Eden

Noun

Something changes when we close the door. You’ll turn the key in the lock and I feel my chest expand, my shoulders drop. There is something about alone with you that I’ve come to equate with paradise.

I can put my hand on your cheek and know that nobody is judging.  When we sit and I cross my ankle with yours, our hearts intertwining as our legs do, something dislodges within me and I remember how to breathe. And if you kiss me in the middle of a sentence, that works too. I was the only one listening, and I can read the rest of your words in your kiss. I’ve become good at that.

It’s our living room, our kitchen, the middle of our king sized bed where we crowd so tightly together.

Eden is wherever you are.

*

Eggs

Noun

You stayed in my bed the night after junior prom. Stayed, not slept, because neither of us did much of that. Instead there were kisses to hairlines, and tender cuddles, and a few moments of tongue on tongue, but mostly that night was just words and holding each other still. And then silence, when we ran out of things to say. Your presence was enough.

I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes you were gone. I could hear you singing in the kitchen, and for a few moments I just lay there and listened. It seemed so intimate, listening to you without you knowing I could hear. Symbolic too, not being able to see you, but knowing you were there. So I stretched, and curled my toes, and snuggled deeper under the duvet while I waited for you to come back.

You were carrying loaded plates when you did, and your smile when you saw I was awake was a moment where I was consciously grateful for my photographic memory. I never wanted to forget that.

“I made eggs”, you said, your voice questioning, like you didn’t know what the protocol was here, and I knew I loved you.

That was the moment, I think.

I didn’t tell you, because sleep crumpled and emotionally raw didn’t seem right for the first declaration, but when I think back on our timeline, that is how it goes.

You made eggs, and I knew I loved you.

*

Elizabeth

Noun

It was our longest ongoing fight.

You felt selfish for wanting a few more years of just us. I felt guilty for hating that I couldn’t bring you around on this with a kiss and a promise it would all be ok.

There were days I could barely concentrate, nights I lay awake long after you had stolen the covers and rolled over, wondering if this would be our deal breaker, wondering which of us would be the first to concede.

It scared me that I didn’t know. It scared me that I couldn’t see a way out of this one.

“I want a little girl”, I told you in a moment of weakness, my feet in your lap, and even with that tiny bit of contact I could feel your whole body stiffen. It was as if the tension in you was absorbed by my toes digging in to your thigh, and I in turn became tight, and fraught, and scared.

“She’d be called Elizabeth, but we’d call her Ellie”.

I carried on because once I had started it couldn’t be erased. You’d spend the rest of the night on eggshells anyway; one of us would probably take the sofa, claiming a headache, knowing we meant a heartache.

I was so tired, Blaine. Even when we weren’t talking about it, it was there. Somewhere in the world, I was sure, there was a little girl who needed us. I often thought that next time you said you felt selfish, I’d tell you that yes, actually, you were. I wanted to hurt you because you were hurting me. I wanted to hurt you because I knew you wouldn’t leave. I could scream and cry and hurl insults til my throat was hoarse and my mind was broken down, and you wouldn’t leave, so it wouldn’t matter.

I’d feel better.

In the end, though, I loved you too much to do that. In the end that was what it came down to. I was too tired, and I loved you too much.

“You’re right”. I told you, and it broke me but it fixed us.

“It’ll happen on its own, when it’s supposed to” you promised me, and because I was tired, and because I loved you, I finally let myself believe you.

It was only four months.

Four tiny months after we decided not to talk about it, you came home and you were different as you kissed me. You didn’t tell me until hours had passed, until we were naked and vulnerable, clinging to each other in the middle of a too-big bed.

“I love you”, I said, and you said “I’m ready”.

We began the search the very next day.

Almost Three years later, we were reaching breaking point. Nobody in our lives had done this; none of us knew it was a test of endurance before the real test of parenthood began. We doubted ourselves constantly. If we couldn’t cope with this part, how on earth were we deserving of a precious human life, all for us? You couldn’t talk me round because you felt exactly the same. That was the hardest aspect. How could we save each other when we were both falling apart?

“I love you” began to sound hollow, although I knew it was no less true. It felt like the world, the whole world, was trying to break us, and we were so tired that we might not be able to control it anymore. One day, the fight would become too much and we’d just….stop. I didn’t know what we were without this anymore. We’d never even considered that it might not work.

It was a Tuesday when the call came. I wasn’t home. I knew, though, when you ran into my office and your eyes were shining like they used to. Your hair was immaculate. You were wearing a bow tie. I knew.

“We have to go” you said, breathless, and it was January but I followed you without even grabbing my coat.

You didn’t stop talking all the way there. I was so scared I barely managed a word.

“This is just the very beginning” our case worker told us.

“If for any reason you feel this won’t work out, there will be other matches”.

“We’ve got a long way to go yet, but I thought you’d want to meet her as quickly as you could”.

She loved you right away. We walked into the playroom and she was so tiny, only two years old, but she looked at you and she grinned.

She didn’t look like either of us, not at all, but somehow I saw you in that smile.

I tried not to love her straight away, because there was still so much that could go wrong. I tried so hard, but you held out your arms and she crawled into them and in seconds all of my resolve faded.

“What’s her name?” you asked, and they told us.

And we knew.

* 

Epiphany

Noun

It used to make me feel smug that I knew first.

I saw you on a staircase and something stirred, but it wasn’t a case of heart-stopping, life-changing love. It was just…oh. I just knew.

You took your time about it.

There were so many months of longing glances, and handshakes that lingered too long, yet still you had no idea that we loved each other.

Because I think we probably did, even then. And I knew.

Your revelation came when I was least expecting it. Ravaged by grief, I curled into myself and suddenly there you were, finally ready to give yourself over to me, and to whatever-this-was.

I was so relieved when you kissed me. So pleased I hadn’t made it all up in my head.

But still, a little bit smug that I knew first.

*

Experiment

Noun, Verb

I’m fascinated by the idea of saturation point. How could it be that something could be stretched so far to its limit that it is no longer able to absorb, or learn, or change? It’s a scientific fact, they say, and I’m not usually one to disagree with science, but if we apply this experiment to you and me, we can clearly see the flaws.

The tighter you wind me, the closer you heat me to boiling point, the more likely I am to succumb to your every whim, and let you mould me into what you need, in that moment and in this life. Every time you somehow take me further; change me a little bit more.

We defy science, Blaine. Doesn’t that just say it all?