oubliette
“The third butterfly flies directly into the flame, dissolving itself within the light. This butterfly is consumed by love and so she has no words to offer.”
Under the Veil.
His attention to me was the sunniest of days, filling my body with rainbows. I felt magnified. I was buoyant and moved as a kitten licks its paws, lovingly, with ease, assured by the sensation and unobservant of everything around me.
I am grateful for what I touched when we were in a sacred union of being together. When it was just us, laying in bed, my head on his chest and him stroking my hair. Come here, babe, he'd say. Come close to me.
The first time I felt the thing shudder and roll like a stone between us, he'd been sitting on the couch and I at the table. We hadn't made love in weeks. I could feel him getting hard against my body before he would roll away. When our bodies touched, it was a magnificent, subtle fire. The strike of a match and the first whiff of sweet Jasmine. Our lovemaking was never hurried. It started slow and moved like a jellyfish at the surface of the sea. Rhythmic and moving tenderly with each rise and fall of the water. Kissing with lips and tongue and teeth. Teasing each other's mouths. He is getting bigger and bigger, and I perched on top with my legs wrapped around him. He'd strip me silently after chucking all his clothes to the floor. Come here, babe. Come to me. He'd hold out his arms. I'd slide up, and we'd nuzzle, cuddle, and play until I put my mouth around him. His body is long and warm. I felt tight and cold beside him. My feet are like little cubes waiting to melt. Sometimes he'd use his hands, stroking and sensing what I enjoyed.
I will never forget this day, how you looked, just know when you say you cannot do this anymore.
I'd been wearing my white blouse with the blue tassels, and he was in his wool jacket with the hood. He carried my purple bag on his back with his school book inside of it and my navy coat. The tipping point; we professed our love for each other and held hands.
It will be ok, I promise, he said. I love you. You are the only woman for me, now and forever.
In my heart, I knew this statement was true and yet not true. In my heart, I felt the slippage. It was slow, so slow I thought I could catch it! If I named it- if I confronted it- if I poked and pushed and picked it up.
We made love one more time after that day. I cried silently on the white sheets while he showered. He took a long time. He washed his hair. He went into the bathroom alone and closed the door. I knew then that the relationship would not last, and this would be our last time in bed as sexual playmates.
Our lovemaking had cut too close to something that broke between us, illuminating a wide gap where only Vulnerability and Hope reside. I am ready to be in that spot with the Other. He is not. He stayed inside of me after we came, and I rocked slow, slow, slow until it built and broke again. It was exquisite. I have never felt so ready to burst and dissolve with another human. I was destroyed and reborn with his arms cradling my back. It was sticky and solemn between us when he got up to shower, and my womb was sore. I was full of the deepest ache my body has ever known.
I will never touch that space with him again, was my first thought as he left the room quietly. When he returned, we did not touch. There was no cuddling. No goodnight. Just our combined silent surrender. Of the end.
A handful of days later, he arrived heavy in a dark purple sweater and black knee socks. We need to talk. I had no cash to purchase the beef for the tajine, so he paid, and I carried the parcel as he pushed his bike to the apartment.
I kept the beef on my lap when we sat down on the couch. He tied his hair back into a bun and looked at his hands.
I need to talk to you about some important things, he said. We cannot have sex anymore. Babe, our souls are in danger. It hurts; my heart hurts. It feels heavy. I cannot breathe or sleep. I have been lying in bed awake at night for weeks. It hurts too much, and I cannot breathe. Our souls are in danger. I am a Muslim, and my sex is Haram. I cannot be with you in that way. I love you; I will always be with you; my heart is yours. But I cannot be in this relationship. You are free. You can do whatever you want. Our souls are in danger, and I can not be with you in this way? Do you understand?
I nodded, mute. I was wearing a silk dress, and my shoulders were bare. My hair was damp, and my body felt tight. I put my arm against the couch and my face into my shoulder.
I love you; I will always love you. You are a good woman. I cannot be in a relationship. Not like this. I will not have sex again for a long time. Not for many, many years.
I was hanging upside down by my ankles, suspended and swinging somewhere overhead where everything was inverted.
So we cannot have sex- where does this go?
