I have had many lovers throughout my life. At times, I was too self-absorbed to understand them well, and the ending of these affairs left me feeling bad. Other times, my lovers did not understand me, resulting in the same things: sadness, bitterness, anger, regret. I am happy to say, this no longer happens. Now I have it figured out.
Now I have three lovers.
My first lover experiences the world through his sense of touch. If he can’t touch it, it doesn’t exist. What exists is only what he takes in through his hands. He takes things apart to build them back up again. With little use for things like feelings, and little patience for emotions, everything comes down to how something feels when he touches it.
When we lay together, he runs his hand along the length of my body, feeling the curves, slowing down to notice the change from bone to muscle under the surface of my skin. He holds me, feeling the warmth of my body alongside his, the angle of my jaw, the lines of my shoulders. He says nothing. I feel his body on mine, I revel in the heat and the sensation of his hands moving across my bare skin. It is a sensual world, we are sensual beings.
My second lover lives in a world of words and sound. His prose flows like poetry, set to music that plays in time with the beating of his heart. He makes sense of what he experiences by speaking it, singing it, playing it. What he feels, he translates into vibration, thought, words, notes. He reads voraciously, ravenously, devouring thoughts and stories, with each new word the universe expands.
In the silent darkness of a moonless night, he comes to my bed, his breath warm in my ear, speaking in low tones of love and desire. He wants to know what I’m feeling, he wants to know what’s in my head and my heart. He lays by my side, talking slowly and quietly, the curls falling from his forehead tickle my neck. His melody is sweet, with each note I am softened. He has sung his way into my heart.
My third lover sees life as story. He sees stories everywhere he looks. He tells me, with a combination of passion and wistfulness in his voice, that stories find him, wanting to be told. He sees meaning in actions, as well as the pauses in between them. The unspoken sometimes says more than what is said. Every story in the world can be told this way, he tells me softly.
He takes me on a trip, to a house overlooking the grey stormy sea, and lays me down on a feather bed, his body behind me, holding me up, protecting me. We gaze out the window at the world he has created. He says he wants me to see the story he has written, can I see it just there, on the horizon? He asks. Yes, I can see it, beyond the rocks and breaking waves, that sunny patch of blue. I lean back and let the plot unfold.
Original fiction copyright 2017, Andrea C. Neil