'Til You're Mine

Ten

"And my infection is the hand on my lower back

I have exacted that he's got something that I lack

Oh, the power of the man with the switchblade comb

He always says, 'I couldn't manage you on my own'"

- Alexandra Savior

When I wake up, my room is dark. Pink and orange light diffuses around the sides of my blinds, but it doesn't do more than cast everything in warm shadow. And either my AC unit turned off on its own, or I never turned it on to begin with, because the room is thick with heat, and pressed against Alex's hot body, I'm covered in sweat. Feeling stifled, I extricate myself from his arms, and go over to turn it on to full blast, letting it blow across my face for a minute, before turning on a bedside lamp.

I throw on a long t-shirt that skims my thighs– something crumpled up on the floor– as Alex rouses awake.

"All right?" he says, sitting up. His voice is gravelly and deep with sleep, and he's squinting at me from the sudden light.

"Yeah," I reply, handing him his clothes. My brain still feels foggy from sleep, distracted by how sweaty and sticky I am, and my subconscious is refusing to let me process what's just happened here.

I grab my phone, lurching into a moment of panic when I see that I have a text from Dani. The house sounds quiet though, and her text says: Going to happy hour with the department. We'll be out late if you want to come!

"I need a shower," I blurt out, feeling like the water will bring me some clarity.

"All right."

There's sweat on Alex's upper lip, and he swipes at it. "Do you want to come?" I ask, without thinking, without any intention of it being sexual.

He doesn't seem to take it that way anyway, and he nods.

In the tiny, cluttered bathroom, we don't say anything. I pull off my grimy t-shirt, and Alex steps out of the clothes he just put back on. Under the spray of the cool water, it seems that neither of us is sure what to do next, nor do we want to shatter the moment. We're sleepwalking pleasantly, going through the motions as if in a delicious daze.

Through the cushy fog of my brain, there's a searing moment where I think of how much I desperately want to be with him. In whatever way that would be possible. And some faulty part of my conscience lets me imagine all the scenarios in which that could play out, where Alex is my boyfriend , and my throat practically closes at the harsh reality of the pain. I haven't let myself face that– maybe ever, after four goddamn years of this thing– and the stabbing truth of it feels like a stiletto to my chest.

Without any words passing between us, Alex wraps his arms around me from behind, as if he can feel exactly what's passing behind my eyes. He holds my body to his for more than several minutes, letting the water wash over us, his mouth pressed firmly to my collarbone, bent over my shoulder.

He takes the shampoo and massages it into my hair for me when we separate, and I rub some over his scruffy, stubbly head. It's so intimate, and so gentle, that I worry I might start crying. I breathe through it, though I can't meet Alex's eyes, and when we're finished, we towel off in silence, and return to my deliciously cool room.

Sitting on my bed, with just one of our turquoise towels around his waist, I feel doubt cleave it's way down my sternum as I look at Alex. It's the realization of how much he doesn't fit into my life: he is the square peg and my world is a round hole. It looks like he wants to try, but that somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, it brings up my vow in the cab: break up with Jeremy, cut ties with Alex. This isn't me focusing on myself. This goes against every independent, feminist thought I've ever had about who I want to be. I feel as if I'm letting my nineteen year old self down after everything she went through. What am I doing?