Orphans

34

34 As the moonlight slices through the window and across our bed, Shalla and her nakedness are wrapped in the sheets next to me, some parts illuminated, others shrouded in shadow. There is a sliver of shoulder, the outside curve of her breast, the bottom of her knee, a touch of ankle and a glimpse of her forearm. The rest of her is lost, buried, present, not exposed to the elements, only to some of my senses. Shalla is like a ghost, a beautiful, semipresent apparition, who with each move, each role and twist, is a little more and a little less all at once. What I can see though is Shalla absentmindedly fingering the necklace I brought her home. I run my finger across her shoulder and it pops with static electricity. “You didn’t have to do this,” she says rolling toward me, “but I’m glad you did.” I stroke her cheek, my obsession with her glowing skin as strong as ever. I start to kiss her neck, tasting her stilldrying sweat and smelling the sex still lingering on her. I slip my hand down to her still-wet thighs and roll on top of her, her legs parting, welcoming me in. I should have my eyes closed, but instead I try to keep them open, wanting to take in the moment and her, all of her—the slight scar just below the tip of her chin, the faded birthmark on her right hip. And as she starts to move with me, then lift, I keep my eyes open because I will be gone again tomorrow and I do not want to lose a single second, or forget a thing. I need this, or need to need it, but recognizing this means I have to think about what to- B E N TA N Z E R 117 morrow will bring. About leaving again and how I don’t want to tell her about it. Soon the dread starts to build in my chest and then my shoulders. I try to loosen my neck, but this just makes me lose my momentum and alter our rhythm. I hope we can recover and I’m still going, moving and thrusting, sliding, but whatever we might have had is gone, my actions now force of habit, muscle memory, and not remotely arousing. I can’t tell if she can tell that I’m distracted, but I am— all the things I could ignore before are now conspiring against my focus and timing. The sheets are tangled and chafing. The sweat on my brow is lingering there, heavy and burning. My back is sore. And I am lost, not concentrating and not into it any more. I need to talk to her, tell her what’s about to happen. It’s so hard though, telling her something that will upset her, that will leave her feeling abandoned like my mom felt. Because when things get like that, things implode, they have to, and there’s no way around it. I don’t want this, but I don’t know what to do to prevent it, and I never have. “What?” Shalla says. I look down. I have closed my eyes after all, lost in trying to concentrate. Her skin is now make-up free, her freckles just floating there and as always collecting under her nose in an awesome cluster of brown on brown on brown. “I think I lost you there for a moment buddy,” she says now sliding out from under me, her slick skin, frictionless and smooth. “Are you alright?” I should know what to say, loving someone means knowing what to say, or at least knowing how to fix something after you’ve broken it. I don’t know how to do either though, and because of this I am not a good partner to O R P H A N S 118 her. I am a good provider and I would not go anywhere away from her and Joey out of choice. I know this, and I don’t have a choice if I’m going to do what’s needed. Do I? I don’t know. And I don’t know what I know, except that I should be able to communicate this, and that I love her, them, but I don’t know how to do this, any of it. Instead...