THE LONGING

Brisbane 2008

I am buffeted between conflicting states. I am at once wrung out by longing, swelling like dough under a damp cloth into the idea of Paul. It is a strange alchemy that blends smell and flesh into some pheromonal melting pot. I harbor secret glimpses of possible outcomes, which inevitably include climbing into his lap and settling into the hardness there. I imagine hand-holding in libraries or lying on the grass or in the cinema. These random images are thrown up at inappropriate moments, in company, on the bus, at work. I catch my breath so it won’t escape in a moan or a little sigh.

It is not the first time I have had this kind of all-consuming crush on someone who is not my husband. It crashes in, and it abates. I am used to the pattern. It is a pattern but I am still surprised by the force of the desire.

At the same time there is a rock solid care for Paul, a familial love, the kind that you would imagine a big sister would have for a beloved brother. I would fight for him, scuff my knees. If he called in the middle of the night he would find me at his side without any subtext. Still, I would eat him if I could. I would carve through his flesh with a spoon and gorge myself on him.

I turn in on myself, wondering what I might do to elicit the same kind of passion from him. And even as I conjure up possibilities, I know. I am not blind. He will never want me. There is my physicality, my age, my erratic nature. I would remake myself into someone else to catch his attention. I wonder if he would love a thinner girl. That pretty blond thing I saw him with, the sunken eyes and skin that looked as if you would bruise it with a glance. I would carve myself up into pieces to have him look at me that way. I would stop eating. I would learn to wear makeup and perfume like a real girl.