We're out. I'm picking through my dinner and taking small sips out of my glass of beer.
"Yes. Why?"
"You're just quieter than normal."
"Oh." I shake my head and smile at him. "No. I'm sorry. Caught up in my own head."
"Anything in particular?"
"The show. It was good. I'd like to see more. But . . ."
He waits for me to finish. It's one of the things I like best about him, this ability to ask questions without asking them.
I flip the program over and tap the advert for the next show. The Woodsman.
"I don't think I'll be seeing this one with you."
He scans the synopsis. "Oh. Oh. Yeah. I can see where that might have some triggers for you."
I open my mouth to say something, to give him more than the one sentence explanation I stammered out the first time we were together.
I pick up my fork instead.
***
"So what's the problem?"
"I'm sorry?"
"It sounds like there's a problem."
"No. Problem isn't the right word. It's that I haven't figured out a way to say "I'm not entirely certain you aren't going to murder me in my sleep" yet.
"Huh?"
"I know it's not actually going to happen." I see the look on her face. "No. I'm serious. I know it's not likely, but it's the only shorthand I know for "my lizard brain panics every time I leave because I'm really happy and it doesn't know how to deal."
"You don't think that's a better thing to say than "I'm not entirely certain you aren't going to murder me in my sleep"?"
"Oh, shut up."
We're quiet for awhile.
"You know that everything you're describing sounds really textbook for victims of trauma, right?"
"I know."
***
"Oh, here, You'd like this one too."
We're lounging. It's a brilliant, blue-sky autumn morning after days of rain, but I'm disinclined to venture out. This, being alternately wrapped up in someone's arms and his button-down shirt, is exactly what I want out of this slow, sleepy morning. I read comics and my bookclub book. He makes me coffee and messes around on his computer. We talk, intermittently, about anime and books and video games. He explains how he's making some piece of software run better. I tell him a long, funny story about my mother. And in between I read. He messes around on his computer.
Even my best Saturday mornings have never been this good.
I start, a few times, to tell him why I woke up crying the night before. Why I always wake up crying when I stay over. More than that, I want to tell him how big and different and terrifying this is for me. Just this. Just this sleepy, quiet morning together. I want to tell him that it scares the hell out of me and why it scares the hell out of me and why I'm having nightmares that wake both of us up, and I come close, so close, a time or three.
But he looks up from his computer and smiles at me and asks if I want more coffee or comes and sits next to me on the couch and we read a comic together and all I can think is:
I can't.
This, the coffee, the comics, the smell of his shirt and my perfume, this long, lovely Saturday morning is wonderful. And completely, entirely, ridiculously unexpected. It's the kind of thing I've wanted for years and never thought I was going to get.
"Hey, we should walk to the grocery store if I'm going to cook for you."
"Yeah. It's a really beautiful day. I suppose we should take advantage of it."
I go to the bedroom and slip out of his shirt and into my own clothes, holding the soft black and white cloth to my face for one more deep breath.
What would be the purpose in talking about nightmares now? Better to enjoy the sunshine while we've got it.
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