Page 18 of Ezekiel
EZEKIEL
What was I going to do? We needed to have this talk. I knew we did. I had already made up my mind about that before I caught her spying on me while I painted. Painting was something I did to clear my head. The calmness, the quiet, and the way the brush strokes moved over the canvas were the perfect mixture of sensuality and creativity. Second only to kink for me.
But how was I going to broach this with her?
Hey, so, my brothers and I are into this thing called kink. I, in particular, like to torture women for sexual pleasure.Yeah, that would have her running for the hills.
So, my brothers and I have this plan to leave Zion and start our own lives out in the world, where we can do kinky things with women in a safe, fun way, without judgment.While that was true, I doubted bringing up the plan in the first minute would go over well.
“Okay, so let’s talk,” she started, sitting on the edge of the bed. I paced along the floor at the foot of the bed, trying to figure out what to say, or moreover — how to say it.
“Let’s talk. Um…”Come on, brain, do the thing. Think words.“What do you want to know?”
Great, I had just left the door wide open for any question that could be bouncing around in her cute little head.
“Why do you paint?” Her question took me by surprise, but I found myself grateful for the rather easy beginning to what was sure to be a roller coaster ride of a conversation.
“Painting calms me down. I enjoy creating things. It’s quiet and sensual and helps to just make things more clear for me,” I explained.
“That makes sense,” she nodded. “Your turn.”
I hadn’t expected that. I had expected her incessant version of a Spanish inquisition to continue again.
“Why were you spying on me?” I continued, choosing to stay in the same vein of questioning.
“I wasn’t spying on you. The door was wide open. Plus, as we are married, this house is mine, too. You’ve made it apparent I should feel comfortable in this house, just as you do.” Her answer held a touch of annoyance.
“Semantics. I’ll rephrase. Why were you watching me paint?” I tried again.
“I came to find you. After taking some time to myself and after speaking with Delilah, I wanted to talk.”
“About what?” I pressed on.
“No, it’s not your turn now. It’s mine,” she fought.
“Who said we were taking turns?” I scoffed gently.
“I did. Plus, it’s fair this way. And maybe we won’t talk over each other the whole time,” she tossed right back. Her fire was glorious. A fire I wanted to stoke and turn into an inferno.
“You might have a point there. Question goes to you, dear.”
“What is wrong with you?” She asked so blatantly it shocked me. I watched as surprise and then mortification turned her face a flushed red. So the little spitfire blushed? Interesting. “Err… I mean, why do you always leave the room so abruptly? Maybe that’s a better question,” she clarified. I chuckled, taking some pity on the poor thing.
“No, you had it right the first time. What is wrong with me?” I regurgitated the question, sitting down on the bed. She spun around to face me, sitting cross-legged. Good, she would need to be comfortable. I doubted this would be a quick conversation. “I don’t like to talk about what’s wrong with me,” I began.
“Can we please get past that?” she was quick to interject, sighing heavily.
“Can you please let me finish?” I quirked an eyebrow at her, pinning her with a look. She mouthedsorryand let me continue. “I don’t enjoy talking about what’s wrong with me, but if I’m being honest, it’s because, really, no one has ever asked. I have a disorder called misophonia.”
I don’t know why it felt like the tension in the room thickened, but it did. I found myself worried about what she would think. This was stuff I didn’t talk about. With anyone.
“What is that?” she questioned.
“It’s hard to talk about. Literally, no one here knows about it. But essentially, it’s a disorder where certain sounds will trigger an emotional or physiological response in people. Lots of people have it. Most people can’t handle the sound of others chewing food or eating. For me, I have a more severe case.” I paused, watching her face for the slightest sign of rejection.
“Your brothers don’t know?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“No. Honestly, no one ever thinks to ask.” I shrugged her comment off.
