At the stove, heat rising from the burning elements, steam escaping the various pots and pans, he was behind me. I could feel the weight of his presence, solid and true, and so I allowed myself to lean into him. I let his weight share the burden of mine, let my body relax against his for a beat; two. Instead of tensing up or telling him to fuck off, I said, "Put your arms around me." And he did. It felt so nice just to be close, to be held.
The ritual of him trying to kiss me and me rebuffing him is a playful one, a shared joke, familiar, almost a clichéd representation of our many years together. But somewhere in that playfulness there lies a wall to sharing a real moment of contact that we both might really be needing, a soft moment in the mess of our day.
Sometimes you stop and wonder when was the last time you kissed your partner, really kissed them? Sucked the breath right out of their lungs. Kissed them like you were sixteen years old again.
Kissing used to be so much fun.
So I allowed my body to fall back against his, felt my shoulders dropping as his arms encircled my waist. And though I am still in no mood to have anyone go near what has recently been renamed "The Baby Exit", it did occur to me that my good and sweet man had been starved of lovin' for too long.
Someone should at least give the guy a handjob, I thought to myself guiltily.
But gazing upon his good and sweet face, two things struck me. One, he's a man. And, two, he takes showers. It was then I realised, Someone IS giving the guy a handjob.
Guilt-free, I returned to the cooking. Poor bastard.