Buying bondage rope for Daniel Thorne was like buying a tie for any other
businessman. It was a useful enough gift, in theory, but almost guaranteed to end up in the
back of his closet with a thousand other neglected siblings
"Sorry, never heard of it."
I was in a bookstore by a neglected alley, one that didn't seem to have a phone. Unless
it was buried somewhere under one of the many piles of books, or the large, angry-faced cat
who was draped over the counter.
I thanked the owner and left, dodging a glare from the cat.
This was ridiculous. I felt drained and defeated, and it was mostly because I wasn't
even sure what I was doing in the first place. No matter how meaningful this gift might be for
Daniel, it wasn't right for this occasion.
It wasn't us.
Problem was, I didn't know what qualified as us.
There was nothing for me to draw on. We never had "our song." His "proposal" was
put on for show, at a restaurant that still made me feel a twist of anxiety when I remembered
it. There were no special landmarks for our relationship, no fond memories of gently falling in
love. Even our honeymoon was fraught with the knowledge that we were playing with fire.
There was so much doubt and insecurity in our early days together. How could I create
something positive from that?
Miserable, I made my way back to midtown and sat down on a park bench, watching the couples walk by. Smiling, holding hands, happy. Or at least, putting on a good show of it.
Bet they didn't get together for a green card. I mean, who even does that in real life?
My feelings for Daniel intimidated me. Sounded silly, even in my own head, but it was
true. They loomed so large in my mind, out of my control - they couldn't be expressed by
holding his hand in a park. Or a rare first-edition book from one of his long-lost relatives. Or
a baby-doll nightie from Victoria's Secret. Hell, not even Agent Provocateur.
Such small gestures were for ordinary people, and we were not ordinary.
But was there a gift that could somehow capture the way he made me feel, when I was
blindfolded in our bedroom and his finger would run down my cheek, the side of my neck,
burning me like a brand? Could I somehow express the way my heart tried to escape my
ribcage when his hand closed around my wrist, lifting my arms above my head and pinning
them there?
It was so hard to even wrap my head around my own feelings. How could I possibly
hope to share them without making a fool out of myself?
***
Daniel was working late. This wasn't unusual, and typically I disliked the oppressive
silence of being alone in his roomy apartment. Even with the TV turned up, it was obvious
that I was alone.
This time, I ought to have been grateful for the opportunity to think about my
conundrum. I did try, but I was so drained that my mind just kept running around in circles.
I finally shut myself in my little art studio, opening my box of pencils and sketching
mindlessly. The graphite smears didn't take any particular shape. I went on until I'd filled a
whole page, until I was sleepy enough to crawl into the cold, empty bed upstairs.
businessman. It was a useful enough gift, in theory, but almost guaranteed to end up in the
back of his closet with a thousand other neglected siblings
"Sorry, never heard of it."
I was in a bookstore by a neglected alley, one that didn't seem to have a phone. Unless
it was buried somewhere under one of the many piles of books, or the large, angry-faced cat
who was draped over the counter.
I thanked the owner and left, dodging a glare from the cat.
This was ridiculous. I felt drained and defeated, and it was mostly because I wasn't
even sure what I was doing in the first place. No matter how meaningful this gift might be for
Daniel, it wasn't right for this occasion.
It wasn't us.
Problem was, I didn't know what qualified as us.
There was nothing for me to draw on. We never had "our song." His "proposal" was
put on for show, at a restaurant that still made me feel a twist of anxiety when I remembered
it. There were no special landmarks for our relationship, no fond memories of gently falling in
love. Even our honeymoon was fraught with the knowledge that we were playing with fire.
There was so much doubt and insecurity in our early days together. How could I create
something positive from that?
Miserable, I made my way back to midtown and sat down on a park bench, watching the couples walk by. Smiling, holding hands, happy. Or at least, putting on a good show of it.
Bet they didn't get together for a green card. I mean, who even does that in real life?
My feelings for Daniel intimidated me. Sounded silly, even in my own head, but it was
true. They loomed so large in my mind, out of my control - they couldn't be expressed by
holding his hand in a park. Or a rare first-edition book from one of his long-lost relatives. Or
a baby-doll nightie from Victoria's Secret. Hell, not even Agent Provocateur.
Such small gestures were for ordinary people, and we were not ordinary.
But was there a gift that could somehow capture the way he made me feel, when I was
blindfolded in our bedroom and his finger would run down my cheek, the side of my neck,
burning me like a brand? Could I somehow express the way my heart tried to escape my
ribcage when his hand closed around my wrist, lifting my arms above my head and pinning
them there?
It was so hard to even wrap my head around my own feelings. How could I possibly
hope to share them without making a fool out of myself?
***
Daniel was working late. This wasn't unusual, and typically I disliked the oppressive
silence of being alone in his roomy apartment. Even with the TV turned up, it was obvious
that I was alone.
This time, I ought to have been grateful for the opportunity to think about my
conundrum. I did try, but I was so drained that my mind just kept running around in circles.
I finally shut myself in my little art studio, opening my box of pencils and sketching
mindlessly. The graphite smears didn't take any particular shape. I went on until I'd filled a
whole page, until I was sleepy enough to crawl into the cold, empty bed upstairs.