When not serving is serving
I know. My own doing. I just had to let my mouth keep running after a day that had not gone to plan. And now? Silence. The absence of anything clanging more loudly than cymbals in my ears. I sigh and shake my head at myself. I mean, really, what did I expect?
I stand up, clear my throat lightly, hoping he will see me. Or choose to see me. ‘How did I get so busy?‘ he says. Even those words cause hope to rise within my heart. I daren‘t say a word. I don’t want to let my guilt and my mouth to get in between us again.
I slowly reach down and grab the bottom of my hoodie and pull it up and over my head. I drop it to the floor beside me. The quiet is so complete that I can hear it hit the floor. I lick my lips, and reach down again to my waist. I grab the hem of my t-shirt and lift it up and over my head and drop it on top of my hoodie. I feel exposed. He knows this is one of the things I find harder than any other. To simply bare myself with no other distraction, with all eyes on me.
I take a deep breath, and grab the waistband of my shorts. I slide them down my legs and step out of them. I force my arms to stay still, to not come up and cover myself. I can feel the muscles in my arms twitching want to move, but I use all my will not to let them.
‘May I come to you, Sir? May I come sit by your side?’ He tells me that I may. I lower down to all fours, and I make my way towards him. I can feel the weight of my breasts as they swing back and forth. So awkward. I slam down my mind on those thoughts. All of this is self imposed. He may or may not be disappointed in me, but I am. I doubted him. One of the few people that I know I can trust absolutely and I doubted I was worth anything to him.
He is busy writing. It’s been a productive day for him. I lean down, kiss each of his feet, then kneel down, and sit back on my heels. I lower my eyes, and I wait. I still feel the absence of him. I want to babble, to explain myself, to defend myself, but I don’t. I don’t want to disrupt him when the writing is going well.
I breathe deeply and steady myself. The mantra in my head begins, ‘waiting IS serving, waiting IS serving’. I know I’m trying to convince myself. Being still is an absolute weakness of mine. I cannot do it well. For him, I’ll try. I feel an excuse to talk to him welling up inside of me. I shake it off with a shake of my head. Deep breath. Again. ‘Waiting is serving. Waiting is serving.’ He has told me this before, but I am not great at passive serving. Want me to entertain your best friend? I’m in. Wish me to please your wife. I’m there for you. Serve someone to show others what service can look like? Happily all day long. But sit? Be quiet? Be still? Wait? Every part of me rails against it. I cannot stand it I find it harder than many other things he may have asked of me in the past, and he hasn’t even asked this of me. I have.
How long has passed? I don’t know. Every moment feels as if it’s stretched thin until every last second is wrung from it. My knees are starting to ache. Still, I persist. ‘Waiting is serving. Waiting is serving.’ It doesn’t feel so angry this time. It feels quieter in my mind as it slowly glides through. I feel calmer.
Quietly, the words sneak out of my mouth. ‘Sir, my knees are sore, May I change my position, please?’ From far away, I hear you tell me I may. I feel wrapped in cotton. Words sliding through to me. I shift and merely sit by your feet. Quieter now, it floats through my mind, ‘waiting is serving, waiting is serving.’
I shake my head. How much time has gone by? I’ve no idea. He works still. A smile quirks at the corner of my lips. I feel I’m pleasing him by not disrupting. Still, I have a small request. Surely, he won’t mind a small request? ‘Sir, May I please lean my head against your knee? The physical touch will help reassure me.’ I don’t think he realises how much I felt I might have lost him, pushed him away. He tells me I may.
A soft satisfied sigh escapes my lips as I lean my head against his leg. I close my eyes. I can feel the smile stretching across my lips. This feels so good, so right. The thought sneaks through, ‘waiting is serving’. I wait. I shut out all else. I listen for his breath. I breath deeply in hopes of taking in the smell of him and remembering. From time to time, I feel a slight pressure on my head as his hand absently comes down to rest upon me. Each time, I smile again. To feel that touch, that acknowledgement of what I am offering him. The knowledge that he knows I’m there.
My eyes start drifting shut and each time, it’s longer and longer before they open again. I whisper quietly, my voice has gone hoarse. ’Sir, I am very tired. I will need to sleep soon.’
‘Of course,’ he says. He continues to work, but I feel the back of his fingers brush lightly against my cheek. He is pleased, I think. With that thought, I curl up on the floor next to his feet. I tuck my arm under my head and I promptly fall off to sleep.
He moves. I uncurl my body, and stretch. I know that look in his eyes. He is pleased. I’ve done well, but more than that, I’ve done well which has enabled him to do the work he needed to do. I lean down, and place a single kiss on each foot and then raise my head and smile at him. ‘Good morning, Sir.’ He smiles back.
It would seem that waiting is serving.