Page 51 of Way Down Deep

Because I’m not drunk enough.

And because I’m too drunk.

Because to say it now would be a waste. Because I’d wake in the morning and remember, and I’d know I said it at the wrong time, and be sad I was too buzzed to trust that I could remember it right.

But I think you know what I mean. I don’t know if you want to hear that, to read that. Not yet, or ever. I don’t know. I hope maybe you do. I hope maybe my saying what I am, it’s like that hand on my buckle, the way we started out. So close, too much, yet not anywhere near enough. Maybe it’ll simmer inside you, sweet torture. Maybe I’d make you wait.

Maybe I’d make you wait, because I could only ever say it in person.

You don’t haveto do anything but say it in person, if that’s what you need. I’m okay to wait, or to only go the places you feel comfortable going. After all, you wait for me. I’m the reason you can’t say it in person, yet you don’t make me feel bad about it. So in this, I won’t rush you. Tell me what you want, when you want to.

Ican tellyou one thing right now. I can tell you how we’d fall asleep if you were here. Us, realizing once again how cold this room is, with our sweat cooling. I’d want us to take our clumsy turns using the bathroom, feeling awkward and shy, realizing how we’re naked, how we managed to forget about it during the sex. I’d want you in one of my shirts and nothing else. Watching you leave my room, watching you come back, your breath smelling like my toothpaste and the rest of you smelling like sex. I’d try to make the covers warm. Your feet would be ice blocks, but I’d just hold you closer, tucking your head and your messy sex hair under my chin, hugging you from behind.

God, you give good reality. Yes to all of that. Yes to your shirt, yes to the taste of your toothpaste, yes to me curling into the curve of your big body. I’d be your little spoon, so comfortable that I think I’d almost be unconscious before I’d had a chance to say goodnight.

I’m yawning. Maybe you can even feel it against the crown of your head, smell that same toothpaste. Should we say goodnight, right here? Both of us in my bed, before the orgasms burn off and the imagining gets harder?

That sounds sweet to me, I have to say.

Perhaps tomorrow night, I’ll take your virginity all over again.

Picture me laughingas I drift off to sleep.

Ican feelyou here in my arms, trust me.

All right, someone has to say it first. Goodnight, Maya.

Goodnight, Malcolm. Sweet dreams.

12

Tuesday

6.43am

It’s just starting to get light here, and I haven’t slept a wink. Instead I’ve just laid awake, as sweetly tortured as you wanted me to be. Imagining what you wanted to say; knowing what it was anyway.

And cursing myself for focussing on your reticence instead of wondering if you were really asking me to say yes. Yes, I want to hear you say it. Yes, I wanted to read the words. I’m not afraid of them, or of you letting me down when I do.

In fact, I’m not even afraid of saying them myself. Of taking that leap over the chasm of what-if-he-doesn’t and braving the swamp of I’m-so-sure-he-won’t. And once I’m on the other side, I’ll show you the way:

I love you, Malcolm. I love you.

4.17pm

Was it not enough to help you across?

Because I can do better:

I love you like cheese toasties and my blue shoes and the ending of Neverending Story. I love you the way I used to love being alone. My love is a bridge—and not the scary kind from Indiana Jones. The strong kind, like that one people have to paint continuously because it’s so enormous.

You’re safe to join me on the other side, I swear.

Nothing has to be different once you get there.

13

Wednesday

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