You’ve told him the details, the whole story for the most part, but sometimes he forgets. He forgets when things are good and you’re happy, when you act as if nothing can stop you. You act this way a lot, and it’s easy for him to forget. Most of the time you have such an air of confidence about you, of smug certainty, of outright vanity and pompous poise that he can’t even imagine that there’s anything untruthful or complex about it. You are a seamless creature, he can’t always tell when you start to fray at the ends until it’s almost too late. Because it’s so easy to see you whole he forgets that there are parts of you that are broken.

When he remembers it breaks his heart. You told him most of the important details all on one night, about six months before. It was raining and you were both sitting at home; you brought out the teapot and cups and even the creamer into the living room with you. Afterward he realized that you were afraid he would find some reason to get up off this couch, some reason to be somewhere else. You laid everything out, you washed the dishes from dinner, you turned off the radio. You even rolled up the newspaper and shoved it into a magazine rack on the wall. No distractions, no reason to look away unless he had to look away.

He didn’t know what that conversation was going to be about, of course. He thought it was just like any other night after dinner; a little tv, maybe, talk for a while, kiss. He loves you and he thinks this is a simple concept most of the time.

At the moment he is lying beside you, curled up around you, his knees behind yours, his arm gripping you as though you were both hanging upside down, as if him letting go would be the end of you. Perhaps it would be, he’s not sure, he doesn’t want to take that chance. He is being very gentle with you because he has remembered again, his heart has broken again, he doesn’t know what to do. He hugs you closer, strokes your chest, your stomach, he sighs against your skin. He knows that being touched can scare you, but also that it comforts you, sometimes. That’s not something you told him. It’s something he learned from the way you lean against him. It’s something he hopes for.

You started with what he already knew; telltale signs. Sometimes it scares you to be touched, sometimes in nightmares he takes on someone else’s face, he becomes someone hateful and terrifying while he sleeps with his head against your shoulder. Yes, you told him, this is why sometimes you cringe away from him, sometimes you just have to go sleep on the couch. It’s not personal, it doesn’t mean anything. He must have looked crushed, horrified, hurt, scared, stunned. You didn’t look at him too long, as you spoke. He felt your fear and wasn’t sure how to reassure you anymore.

You laid it out, you pointed at the critical moments. This is what was done. First this, then this. Unconsensual, well. What does it mean when you forced to take it and you come? Does it really matter, when you’re thirteen and dream about having your dick in someone’s mouth, does it matter when it’s the wrong person, when it’s someone who rips your pants down and leaves bruises on your thighs, someone who smells like everything that’s ugly? When it’s someone more than twice your age, a friend of the family, when you’re supposed to be in bed and your parents are two doors over, entertaining with glasses of wine in their hands, thinking you’re sound asleep? When, deep down, you’re not sure if you didn’t want it just as much as he did? You say these things carefully, through your fingers, you convey all this between the words you actually say. There is a tone of excuse, of dismissal in your voice.

"It could have been worse," you said. "But you should know."

He can’t quite imagine that, it being any worse. He can’t imagine how it must feel. Because he can’t imagine it, it’s easy to forget.

You explained; dates, places, holidays when it was worse, the scar on your upper thigh, on your left cheek, the way you seem distracted sometimes when he’s making love to you. He cried. He wanted to touch you but you sit back a little and he doesn’t want to hurt you. He was confused and he mourned for you. He hated the idea that you have suffered. It still burns him so badly he wants to stand up and fight back. He wants to erect a wall around you so that nothing can ever hurt you; he wants to make you a bed of rose petals and feathers and surround you with beautiful things. You make him feel powerful, and then helpless.

He looks at his hands sometimes, when he remembers again, and thinks about all the things he can do, the times he has saved you before. It’s his MO, really, to save people. He did it as a child even; he saved the known world, they say, he destroyed evil incarnate twice over and now everyone knows he’s a hero. It works into his brain, it sinks back into his unconsciousness and tells him, in a seductive voice, that he can be a saviour. He can stand between you and everything corrupt and ugly and destructive and win. He can strike down those who would destroy you, or would destroy him, or anyone. It’s not pride, it’s just established fact, it’s what’s popularly believed, it’s rumour. But when he remembers and looks at his hands he knows that it’s not just a rumour. It’s a lie. His powerlessness extends beyond the boundaries of space and time; his powerlessness is bigger than his reputation. In the morning, when the sun is shining and there are buttery crumbs left on the plate in his hand the realization recedes. He can change the world, he can change your world too. It’s not pride, it’s just a rumour.

