Appropriating Sorrow

The movie said. Spoke. Whittled in balsam platitudes. First. Best. Was both arms. Smothered in him. After all that smothering. Give her some more. A woman needs to be suffocated by a man. To know she is loved. She needs to be suffocated. To know she isn't dead.

I tried to remember. Some of my afterwards. I have no idea what happened once the act was over. Maybe we drank. Maybe I smoked. I think I wanted more some times and others I just wanted to be left alone.

Second was one arm around. Bodies parallel. Casually cradled in the weight of the experience. A cautious transition from in deep to putting on our clothes.

Third was just a hand on the stomach. A gentle pressure in her breathing to indicate the shadow lying next to her.

But the worst. Oh the worst is her holding him. As he gazes at the ceiling. Silently calculating how many minutes more he must lay there before he can leave without hurting her feelings.

I tried to remember any of those moments. But all I could recall was that feeling of helplessness. Waiting for the the gap between sex and lovers to open up again.