I am a Muslim. I cannot have sex unless we are married. And I cannot marry anyone who is not a Muslim.
He got up and went to the kitchen sink. His back was to me.
Come on, babe, get up. This is good. I feel way better. He washed his hands and bring me the beef. I will make us tajine.
My stomach lurched. I swallowed.
You cannot marry me because I was not born Muslim or because I am not a practicing Muslim.
You would have to convert, but it cannot be for me. It must be with God. Your relationship with God is separate from me.
He had started taking vegetables out of the fridge and washing them, placing them on the cutting board to slice.
Come on, babe. Get up. Bring me the beef. It's ok; it will all be ok.
I met his family two days later. The entire community. Mother, Father, brother, aunts and uncles, cousins, his Grandmother. We had tea and pastries and lunch. I met the cats upstairs on the balcony. Three tiny white kittens with blue eyes.
I want to see you! He'd texted me. He came to me the night before I left for France. We went for a bike ride to the beach and watched the sunset. We drank tea in a cafe and ate buns filled with meat and eggs like sloppy joes. He bout us crunchy pastries, and I gave him my wool scarf when it got dark because he did not have a jacket.
He did not come into the home with me. He left me in the street outside in the dark.
The day he told me he could not have a sexual relationship anymore, he slept alone on the couch and I in the wide white bed. I cried all night into the pillows. I have never felt so adjected and alone.
In the morning, he was sweet, recomposed, and well-rested. I was a jagged line in a black sweater with too much glitter under my eyes to make up for the dourness I felt.
How are you, babe? How did you sleep?
How are we going to function in Turkey and Canada like this? With you on the couch?
Ya, babe, you have to understand. It is not about you. It is about me. I am a Muslim.
At this time, between us, he was still warmhearted and gave himself freely to me.
When I was in France, he pulled away. Retracted completely. Coiled tightly into himself where there was no room for me or anyone else.
Hi, how are you?
Hi, how are you?
Hi, how are you?
The only message I received with such painstaking consistency, I knew it was not authentic or heartfelt.
I hated him for it! He shifted his languaging toward me while I was gone, and I called him out.
You're right; there is no point in this relationship. It is not going anywhere.
Kick-kick-kick goes my shin into the teacher's palm.
Why did I book the trip to France? Because I felt it that day outside on the asphalt with him holding my hand. The slippage. When we made love, I felt his longing and his removal. And I knew I could not fix it by myself.
I fled to France to free myself of the pain that was tugging at my gut and nuzzling my chest. Like the petals surrounding the eye of a bud, you had to step back to see that the parts created a flower.
When I returned from France, his eyes lit up when he saw me. He moved in to kiss, touch, and take my hand. And each time, he stopped himself. The withdrawal was complete. He drew a circle and stepped into its center without me.
When we sat at the beach, I asked him outright if it was Islam between us. He said no.
I don't want to be in a relationship right now.
It has nothing to do with age, culture, or religion and everything to do with righteousness and Dharma.
He went into his head; he chose to move away from his heart because it hurt too much.
That is what feels true for me because I was there with him; I felt it too.
He pulled away because of the risk that comes with true love and being inside of another person.
You must spread your arms wide and fling yourself over the cliff, Abderrahmane; this is love.
What, you want to kill me? He joked. I don't want to get hurt.
So he went back to his God, Allah, and his family and community. He did not invite me. He chose predictability and routine over being at the edge of something impossible and boundless with me.
Rama and Sita sit in the heart of Hanuman, the Lord of Devotion. I desire a partner who will enter this space of sacred and profound commitment.
In the three months, I took to France, he nurtured his roots. I sent him photos from a beach where the women tan topless, and he replied, that's gross!
When we were living together, it was full of questions and probing on either side. What do you mean, babe? Is it like that? Really?!
While separated, the discussion became driven by less of a dialouge and more by demand.
I told you this that first day on the beach before you left for Brazil. I thought you accepted it, and you didn't. You do not play with a person's heart; why date if the end goal isn't marriage?
I did, Abderrahmane, I did. Though the game changed. I was gathering the pieces for a checkerboard when you had already swapped to chess.
Photo source.
