La Petit Mort

I collapse on the couch, all the food cooked that day carefully stored in containers and filling the fridge, pantry and freezer to the brim. He looks over and asks if I’m done, and I nod wearily. It’s been a long day, and neither of us remembered that it was Australia Day till a door to door saleswoman arrived and wished us a good one. I laughed when she asked how long “we” had lived there, and gently corrected her, telling her that the residence is only for one, that I’m only there because of my continued frustration with his late night dinners of toast and take-out. Food is how I show people I care about them, and I care very much for my friend.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, and scrolls through a seemingly endless list of possible entertainment for the evening. It’s past midnight and we’re both yawning but enjoying each others company as we do nothing together. I pick a horror movie, something easy to watch that will have enough happening to keep us awake. Being the girl, I dutifully squeal and hide my face in the cushions stacked on the deep blue couch, not out of a sense of duty but a genuine squeamishness to all things bloody and gory. He laughs and makes a comment about getting my money’s worth, and I retort by throwing my cushion across the room at him.

Of course, I need the cushion back in order to hide from the massacres, so he throws it back and I continue to squeal and hide till the end.

Some Brit comedy next, Stephen Fry gets a few guffaws but overall I’m too tired to keep up with the witty retorts and quick-fire banter, so at the end we discuss sleeping arrangements, deciding that the couches aren’t comfy for either of us and retiring to the bedroom. American comedy is easier, much simpler to get and the cheap laughs of American Dad keeps us awake and giggling for a few minutes more. No longer able to keep awake, we turn the magic box off and we share funny stories in the darkness, which swallows everything but the sound of our voices.

He tells me of an incident involving him, his friend and the bonnet of a car, and I turn him over and give some release to his unhappy back and neck, trying to make him relax. His complaints of a headache are soon eased with a head massage, and his chatter slowly turns incoherent as he drifts closer to the boundaries of sleep. I’ve never been able to sleep comfortably in unfamiliar surrounds, and so ask him to pet my hair to try and soothe my discomfort in this unknown territory.

I struggle to get comfortable, it’s too hot under the covers and too cold on top, he confesses that he’s also struggling, two opposite legs atop the duvet as I lay with my head on his bare chest and his arm around me. It’s not sexual, just comforting, I trust him entirely and this gives more warmth than any lover’s arms. Full of pasta and cookies from my day’s efforts in the kitchen, his stomach gurgles under my head and I burst into a fit of laughter from the sounds. Though tired, I’m still unable to sleep, so I tease him and poke him, as he grumbles and twitches under my mischievous, tickling fingers.

The time ticks over to the hour before dawn and I feel my weary body slowly succumbing to sleep, so lay my head on the comforting softness of his stomach, far from the sharpness of his ribcage, and I loosely drape my arm below his waist, like a human security blanket, comforting and warm, even familiar, though this is a first. I feel him press against the weight of my arm and chuckle to myself. Though my friend, he’s also a man and so it’s not surprising. Being too tired to encourage him, I instead roll over and ask him to pet my hair again till I finally fall asleep.

I manage to get a few hours before bolting awake from a bad dream. The car accident was minor but still, every night, the sound of breaking glass, the pain of the impact, the blur of the other vehicle revisit me in my dreams. My heartbeat racing and my mind distressed, I poke him to make him roll over so I can again curl up in his comforting warmth again. Buried in his side, I feel my heartbeat slow and the painful memories easing from my mind, but after such an awakening, there’s no way I can fall back asleep.

Needing a distraction from the thoughts, I once again occupy myself with teasing and provoking him, but this time it goes further, cumulating in a meaningless but desperately needed connection of bodies as we intertwine ourselves in various ways. Writhing, I die under his touch and he follows suit a few minutes later, so worn out that he’s barely able to hold himself up. I tell him that it’s okay and pull him down to lie on top of me and take the weight off his arms, and there we lie, barely alive, still connected as we ride the final waves of euphoria. It’s not amazing, not mind-blowing and it doesn’t make me weak at the knees, but it’s comforting and warm and has cleared my mind of my worries and brought me to life. His sweaty forehead next to my cheek, I lightly kiss his cheek and whisper “thank you”, perhaps too softly for him to hear.

Anything more is impossible, that I know. He is waiting for another and the decade between us is too much for him to cope with. Though I think that…perhaps…it would be nice, I know that in the end, I would rather his lasting friendship than a short and passionate affair that could ruin it all.

We head back to my place, the air between us filled with a warm and idle chatter and my occasional hum of a snippet of a song, till we round the last corner and I’m but a few steps away from the neurotic, insane security of my own home. So close to the refuge of my bed, I barely hear his final words as I set my sights on the front door. Once inside, I run a hot shower and stand under the the streaming water as the heat melts me. Refreshed, I dry myself off and head for my little bed, sliding between the covers and closing my heavy eyelids.

Thank you, my friend. Your touch and your comfort came at a time when I needed it most, though you may never realize just how much it meant.