I
find that there’s never a lack of things to talk about with Asher. Either he’s
on a 15-minute tangent about articles he’d read that week or I’m on a half-hour
ramble about some pop culture minutiae that only he would understand. Whether
we’re on chat, phone, or in person, the conversation doesn’t stop. Unless he
interrupts me with a kiss, in which case, we’ll just continue the dialogue
while tearing each other’s clothes off anyway. Afterward, he lifts himself off
me, gently tips over to a side of the bed, and becomes the big spoon to my
little spoon. It’s what he always does. My body used to tense up at that.
The
vibe between us flows easily. I’m surprised by how comfortable I feel around
him. The last six months of constant interaction with Chance wrung my nerves
out, shattered any sense of security or awareness of our situation to the point
where I would second-guess myself on second-guessing myself. With Asher, I’m
not confused or uncertain. I know where we stand. His person—and everything
that comes with that—is a known entity devoid of mystery or speculation. I
could weep for the sheer relief he brings with him.
In
bed, he’s attentive in ways that Chance never was. I see him quietly file away
every gasp and breathy whisper that slips from my mouth as his long, clever
fingers rub little half-circles between my legs. He remembers what I enjoy, how
I liked to be touched, and doesn’t switch to his preferences until I give
permission. To be sure, the hours spent in his room aren’t the desperate,
frenzied couplings I had with Chance, but maybe I’m tired of that. Maybe this
is what I need right now, for now. Not love, not nothing either.
Companionship.