Julien: Of Convenience
[2001-12-07]
I was afraid for so long: of the longing in my heart, of betraying its existence, of the look on his face should I ever confess it to him. Most of all I was afraid of what would happen if I gave in to it. Everything that I was ever taught told me that, having succumbed, I would be ashamed, and rightly; that nothing thereafter could take away the stain.
I should have remembered how little of what I was taught has proved to be true. For I don't feel it. Apprehension, yes, and sometimes embarrassment, but no shame. This-- this is more than I thought it would be, and he knew what I wanted of him better than I did myself; but it soils neither of us. When I leave him in the mornings I am cleansed, purified. My mind is clearer than it has been for months, freed of fear.
What he feels-- I know only what he tells me. Sometimes he talks as though he would rather be left alone, yet when I would do so he asks me to stay. Asks me, of his own accord. And then, surely, he would never have consented to any of this if he did not find joy in it.
He is so gentle with me, when we are alone, that I scarcely recognize him. I never knew he could be gentle. He calls me cher in rare, unguarded moments, not with any particular tenderness, but not with mockery either.
They will say you are in love, he told me, and he was mocking me then. Perhaps they would, if they knew. They would be wrong, I think. Love changes people, don't they say, and this changes neither of us. I am still myself. He has no more sense than he ever did. But it clears the air between us; it pleases us both. That is enough.