And as we lay on the bed, you face down, chin on the pillow, looking towards the window, and I, lips settled into the small of your back, and my hand resting on your inner thigh. You just informed me that I don't speak your language, however, the man you use to sleep with does. You were never physical, you told me, you felt safe there and he never laid a hand on you. Okay, I believe you, but If you think that makes me feel better, you’re on something not prescribed. All that tells me is, the nights that we don’t touch, when my hands are laying silent at my sides, that you and I are not connected in anyway; very comforting my dear.
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My dad LOVED Mexico. He LOVED Mexicans. He would drive hours and hours, beating the crap out of his motor home to get to their homesteads that had no electricity or outdoor plumbing, and they would kill a cow and give him their homemade tequila. He would bring trinkets for the children, and fresh lobster from the north village, and help them build their homes up better. Back in the states, they would return the favor whenever he needed good labor.
ReplyDeleteThey loved the CRAP out of each other. He spoke ZERO Spanish, and they spoke ZERO English, and yet, they had a symbiotic relationship, as well as great chemistry.
You two have something even greater than that.
But i TOTALLY understand what you mean. Intimacy is a dangerous beauty.