BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 51

THURSDAY
12 JUNE, 1997
ISAIAH

               Kissing Dorian is what God created me for. The moment I'm out of the car, his mouth is on mine. Hands on my waist, he presses me against the driver's window until I push him toward the house without breaking the kiss once.

Only at the stone doorstep do we part for risk of injury. His hands remain planted on my hips even then, still when I unlock the door. And when he has to let go to touch the mezuzah on the doorframe, he pulls me firmly against him with his other arm so my laughter stumbles over the threshold along with me.

I kick off my shoes with much less care than normal and shut the door. 'Welcome home.'

Dorian is silent and anxiety flares in my stomach. The entrance expands, stretching on in the seemingly infinite way I've experienced only in hospital corridors. The warm light bleaches to leave behind insatiable white.

'I know it's... quite barren but I don't own nuttin and I ain't wanna cram it full of stuff just to fill space. Suppose that's a happy accident cause now there's room for your tings.'

'I don't own any furniture either.' It's an offhanded comment that would be so easy to interpret as rude, but he scans the space with an expression of total calm and I know he doesn't mean it as anything more than a statement.

With a deep exhale, I force my shoulders down from my ears.

'So, living room, kitchen, really narrow and steep staircase,' I list, indicating to each in turn. 'Bedroom and bathroom are upstairs. There's also a spare room I've done nuttin with cause... I don't know what to do with it. I ain't never had this much space in my life. So... if you got any ideas...'

When Dorian is unresponsive, I turn to him to find him enchanted by the iridescent dots scattered over the wallpaper. He hasn't heard a word. It's a blessing to see him like this, to look into his eyes when they look elsewhere — it means: I feel safe, I know your caress won't turn to a knife when I blink. So I don't snap him out of it.

Rather, I hug him and his arms wrap around me though it takes nearly a minute for his conscious mind to catch up.

When he does, he blinks slowly like he's woken from a nap and looks back to the Star of David sun catcher. 'Is this your mum's?'

'I can take it down–'

'No.' His attention shifts to the gold dangling from my ears. 'And you've pierced your ears.' I don't understand the connection until he makes it for me: 'Are these your mum's earrings?'

Staring at my socks, I hum.

'I'm proud of you.'

'For piercing my ears?' Though I intended comedic scepticism, my voice drenches with derision. I only double down and coerce it into my expression too. I'm pretty sure it's a sin anyway.

Dorian's grace doesn't divert. 'For wearing your mum's earrings. You've always wanted to.'

He sees me so effortlessly that I'd be angry if I wasn't so touched — I've rehearsed this performance for twenty years, how dare you see right through it? Which means: you might not love me when I stop acting, which really means: in order to let you love me — fully, and as you see fit — I must first let go of control and that terrifies me, which is all just a complicated way to say: I'm not sure if I'm ready yet to find out who I am.

Today, I add: nonetheless, I'll try my best.

I fall into him and let him kiss me, first my forehead, then my mouth.