lights.
I wish—
I’m cut off mid-thought as I hear a key in the lock. I turn guiltily, even though I’m just standing there with a glass of wine, and watch as Cam comes into the room.
“Oh,” he says, looking surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet.” He’s carrying a couple of bags of groceries, and he walks through to the kitchen and puts them down.
“I left work early as it was the last day,” I tell him.
“Yeah, me too.” He walks into the living room and stands a few feet away. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come home.”
“I’m here.”
He nods, looking into my eyes. His are a very pale green, much lighter and cooler than Henry’s dark-blue ones.
Oh God, when will I stop comparing everything about him to Henry? I drop my gaze and have a big mouthful of wine.
“I might get myself one of those,” he says, and goes back into the kitchen to pour himself a glass.
No kiss. No hug and a ‘hello darling, it’s so nice to see you.’ My heart aches for it. But it’s not Cam’s way.
I could go up to him, slide my arms around him, kiss his back, tell him I’ve missed him. But I know what’ll happen. He’ll stiffen, then move away to put something in the fridge. And I couldn’t bear that rejection right now.
