Hurt

I let out a noise midway between a gasp and a groan.   

I’m stretched out on the mat in gym shorts and a tank top while my physical therapist is pushing me  into contortions I didn’t know were possible, chattering the entire time about my lack of flexibility and how I need to work on strengthening my hips. He’s giving me notes on stretching and how aforementioned weak hips are most likely the source of my iliotibial band issues. I’m sweating and my hands are grabbing the edge of the mat and I’m having a difficult time breathing. 

Eventually, he notices. 

“Are you all right?” 

“It hurts.” I manage to squeak out. 

***

I’m tucked in with a cup of tea and my copy of Sailing Alone Around the Room when the photo grid falls out.

It’s one of those grids that shows a tiny printout of all of the photos from a memory card. I’m squinting at the pictures, trying to remember when any of my friends would have been drunk enough to pose like this, when I catch the name printed on the side of the grid.

It belongs to an ex.

And not just any ex. It belongs to the most gut-wrenching, devastating, cried-so-hard-I-threw-up breakup I’ve ever gone through.

It’s a funny thing to stumble across, mainly because I tossed everything related to the guy. I redacted him and our relationship so quickly and thoroughly it was like we had never been a part of one another’s lives. Like he had never made me Eggs Benedict while we listened to the loons on the lake and I had never fallen asleep with his arms wrapped firmly around me and his voice in my ear.

With the clarity of some years between us now, I’m mainly bemused by the fact that I loaned my (signed) copy of this book to him. I love, love, LOVE to give away my copies of books that made an impact on me, but I would never have even seriously considered giving this book away. Even the mere fact that I let it out of my sight for long enough for this photo grid to end up in it is puzzling.

What had I been thinking while we were together?

***

I want you.

  

Is there an expression in the English language that’s more frisson inducing? If there is, it’s probably best that I haven’t experienced it. 

Whispered across the table during a few stolen moments at a dinner party, texted in the middle of a long Monday, growled in the ear after teasing someone a little too much, keeping them waiting a little too long. 

I shiver just remembering it. 

***

“Hey, where are you?”

“Bathroom.” 

I can hear his light footsteps running up the stairs. 

“How was your . . .”

He stops in the doorway of the bathroom. I’m in my bathrobe, dumping about fourteen pounds of ice into the huge clawfooted bathtub. 

“Uhhhhh?”

“It’s an ice bath” I say, running cold water into the tub. “I just ran thirteen miles. I have a recovery run tomorrow. I can either ice right now or be miserable tomorrow.” 

“I thought you wanted me.” He’s not even trying not to pout. 

I don’t bother to respond. He turns to leave. I drop my robe and slip into the icy water. 

It’s the cry that stops him. It’s not entirely unfamiliar.   

It feels like a thousand ice-covered knives are slicing into my legs. “I will want you,” I manage to gasp. “In about ten minutes, I’m really going to want you.” I close my eyes and grab the edges of the tub. I can hear the smirk in his voice and picture his single raised eyebrow. 

“Yes. I imagine you will.”

***

I'm thinking a lot about desire lately. Romance novels describe it as an ache (often accompanied by the word “throbbing” but we’ll just leave that to the side for the moment), and it’s one of the things I think they get right. Desire hurts, but not acutely.

Or, perhaps, not for most people.

Somewhere along the line the literal and figurative wires in my brain got scrambled. Emotions became things that hurt somewhat less figuratively. Desire particularly became an actual ache, and then more than an ache. It became something that could leave marks if I want it. 

Combined with the urge to have someone lean in and whisper I want you it is a need as urgent (and unfulfilled) as any that I’ve experienced. 

I want it. 

***

Looking at the photo grid I think again about how our relationship started out as something simple and sort of sweet Hey, want to come by and listen to This American Life? Russell Banks reads a story that makes me think of you. I remember how crazy and out-of-my head he could drive me with an well-timed remark or a glance across the kitchen table. I try to remember why my reactions to him were always so visceral (in all kinds of directions). I wonder how feelings for someone can end up having such sharp, ragged edges, and I wonder about the parts of me that needs those edges.