Intimacy
“Can you read it to me?”
Her voice is gentle. She genuinely wants to hear it. I can tell she cares. Why should I believe she doesn’t? She has given me no reason to question her love. Her kindness, I should say. I can’t be sure it’s love. Love is a word that is thrown around loosely like a frisbee in a park. Sometimes it flies to the wrong person. Sometimes the intended recipient isn’t paying attention, and it hits them when they least expect it.
We haven’t known each other that long but it feels like we have. I feel a real connection to her. A deep one, at that. I assume she feels the same; why else would she be here with me right now? Maybe she has nothing else to do, so she’s filling her time with me. I’m just something to combat the boredom. I suppose that’s what all relationships are. There’s much more to them, yes, but at their core, relationships are there to fill something inside of us. Maybe for her, it’s boredom.
I shouldn’t think like this. All this is doing is bringing me pain. She’s here with me now, and she cares about me. I’m not a distraction. I love her, but can I wholeheartedly say she loves me back? At this point, only she knows that. Deep down, I think I do, but a lot of doubts and insecurities cover it. That’s what I wrote this little story about: this thing called Insecurities.
I invited her over because I wanted to be with her. She likes that I write. I think it’s something about the aesthetic since I’ve never let her read any of my work before, though she has asked many times. I don’t believe a lot of my work is very good, but I’m proud of a few things here and there.
Over dinner, she asked me what I’m working on, and I told her I had just finished something. As always, she asked to read it. I’m not sure why she still asks, as I’ve politely declined every time. But again, to no surprise on her end, I said no. She wasn’t rude about my saying no; she never is. She understands how I work.
As the night progressed, we shared a bottle of wine, and I suggested she stay the night. She agreed, and we got ready for bed. I left the bathroom, having finished brushing my teeth, and joined her in bed, where she lay reading. She keeps books and other things here because she comes over so often. We’ve been moving pretty fast, but I’ve been able to keep up. It’s a good thing, I think. We still haven’t had sex, though. We’ve done a few other things here and there, but not often. We haven’t really discussed sex. Neither of us has pushed for it, and nobody has left because of a lack of it, so I think that’s a good sign. But maybe she does need more, and she’s just not saying anything.
My stomach tightens from the thought; I pick up my notebook from the bedside table as she continues to read. I flip through the pages, reading some of my thoughts from previous nights. There’s a small space between us in bed. She’s on her side, and I’m on mine. Maybe that space is symbolic, or metaphorical, or whatever. All I have to do is scoot over to my left a little bit, and we will be touching. It’s that easy. Move over four inches. But is it really all that simple? She said at dinner that she wants to read my work, that she always does. Maybe my writing will be able to say some of the things that I can’t say verbally. If I’m going to let her read something, I should probably just jump right into the deep end. I set my notebook back down on my bedside table softly.
“Do you really want to read it?” I ask. Why do I have to be so fucking shy all the time? She looks up from her book.
“The piece?”
I nod.
“Of course I do,” she says, closing her book and setting it in her lap. “I understand if you don’t want me to, but I’d really love to.” She smiles gently, and I smile back.
“Okay. Let me go get it.”
Her smile grows bigger.
I return a moment later, piece in hand.
“It’s called ‘Intimacy.’” I hand it to her, and she looks at it for a moment, eventually holding it back out to me.
“Can you read it to me?”
Fuck. I nervously take it back and nod to her. I’m an adult man; why is my heart beating so fucking fast? I feel a knot in my chest, and my throat dries. She sits up in bed and faces me. Her beautiful blonde hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. Her slight slouch causes one strap of her bra to fall off her shoulder. Her hands rest lightly on top of the book in her lap. Her eyes make unwavering contact with mine. She tilts her head slightly and smiles warmly. I know I can read it. I’m safe with her. This is what love feels like.
“I flinch at the touch of another human. The word ‘love’ seems to have lost its meaning for many of those in the modern world. We are a pleasure-driven society. Not just in the way of sex, but in all forms of pleasure. We take the easy route because it feels better, detaching from the world so that we can feel free. Freedom first comes with the analysis and acceptance of one’s surroundings, for it is only possible to be free if one becomes aware of that which they are free from. Pleasure, at its most shallow observation, is misleading. Everything seems to be in service of pleasure. Intimacy and pleasure are often spoken about in similar contexts, sometimes even used synonymously to explain the same feeling or idea, yet they are not the same. Pleasure is a surface-level feeling. Intimacy is not. And even further, love and intimacy often get mistaken. Each word is used in unique, sometimes unrelated ways, suggesting that there are two different meanings. I believe that, in order to be intimate with someone, at any level, there has to be some degree of love. I flinch at the touch of another human, not because I’m scared of the physicality, but because intimacy is foreign to me. Like traversing a country overseas, I’m unfamiliar with the terrain. Tour guides can be helpful, but all true discovery happens within oneself. Like intimacy, love can be shared. And to be blessed with the beauty of love is to see life for what it really is. For through love, the world is brighter, the colors more vibrant, the shadows less dark. And through intimacy, you experience that world with another. Spending life with someone who makes the world feel like that is the purest form of living.”
I look up to see her eyes filled with tears.
“Do I make your world feel like that?” she asks through unsteady breaths.
I set the pages down on my bedside table. “Of course you do. You inspired me to write that.”
She wipes a few tears from her face, and a smile manifests. “You make mine feel like that too.”
She gets up and moves over to my side of the bed, gently putting her hands on my cheeks, and kisses me. Leaving her hands there, she says, “That was beautiful.”
My eyes shift between hers, unsure of which one to focus on. Unwavering, her gaze. “You’re beautiful.”
She smiles again. “You’re really fucking talented, you know that?”
I still can’t decide which eye.
“And I really mean it,” she continues. “I’m not just saying that.”
“Thank you,” I say, finally choosing the right one.
Lying down, I pull the covers up around me. She does the same, causing the four-inch space to return. Maybe I’ll try to close it. As I’m building up the courage, she rolls over to face me, putting her left leg over me and pulling me closer. She rests her head on my chest and looks up at me, smiling. I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead. She snuggles in closer, and I feel her breathing, my body subconsciously matching the pattern. Her heart beats against my arm, my pulse synchronizing. The physicality of love, being intimate with another, feels slightly less foreign in this moment.
Collin MacLeod is a first-year undergraduate at the University of Idaho in Moscow, ID, working toward a degree in English. Before attending university, Collin proofread/edited a novel for an established author, as well as gained experience in the film industry. He has been writing his whole life, and both of these jobs helped shape his views as a writer. This is his first publication.