Sometimes at night, when he’s half-asleep, he pulls you on top of him, nuzzles into your neck and whispers things to you. These are the things he can’t say, the things you can’t ever acknowledge in daylight. He knows this, he knows that they are foolish things, they are all problematic and painful and they don’t solve anything. "I want to kiss you and make it disappear," "I wish I could go back and rescue you," "I want to give you more than he took from you," "I want to be able to heal you." He doesn’t really know what you make of these statements. He doesn’t really know what to make of them himself, except that they’re true.

On other days everything went on as usual. Mornings you bury your head in pillows and tried to ward off the inevitable, only to find yourself rushing through showers and getting dressed and shoving breakfast into your mouth before you are late. He meets you for lunch as he always does, at the deli around the block, often complaining about work, about one co-worker or another, one silly spat or some comment; or he laughs and tell stories about his friends, a letter he received, something in the newspaper. He always has smoked turkey and havarti on whole wheat bread; you alternate between roast chicken with provolone and pastrami on rye. He drinks soft drinks or tea. You stick to coffee. It’s still too early in the day for you to hit your stride.

In the evenings you take walks, meet up with friends, go shopping for wines or imported cheeses or something to put in the hallway between the bedroom and your study. You like to cook and entertain, and your friends come over often. He likes your friends, though they make him feel a little shy. You laugh often and make wicked jokes that make him blush and look down at his feet. Though most evenings it’s just the two of you, talking animatedly, laughing, arguing, or just sitting quietly with something to read. You, the night owl, need to be coaxed away from a book, a magazine, the crossword in the newspaper, you ignore yawns and keep talking, you prod him as he falls asleep on the couch, you are unable to go to bed until the conversation is well and truly fleshed out, or the argument is won. At night you stave off sleeping by seducing him, or teasing him into seducing you. Neither is very difficult. He makes love to you slowly, sleepily, he likes the feel of sheets against his skin, of you against him. He falls asleep in your arms, to the rhythm of your breathing.

It’s days like that that let him forget the ugliness that turns you away from him.

Tonight he doesn’t speak. He just holds you as long as he can, because at any moment he is waiting for you to shake him off, roll over, swing your feet onto the floor, and walk out to the living room. Today was that sort of day; you woke up screaming, you flinched at common noises, you sat at the far end of the couch, you were crabby and silent and you rubbed your lips a lot. He has noticed that you rub your lips when you’re nervous. He wonders if you ever regret telling him. He tiptoes around you but really he just wants to hold you and tell you that you will make everything okay again if it kills him. But he knows that this only makes him feel better.

The day after your revelations was strange. You pretended everything was normal and so did he. You both went to work and came home tired, neither of you could stop talking. It was as if silence would make both of you collapse and neither of you felt strong enough to cope with collapse. He brought takeaway home with him and you were pleased. He told jokes. The little slip of paper inside your fortune cookie said ‘The best prophet of the future is the past.’ There was no fortune inside his. You let him hold you until you thought he was asleep that night, and then you shifted over. He wasn’t asleep. It snowed overnight and he woke up cold.

Four days later, first thing in the morning, you straddled him while he was still asleep. He woke up kissing you, with your hands between his legs. You couldn’t seem to get enough of him then, as if he is water and you are more thirsty than you’ve ever been. Your arms feel strong, your body is solid and safe and smells like sweat and mornings, coffee beans and soap. You don’t flinch now, there is nowhere he can’t touch you. For a moment everything feels okay, and he is hopeful. You fuck him and he feels loved.

Even that evening, after you come home from work, you sit close to him as you watch a film together, you play with his fingers and make silly comments that make him laugh. He forgets for a little while that everything is different.

Today he couldn’t forget, and nothing he did could snap you out of your blue funk. But he is determined, and the fact that you don’t shy away from him when he holds you, the way your body melts into him, gives him great hope. He loves you, and it still seems simple to him.

End