Lucidity

I don't know the answer and he's waiting for me to admit it so he can be the victor. I don't know if he does it on purpose. I don't know if our friends feel my tension or see the angry hurt on my face, but I can feel my smiling lips stick on my teeth as I try to maintain my light-hearted facade. I don't know if my laugh sounds natural when he gives his triumphant answer and the room erupts. I don’t know if my friends have tallied these moments like I have. I don’t know if they’re my friends or his friends. It feels like I don’t know anything.

Everyone is gone and he smirks at me. His fingers twitch and slide into my space like boa constrictors. He had fun and he’s looking for more, charged by the ego boost our company provided and delighted in our sudden aloneness. I’m tired and lonely and I’m already angry that I have a mess to clean up.

When I back up a step he follows. When I turn to gather glasses and plates he is at my back. I circle the table, clear the napkins, and still, somehow, he’s there. I can’t get an inch between us. He’s not getting the hint that he’s too much, too close. As I wipe away the slopped salsa and chip crumbs, I can’t believe him. I don’t know what to say because I can’t believe I need to say anything. I rearrange the couch pillows and he corrects me, with his front against my back and his breath huffing on my neck and his smile apparent.

His snakelike arms wrap around my waist and I try to walk away, but I’m in a vice. Another arm circles my shoulders. Then another circles my head, covering my eyes, and when a rageful objection builds in my throat, another blocks my mouth and I can feel the dry fabric of a sleeve rasping inside my lips.

There is a long pause where I know I need to do something, and it is a desperate need, but I don’t know what it is. One or two very long seconds. Then I’m staring at the ceiling and hearing myself gasp, and the dryness on my lips and tongue and throat is the air that I wasn’t breathing in my sleep.

I can feel the sheets moving as his hand looks for mine and he’s asking if I’m ok, and it jolts me upright. I don’t want his concern. I don’t want his comfort. I don’t want him here; he did this to me.