Questions

Today, in the car, in the rain, in the bright afternoon, Atlas held my hand and asked if I really want to marry him (per usual).

I said yes, and he asked what I was most looking forward to about being married to him. I thought about it a moment and said, "Coming home to you every day. . . and getting to sleep with you every night." Pause. "Is that a good enough answer?" (Half-tease.)

He said yes, and so I asked, slightly nervously, what about him?

He said, "
drinking hot cider or cocoa with you in the winter and watching the Olympics on TV
going on walks together
talking about more than just the day-to-day stuff
"

and I think, he wants me to be there, with a warm glow in my stomach, just be there for everything.

"
you're the first person I've ever been with who's actually encouraged me to. . . do the things that I like. . . like play computer games, to relax, even if it's something that doesn't hold value to you
I like that

and I like it when you sing to me
Sometimes I just hear you singing as you do things around the house
I like that a lot
"

Today was a point-and-click snapshot of true, honest, deep love. It was holy. Sacred. I trembled in the knowledge that this love is for me, bestowed upon me, made from me, all around me. I trembled in the knowledge of his bravery; his deep, living heart; his very soul. The nakedness of the moment was something I felt honored, in awe of, to experience.

God has blessed my soul with the gift of Atlas. He is the redemption for everything I've suffered, all the pain of my past. Is that too bold? How could he not be?

(A dangerous question to ask.)

Memories, Lies

This afternoon it was raining. Atlas and I went up to his bedroom and opened the window. I rubbed his back and his neck, and then we made love on top of the covers.

I thought about the first time we hung out, how we went up to your bedroom the next morning. It was raining and you had the windows open, and you sang "Hey Jude" as you rubbed my back.

Afterwards I wished we had cigarettes. I wanted nothing more than for Atlas to smoke with me, lying back on the bed and blowing smoke at the window screen. We always lit cigarettes after we fucked, like something out of a novel or a movie. You had a small, handmade clay ashtray on your side of the bed. I can't remember if I ashed on the floor or not.

Atlas will never smoke with me, will never go to a greasy diner and order hashbrowns and black coffee and chain smoke with me. I thought about how, when you were lying to me, it didn't matter what I was wearing or how dumpy I looked, I felt good because you wanted me. You made me sexy. You fucked me and made me a sex icon, Marilyn Monroe in my black tights and combat boots.

Atlas asked me what I was thinking about. I said, "Nothing," and smiled at him.

Prize Fighters

Atlas and I are awesome fighters. We don't call each other names, and we always work it out in 48 hours or less, because we luuuuuv each other and are relationship peaceniks. (Although we sometimes place blame and we do tend to get mean. But hey, you have to do something wrong, that's how it becomes a fight!)

We talked this afternoon, Day 2 of the stand-off. It definitely wasn't an instant make-up that quickly dissolved into intense sex, that's for sure. We seem to have polar opposite perceptions of what the topic of the argument even is. However, we have come to tentative terms. I used an awesome restaurant analogy. We held each other tight and kissed like first kisses.

There is still a quiet between us. However slim, the space is noticeable. He said he'll call me tomorrow, meaning not tonight, not before he falls asleep.

I feel better, but not good. Not comforted or comfortable. But I know I am going to fight for this. I don't want to lose us. I realized today, Atlas is not only holding up my skies, he is the very sunshine filtering through them.

Sunday.

Second anniversary. Another huge fight. I leave sobbing at midnight.

Sex--or the lack thereof--is again the culprit.



Help.