Page 8 of Untangled
Want.
I barely recognize it at first, building low and slow in my stomach. God, how long has it been since I’vewantedhis touch? I’d like to analyze this, stew on it, and probably berate myself for it but the firm press of his hand, the familiar smell of the detergent he likes—that I know he likes—brings me back to the moment. The weight of him growing hard against meis unexpected, but it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a reply to the question that led us here:Are the two young fools who fell in love still in there somewhere, and can we find them again?
Tonight, I wonder if the answer could be yes.
Day 5
Spend 90 seconds gazing into your partner’s eyes.
We didn’t have sex last night. After the song ended for a third time, Violet was asleep. I slipped from Daniel’s side and watched as he tip-toed into her room and placed her in the crib with the precision of someone handling a live grenade. He snuck out after transferring her successfully and we just…looked at each other for a while in the hall. I’m not sure either of us knew what to make of our experience dancing in the dining room. Talking about it felt like it might break the spell, and it didn’t make sense to start up the song again. The moment had passed, idyllic as it was.
Then it was back to our regularly scheduled programming: both of us rotting on the couch. He watched sports highlights on the ESPN app, I scrolled TikTok and bookmarked recipes I will undoubtedly never make. We traded thoughts here and there, and then went to bed, rolled to face opposite walls, and passed out.
Now it’s evening again, and we don’t have Violet to act as a buffer as we stare down the barrel of another card. My hands prickle with nervous energy as I wait for Daniel to change out of his work clothes and join me in bed. Yes, we decided to do this one in bed; TBD on whether this was a good or bad idea on my part.
I palm the deck in my hands and resist the urge to peek at today’s prompt. I told him I wouldn’t, that I would wait so we could read it together, and I will. Squeezing the cardstock and tugging on the soft weight of the comforter to straighten it keeps me occupied until I hear his closet door open. He shuffles into the bedroom on socked feet sliding across the hardwood. The same college t-shirt he’s had for ten years, maybe longer, stretches across his shoulders, though it’s lost elasticity in the collar over time. He lifts the covers on his side of the bed and slides underneath, sitting to rest his back against the headboard.
“Let’s see what comes after dancing,” he says, nodding to the cards in my hand.
“I didn’t peek!” I reply, wanting him to be as proud as I am at my self control.
“Good girl,” he says, andwowif that doesn’t light up every one of my nerve endings without my consent. I’m immediately overheating and digging my legs out from under the comforter to place them on top. Has he ever said that to me before? I don’t think so. Maybe in passing.
Definitely never in bed.
Hmm.
I flip the card in his direction and wait for him to read it to me.
He doesn’t read it out loud. Instead, he says, "Alright, set a timer on your phone for ninety seconds.”
“For what?” I finally ask, after letting his request hover between us for about that long.
He passes the card to me and I scan it. Ninety seconds isn’t a lot. This might be the easiest prompt yet.
When I’ve got my phone in hand, I swipe the screen to bring the timer to one and a half minutes. Like we did on the couch, Daniel turns to face me and I twist my body to mirror him, drawing my legs up to cross them. The phone sits on the covers between us.
“So, is this a staring contest or what?” I ask, trying to bring a little levity to an activity that feels strange, if straightforward.
“Pretty sure you’re allowed to blink,” he replies, before leaning over and pressing start.
My immediate thought is: we should’ve cued up some music.
My next thought is: I was wrong. Ninety seconds will feel like a long time.
Daniel’s eyes hold mine as the seconds, presumably, start to pass. I don’t dare look down to check out our progress. Instead, I reallylookat him.
Of course, I know what he looks like. I could pick him out of a line-up based on any one of several individual facial features. I see him every day, in many different contexts, and have for nearly a decade. I know this man’s face as well as I know my own.
And still.
Looking at him like this feels different. I catalog the growing collection of creases that feather out from his eyes. The richness of the brown there, almost indistinguishable from the dark depth of his pupils. An age spot on his cheek, next to freckles he’s had for longer than I’ve known him.
He clears his throat and I think about what he sees with me. The wrinkles that line my forehead, new in the last few years? The hollow half-moons under my eyes from disrupted sleep? The way my neck is starting to sag, no matter how much tightening cream I use in an attempt to combat gravity?
How many seconds has it been?
I drag my attention back to his face, to his eyes that shift ever so slightly back and forth as they take me in. The eyes that grew damp and red on our wedding day and then largewith shock when I told him about the pregnancy. The same ones that appraised me all those years ago at trivia and deemed me worthy of his attention, and later, his affection.
