The dumbasses roar, and I snort.
I stay for the whole session, though start to regret it when they join hands and start frolicking in a circle. The kid dances around inside of it, the center of attention, always the center of attention, because it’s a kid and oh-my-god aren’t kids just the best? Her dark curls have been twisted into two ponytails, and they bob along with her movements, like tiny little birds fluttering about her head. After a while, one of the pink ribbons holding the strands in place comes undone, and it hangs loosely beside her cheek, causing the attached ponytail to sag.
Marla really should fix that.
My fingers twitch and itch, so I sit on them, but then my right foot starts bouncing, and my knee pops up and down, up and down, up and down. I still it with my hand, but then that twitchy-itchy feeling starts up again, so I hop up from the bench and circle around the group, trying to seem as uninterested as I can while still keeping tabs on the lot. The lake is only a few steps in front of me, so I turn my back to the class and snap a couple pictures with my phone, trying to calm this sudden burst of frenetic energy. The waves are lazy this morning, unlike yesterday when I was out with Ford, and I find my mind slipping back to him, to his bed, wondering if he’s awake yet, if he’s missing me, wondering where I am. Just the thought of him calms me, slows the rapid beat of my heart. I’m sure he had plans for breakfast in bed, followed by sex in the kitchen, maybe again in the shower, and suddenly I wonder what the hell I’m doing here, watching Marla and the kid when I could be getting all cozy with my hot photographer boyfriend.
And yes. I realize that I just called Ford my boyfriend. Which makes me a married woman with a boy toy. But marriage is a loose term for what Nicholas and I have, and though neither of us has come right out and said it, the only thing tying us together these days is keeping up appearances and an iron clad prenup. Not to mention, actions speak louder than words. And his? Cheating or no cheating, his are hardly better than mine.
Despite what they say, absence does not make the heart grow fonder.
With this in mind, I’m suddenly desperate to get back to Ford, back in his arms, feel his lips on mine, the way his fingers skim my back whenever he passes behind me. Touching, he’s always touching me, like he can’t get enough of me, and fuck, I’m starting to crave everything about him so damn much.
When I turn to leave, I see that the class has ended, and in my haste, I cut right through the group, not bothering to go around them. No one takes notice; they’re all still high from laughter, talking and joking like they just can’t get enough of each other and never want the stupid class to end. But for once, this display of intimacy, of closeness, doesn’t bother me, because now I have my own. I have my own person to get back to, someone who cares if I live or die, if I breathe or expire, and I want to soak up his attention, his affection, as much as I can while I can.
Up ahead, I see Marla and the kid; copped in a squat, she’s finally fixing the limp ponytail. “Mother of the year,” I mumble as I near them, reaching up and adjusting my sunglasses. I’m closer to the pair than I’ve been since that morning at the coffee shop, when the kid knocked by me in a sweet breeze and Marla touched my arm in a pathetic gesture of apology. The urge to take advantage of this nearness, to see up close and personal what I’ve come to know via screen, is hard to resist. But just as I turn my head, my foot catches something, kicks it ahead of me a few steps, and when I look to see what it is, my heart practically stutters to a stop. My stomach drops, drops, drops as I bend over and, without breaking my stride, pick it up, tuck it under my arm, and speed walk away, out of the park and across the street. I chance a look back as I turn to head up the sidewalk, but no one seems to be watching me, pointing fingers at me. All I see is Marla wandering around aimlessly, the kid at her heels, both looking far less jubilant than they were earlier.
I don’t slow until I get to Ford’s building. And I don’t allow myself to take a good look at the bundle in my arms until I’m in the safety of the stairwell. But I can feel it, the faux fur soft against my palms, the squishy body giving way to my death grip, the plastic nose and eyes hard like marbles. I feel enchanted, like I’m in the presence of a celebrity, my excitement barely contained. This thing is in practically every photo the kid is in, whether clutched in her sticky little hands or propped up somewhere in the background, temporarily abandoned but, I’m sure, hardly forgotten.
Sinking onto a step, I hold the stuffed panda out at arm’s length before pressing it to my nose, taking in her scent, which is Hollis’s scent.
Jesus Christ, this is heaven.
My good fortune has me so giddy that, when I toss my head back, my laughter bounces off the walls, echoes around me, one voice multiplying into many, and it makes me cackle all the more because suddenly I get the appeal of laughing yoga, and isn’t that just fucking hilarious?
#blessed.
The dark gives me courage, she thought. And then she kissed him.
— November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher
I once read an article about newborns that stressed the importance of touch, and how the absence of affection can significantly slow a baby’s development. Even worse, if these infants are kept in this type of environment long enough, they can begin to develop a fear of being touched, becoming emotionally stunted children who turn into withdrawn adults that can’t tolerate even the most superficial of relationships. Of course, some of these babies don’t even make it that far. Because they die. Regardless of receiving the proper nutrition and medical care, they still die…all from lack of human connection.
Lately, I’ve been wondering if this scenario can also be applied to adults. Just because we’ve spent years riding this planet, circling the sun again and again and again, doesn’t mean that we’re immune to loneliness. That because of our ripe age, we can take or leave the warmth of another’s touch. Isolation is so easily attainable these days, even when you’re surrounded by others. It’s no longer necessary to escape into the woods to be alone; just dip your nose into your phone, and you’ve got what Thoreau had all those years ago on Walden Pond.
Okay, so maybe not exactly. But the point I’m trying to make is that, with the way society is these days, it’s far easier to be alone in a group of thousands than it is to find true, meaningful connection with those in your own home.
With Nicholas, the affection melted away slowly. So slowly that, by the time I realized it, years had passed since I felt his touch. And I’m not talking the ten minutes of sex we indulge in every month. That sort of touching, where the sole purpose is getting yourself off without thought of the person writhing beneath you, doesn’t count. I mean, sure…that kind of sex can be great, amazing even, and everyone needs those moments where the only goal is sweet fucking relief. But that shouldn’t be all that sex is, the only thing that sex is.
Sex should first and foremost be about love. Or, at the very least, like. It should be about connection at the highest level, about dishing out as much pleasure as you take, perhaps even more. It’s reaching in and touching the other person’s soul, giving their goddamn heart a fucking hug.
Ford gives the best hugs.
He gives them in the mornings, before I leave his bed for the day. He gives them when I walk through his door in the evenings, while we’re in the shower and when we’re cooking dinner or sitting in the bar where we met. He pulls me in for one armed hugs while we’re walking down the street, pressing his lips to my head as he does.