You Are Not You Anymore

We didn't need to sneak out. We were allowed to see one another as often as we liked. There was no necessity to it, just our longing to feel we were doing something rebellious and exciting. That kind of feeling gave us the impression that what we had held so much more depth and closeness-- that this experience together of risking getting caught and punished pulled us nearer. It gave us a sense of complexity. We liked that. I could feel the waves of anxiety and sheer exhilaration rushing over me as I tried my best to tip-toe quietly down the steps. I thought I would have known which ones creaked and made sounds by then, but evidently I hadn't spent much time sneaking down them before. One would suddenly creak-- not a loud, quick squeal, but a long, lingering drawling noise. I would have to shut my eyes and freeze in place, praying that Mama didn't wake up and hear. I would always brace myself for a barrage of questions, figuring it best to prepare for the worst. I would tell myself that I'd lie and say I was coming down for some water. That would be easy. The hard lies to muster up would come with getting caught opening the front door, or worse, trying to sneak back in from the outside.

Mama was a bit of a night owl. She never actually dozed off until about three in the morning, leaving you and I with a very particular time frame. I would stay up in my bedroom on the phone with you, giving you updates on Mama's wakefulness. Mama slept downstairs, so I'd have to peak my head in to see if she was asleep or not. I'd see the back of her head lifted just enough for her drowsy eyes to watch the T.V. screen, glowing a dull picture of Before Midnight, her favorite of Linklater's trilogy and the movie she preferred to have in the background as she fought restlessness each night. Mama's insomnia made it difficult. We'd both set our alarms to about 2:30 a.m. each time, because we had a tendency to nod off ourselves while waiting for Mama. One time my alarm didn't even wake me up, and you had to call me several times before the phone finally woke me. Then came the routine of slinking down the stairs, tip-toeing to the front door. I'd look around the corner one more time to confirm Mama was asleep, and then hold my breath as I unlocked the door and turned the knob. The door would open, sometimes silently and sometimes with a little squeak. I never knew which I'd get. Then would come the charge of pure thrill, shooting through my legs, as I sprinted down the sidewalk and to the usual meeting place.

I never told you to head over until I was there. For some reason, it made me feel safer. It put me at ease, sitting there in the dark quiet at the foot of the little green slope that held my childhood's trees and grass. I liked being there in my pajamas, looking out at the scattered streetlights and stars. It gave me the brief moments I needed to myself before I was to see you. About ten minutes later, I'd see headlights turning into the neighborhood, and your car would pull up in front of me. Every time I sprang to my feet and hurried to the passenger's side to jump in. Even as it became a usual thing for us, I could never calmly walk around to the door. It was always done with a big ball of energy trapped inside my chest, with some nerves. It was the excitement to see you, the stress of hoping I wouldn't be caught-- everything wrapped in one jolt to the car.

We parked in the same place each time. Three streets down and two over, right outside a tall palm tree in someone's front yard. The first couple of times were innocent enough. We'd slip into the backseat and chatter nervously, touching each other's hands with sheepish smiles and giggles. I remember the night you reached out and smoothed your thumb over the scar on my chin. It sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt the backs of my eyes pinch like I might start crying at any moment. I believe Mama told me once that a moment which stirs something inside of you so immensely that it moves you to tears indicates a spiritual level of connection. I felt sure of it then, when we touched each other. We spent hours talking to one another, asking each other questions and sharing things we never thought we'd tell. Those nightly meetings were like our own little secret hideaway, and they became something I coveted and held close. Eventually we began kissing. I would touch your chest, and you would slide your hands around my waist. We kissed quietly, slowly, sweetly. As time sped up, so did we. We started kissing faster, more passionately, more furiously. Clothes came off, and finally we were naked, seeing each other as we were for the first time. It was the first time I'd ever let someone see me. I thought I was going to be more afraid to show you, every possible waiting criticism open and vulnerable. I hated parts of my body then, and revealing these parts to someone else terrified me-- because maybe I'd find they were true. But, the way your eyes fell on every part of my body, the way they softened as you smoothed your hand over my skin: I felt safe.

The first time didn't happen during those nights. They were more curious than that: they were about exploration, about the novelty of it all. I wouldn't have known it then, but as I think about those nights together, they mean more to me than any finality of sexual experience-- of any moment meant to be bigger than those nights: the defining of a great love. I feel the comfort and glow of familiarity from those clandestine meetings: Us holding one another's hands as we told stories about ourselves in middle school and laughed full-heartedly into one another. I feel the rapid heartbeat that accompanied the joy I felt when you told me you'd never felt that way about anybody before. I think of those nights, and I understand how important they were-- how much significance they carried. Because, now, things aren't good. They're not exactly bad either, but they're not okay. Things have settled into their place, and with that, so have our feelings: the way we treat one another. We didn't need to sneak out all those years ago. But, we did. I can roll over in bed now, next to you, and look at the clock. 3:46 a.m. I haven't had those quiet moments to myself for a long time. Or, maybe, I've had too many.