Page 95 of Woman on the Verge

“I’m a little bit into tantra.”

I sit up, balanced on my elbows. “You’re a little bit into tantra.”

“I dabble.”

“You dabble.”

He shrugs.

“I don’t wear sarongs and chant or anything. I just like to read about how to please women.”

He lies beside me. I swing a leg over him, feeling him hard beneath my thigh. Everything in me wants to pleasure him. I hate that I’m so uncomfortable—guilty, almost—in the role of receiver. Overcome with the need to give, I caress him down there. He places his hand over mine.

“I told you the rules. You don’t get to do anything for me today,” he says.

I sigh.

“You need to get used to being cared for,” he says. “You deserve to be cared for.”

Surprise tears come again, just like last time. Except I’m not thinking about my dad. I’m thinking about his words, how true theyare, how I’ve given up on anyone in the world ever expressing such a sentiment to me.

You deserve to be cared for.

“Thank you,” I say, still welling up.

He presses down my eyelids with each of his thumbs so that the dam breaks and the tears flow. Then he kisses my cheeks.

“I’m going to make you some dinner.”

He makes macadamia-crusted mahi-mahi, restaurant quality, along with roasted fingerling potatoes and a salad. I tell him I’m not sure how he’s real, and he says he’s not sure how I’m real. Mutual awe, borderline bewilderment—this is what all humans should seek in a lover.

We eat at his tiny kitchen table. He asks about my dad, and I tell him the ugly truths. He does not say anything stupid like “Well, he won’t suffer much longer” or “Everything will be okay soon.” He just listens and nods, behaving the way all women want men to behave.

“Tell me something about you I don’t know,” he says.

I try to think of something true.

“I used to be a photographer,” I say, both embarrassed and surprised that this is the truth that has risen to the surface.

His eyes widen. “Used to?”

“I haven’t done it in years.”

“Why not?”

I look at my plate, feeling suddenly exposed, uneasy with his eye contact, his desire to truly know me.

“You know, life gets in the way. It’s not like I was really good or anything.”

Though I was, I think. Once.

“What does that even mean—good? Who cares? If you enjoy it, you should do it.”

I shrug, still looking at my plate. “Maybe.”

“What kind of photography?”

I dare to look up now. “Nature, mostly. Landscapes.”

---