Ok, I should probably explain this. This is part of a book I’m working on. It’s a collection of vignettes. They are all about love/relationships in some way or other. I don’t quite have enough yet and I’m not sure how to put them together, but any feedback anyone wants to toss out there, feel free.
Imagine if we were alone, he whispers as his lips brush my ear. I breath and contemplate my next move as he tugs at my skirt. I am to blame for my dilemma, after all, I planted the idea in his head. I whispered the words first, in a crowded, dark room. My tongue found his earlobe long before I was pressed against his car, trying to clear my mind despite wandering hands driving me crazy. He opens the car door and I resist. Not because of some clichéd fear of losing my virginity in the backseat, but rather out of a fear of who I am; who I will become if I climb in. I doubt myself. I am suddenly not who I’ve always thought I was. I am not who I am supposed to be. I want to dive into the car, into him. I want to forget myself in passion, enjoy the spontaneity of my otherwise obsessively planned life. At this moment I do not feel penciled in, like a note in my day planner. I feel wild and uninhibited.
His words ring over in my ears: Imagine if we were alone, and I shiver uncontrollably. I am not the straight A student. I am not Daddy’s angel. I am not stuck in a job I dread getting up for. I am not old at 18, doing dishes, smiling on the outside and desperately craving the spark of passion and freedom I once felt.
He tugs again at my skirt, and I climb into the car. He smiles and grabs my hair as he pulls my closer for a kiss. I close my eyes and breathe. He smells of sage and vodka. I throw myself away. I am not longer thinking of who I’m supposed to be because this is who I want to be. This is me. I’ve spent my life being the girl everyone else wants me to be, rushing into responsibility. He pulls gently on my shirt. He begins to unbutton me. When his flesh touches mine, my eyes snap open and I throw up my hands to stop him. He does not understand what is at risk for me. I am not giving up my body, but myself. Or at least the only person I know of as me. Even if she’s not the real me, at least she’s comfy. She’s the one everyone expects and wants me to be.
I apologize and try to explain. He nods silently, says he understands. You’re too considerate. Maybe to a fault, he says quietly. I am confused for a moment. I feel as if I have done something terrible to him. No, he replies, I just want you to be happy. Not strings. No worries. I smile at his bravery and waver again. I want to be free but I feel pulled toward myself. We aren’t always who we think we are. Only you know for sure, he says as he takes my hand and walks me back inside.
I go home alone. His words echo in my ear: Imagine if we were alone. I wonder what I would do if I could be there again, in that moment. I want to be myself, be happy, be unashamed; but I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I am not who I thought I was. I am tired of being everyone else’s girl.