Think About What I Mean to You

     The hotel is sumptuous.  The most luxurious I have ever stayed at is the Dorchester in London, but this one is pretty damn impressive.

     I had a little trouble checking in, even though my reservation was pre-paid.  I regarded the clerk from across the marble countertop.  She was my age, pretty, with (presumably) fake diamond studs in her ears.  You don’t belong here, either.

     In the Surgeon’s suite.  You are so skinny, I can’t believe how good you look, your face looks so beautiful…whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!

    “I don’t look sick, do I?”  I ask.  The Surgeon sees a lot of naked people.

     “No!  No!  Beautiful!  And your hair!  More red!”

      My BMI this morning was 16.7.

      I straddle his torso as he lays on his bed, his arms tightly restrained at the wrists.  I slap the palms on my hands down onto his chest.  It makes a loud noise, like a gunshot, in the room.

       He grimaces; turns his face to the side.

       “Do not turn your countenance from me,” I say, I command.  I am serious.  Serious as a heart attack.  I like to see their faces.  It is one of my favorite parts.

        “It hurts,” he says.

         I slap him across the face–not hard enough to leave a mark; he has to lecture–and grab his hair, shaking his head like a terrier shaking a rat.  His eyes are closed tightly.

       “Open your eyes.  Look at me.”

       He does.  And even though I know I don’t love him anymore, even though I know that a big part of him hates me, there is still an electric moment of connection.  This vulnerability from him.  I feel so protective and so loving.  I wish that he could feel that way toward me for more than a minute or two, or an hour at most.  I could have loved him so much.

     I tell him something I’ve never told him before:  “Nobody else in your adult life has ever seen you this way, as you are for me now.”

      He whispers No.

      “Tell me how much you need it.”

      “I need it,” he whispers.  His voice is hoarse with pain and desire.

      “Say it again.”

      He does.  I know how difficult it is for him to have to admit anything.

       “Open your mouth for me,” I say, and put my fingers into his mouth, running them across his teeth, his gums, the bumpy surface of his molars.  I like to penetrate his mouth with my fingers.  It feels intimate; invasive.  I know he likes it. He tries to suck on my fingers.

      “In ten years, you will remember this.  This very moment,” I say.

      “So will you,” he says.

     I smile, shake my head, no.  “Look at me.  I accept you.  I know exactly what you are, and I loved you anyway.  The good and the bad; from the first to the last.”

      I take myself off his body.  I put my dress back on and pick up  my handbag.  In only takes ten, fifteen seconds.

     “I knew you would leave me,” he says from the bed.

     “Oh, Surgeon,” I sigh, putting on my leather jacket.  “How it becomes you to speak the truth.   You should  do it more often.  I’m here through (date).  Think about what I mean to you.”  

      I’m sitting in my hotel room right now, crying.  I don’t sob, really.  My face doesn’t move much.  I cry like a dude.  I just leak tears.  Leak leak leak.

      I remind myself that I could never had done better by him.  I could not have given him more.  It’s not my fault that he didn’t love me.

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