1.4

He was a friend of a friend.

We met over drinks one evening. You know how some men, athletic men, move differently? An unconscious grace, expressed even when they sit, roll their cigarettes, speak.

I was in love with someone else. Someone jealous and controlling and usually horrible to me. But that doesn't always stop us from loving, does it. Would be simpler if it did.

I pulled out a cigarette for myself and he lit a match and held it out to me. I cupped my hands around his and as I bent my head over the match, I glanced up to look him in the eye, and tapped a finger against his to say "thank you."

I'm not ugly but the guy I loved made me feel like I was.

But THIS guy... he was different. When we were out to dinner and other men looked at me, he wasn't jealous, he didn't pick a fight and make me cry. He told me, "I've always liked it when my woman is wanted by other men. As long as I know she's mine." He made me feel it was safe to be beautiful.

He'd call me in the middle of the day: "Hey, I'm in your favorite place right now..."

I'd reply, "Prada?"

He'd laugh and say, "The men's locker room."

He wasn't threatened that I liked to look at attractive men, that my eyes would roam over them, as long as they rested back on him. When he caught me looking, he would smile at me, I'd smile back, and he'd touch my hand, my waist, my thigh. He didn't call me a whore and storm away forcing me to run after him. But why would he be threatened? No one ever compared to him.

One night, after dinner, he walked me home and we stood at the front door of my building. We hugged goodnight, as always. But this time he didn't let me go. And when finally he pulled away, he did so only long enough to put his mouth on mine. I felt I was kissing two men, and all the confusion and rage and hurt and attraction and need that I felt, I put into that kiss.