4. Blesk #2
I walk inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. While gazing at his products lined up on the shelf, I kick off my shoes and undress, going through the motions. I didn’t know I wanted a shower until I did. I’m naked when I turn the water on and test it with my wrist.
Shoes shuffle on the tiles.
I gasp and look over my shoulder to find Erik walking inside. My mouth opens. Closes. He sits on the toilet lid, and something inside me freezes.
I don't tell him to leave. Saying that feels like I may choke. Like it is somehow failing. Like I’m flinching.
I’ve never said ‘leave’ to him, never said ‘don't,’ never said ‘I don't want you here.’ Using those words now feels like regressing or breaking a bond, the absence of those words in our past making them impossible to use in the present.
My mind floats helplessly in this moment, suspended between acknowledging the feeling inside me that wants to set a boundary that never existed before and not wanting to lose what it means when he stays.
My throat is thick, so I swallow. Facing forwards, I step carefully into the shower and tell myself this is normal.
This is Erik.
Maybe he thinks I’ll slip… There is nothing to feel about this except nothing.
I wash my hair, both hands working through the long blonde locks with a harshness that I put down to nothing. The water comes down hot, steaming—so hot my skin almost burns. Almost. I keep my back to the glass, to Erik, to more than the nothing.
I’m aware of him there.
Can feel him there.
My nipples harden, and I can’t stop them. I hear him shuffle. Hear his belt. So, I rinse my hair. I reach for his body wash, and I’m nowhere in my head as I stroke the soap over my skin. I don’t hear him. His zipper tearing open denim, his hand moving, his breaths roughening—I don’t hear it.
Static fills my mind. I’m in the middle of muscle memory. I know how to wash my hair, know how to rinse. If I continue and don’t move, then he can just watch, make sure I don’t slip, and nothing… Nothing else.
Suddenly a door outside the bathroom opens and shuts, and a male voice calls out, “Erik, you still awake?”
A groan, the zipper, and Erik is up and out of the bathroom immediately, closing the door behind him. His voice greets the man, his roommate, I imagine. I can hear him through the wall, easy and unbothered as he discusses something that has them both chuckling.
Standing under the water, the swirling steam collecting around me, I suddenly notice my own breathing. It is loud. Louder than it should be. In and out. In and out. I've been holding it without knowing.
I look down at my hands.
They are trembling.
I reach out and turn the temperature down until the water is only warm, no longer scalding, and I sink to the floor. Drawing my knees to my chest, I stare at the tiles. At the blue, distinctly trustworthy tiles. The warm spray comes down on my back and my shoulders and my hair.
Relief moves through me like fresh air. I’m relieved. I’m relieved he left the room. Fuck—I’m relieved.
The muffled sound of Erik's voice through the wall, relaxed, talking to his roommate like a normal person in a normal room on a normal Tuesday night.
I’m relieved.
I’ve never been relieved when Erik left a room. He leaves rooms, and I usually follow him. He’s always been the warmth, been the safe thing.
Why am I relieved?
The answer will not come. Answering this means pulling on a thread that ties me together, that binds my family together, that keeps me wanted and safe and theirs.
With a sigh, I push to my feet. Turn the water off. Dry myself with the towel from the rail—his towel—before pulling my dress back on and entering his room again.
I glance at his roommate’s bed. A lump under the sheets tells me he’s there, asleep or at least trying to be.
More relief?
Erik is sitting on the mattress in his grey track pants, his shirt off, his eyes on me as I cross the room, approaching him, feeling naked even fully dressed.
His gaze softens on me, and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. “I love you,” he mouths.
My chest aches. “I love you, too,” I say it lighter than he did, as if to imply, ‘well, of course.’ Of course. “You’re sentimental tonight. It was just a walk, Erik.”
His deep brown eyes, the same colour as our mum’s and dad’s, narrow on me, absolute love obvious in their beautiful depths. “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure, well, how it’d go. But this is right.”
Is this right?
Or is this wrong?
His love is real. Right.
Slowly, I sit on the edge of his bed. “I should—” He shifts to make room. The word go never reaches my tongue. It’s not an option anymore. I should have said something when we entered the room. Now it’s too late.
“Okay,” I say, breathing shallow.
After a moment, I lie down beside him, and he pulls me close, one arm around my shoulders, positioning me like he does his things. With my head against his chest, the familiar sound of his heartbeat is beneath my ear.
Eyes wide, I stare at the wall over his bare chest, feeling the warmth from his skin for the first time since he came home at Christmas last year, and stayed for two nights.
Time rolls by.
His breathing slows.
Then evens out.
Within a few minutes or maybe an hour, Erik falls asleep.
I shuffle, just once, and he growls in his slumber.
So I freeze and lie very still. Awake. Painfully awake.
In his dim dorm room with his thick arm around me, his roommate snoring across the gap that now feels too wide, the gentle hum of music from a neighbour, and a horrible question in my mind that I used to be so good at ignoring.
Is this wrong?
Not whether this is love. I know what he feels for me is love—his affection has never been in question.
Just…
Is this wrong?