After All

I was in love once, and not with a boy or a man or any person out there because I don’t think they could have measured up to it. I was, in fact, madly in love with the human touch. I would give anything to have an arm around my waist or to walk with my fingers laced between another’s. And I would have taken hugs over kisses any day. Except for that one kiss, with that one guy, who would slide his hands through my hair and press lightly on my back.1

That was a damn good kiss. 2

And I wish I could say that that was a damn good guy but even for me, that is too big a lie to not feel guilty about tomorrow morning. And besides, this is a story and I’m writing in pen, so I can never take these words back.3

The guy’s name was Tom and yes, that was his real name. I’m not changing it for his sake because I do not care about his well-being and I’m not changing it to conceal his identity or make it seem as if he could be anyone. Nope, his name was generic and so was he. 4

Enough about him, already. This is my story and I am feeling quite lost in it. I’m not quite sure where to start but the guy told us to start writing about ourselves and who we are. Maybe I should tell you about my family and my over-controlling mom who, back in high school, wouldn’t let me go out on weekend nights. “It’s too dark at night, and if people cant see what you are doing then you shouldn’t be doing anything at all,” she would always say.5

Or maybe I should include some of my hidden secrets but I suppose I would feel guilty tomorrow morning if I included that in this story too.  The guy told us that we wouldn’t have to read these stories ever again, and we could just lock them away and completely forget about them but I have trouble letting go of things so I need to watch what I write.6

I guess I could tell you about the time in sophomore year, when I was homecoming queen.  I paraded around school for days to get people to vote for me and it worked, and I felt on top of the world. I liked being a queen.7

I was just walking down the street when I met him, Tom that is; back when I lived in the city. He said ‘Hello’ and it was nice. I couldn’t stop looking at him. His beauty wasn’t overpowering but it was there. I ran into him after that at the coffee shop down the corner every morning. We began to say more than just hello to each other, and then he asked if I would join him for dinner.8

I did go to dinner with him and he paid for me, and he paid for the next date, and I can’t remember when he stopped paying because the rest of the relationship all seems like a blur.9

Our dates started getting longer and I wouldn’t get back to my apartment until the next day. Sometimes, we even skipped going out to dinner or a movie. I would always just come over to his place. That’s when I began to not charge my phone, or when it was charged, I wouldn’t answer it. When I went outside of my apartment, I would never go the same way twice but instead, go through alleys or side streets because I didn’t want to run into him.10

I would spend my day in front of the mirror looking at the bruises…at the black-and-blue on my arms and one spot on my cheek bone and then another on my hip from where I was standing naked, in his arms, scared and trembling, and he just pushed me back into the corner of his nightstand. I’m even trembling writing this, because I’m writing in pen and I know I can never take these words back.  11

I wish I could go back to the days where he was a gentleman and paid for my dinners. Yet, somehow, when my bruises would fade, I would run back to him. I would pick up my phone when the caller ID said Tom and then he would ask where I had been and I would panic and say that I had been busy and he would say OK and I would sigh and my heart wouldn’t beat as fast. He would ask me to come over and I would look around at my apartment and see no one there -- not a roommate, or a neighbor, or even a cat lying on the couch -- so I would say yes.12

Then in the nighttime, when we were lying naked in bed, his arm around me, I would ask myself how I let this happen. I would recall the beginning of the night, how he would press his hands lightly on my back, or how he would race his fingers gently up and down my legs. Then, it would be morning, early morning, where the sun was hardly even up and he was fast asleep beside me. I would look down at my arm to see another bruise forming and start to weep uncontrollably but not loud enough to wake him. And then I would think to myself that the human touch isn’t such a beautiful thing after all.13