​It‘s late, but it‘s also bright, and for the first time in a long while, a stranger is lying in my bed again. The third this year, and the first I can‘t ask to leave.
So I lie next to him—or rather, I lie on top of him. I rest on his chest, wrapped in his arm. But no matter where I lie or how I lie—as long as he’s here, I know one thing: I feel nothing. A stranger is lying in my bed, and he has taken my feelings away.
​
His other arm moves in small motions across my shoulder, gentle and seemingly affectionate. He traces little circles with a longing so deep, as if he hopes to conquer me through the ever-softening rhythm, to lure me, to instill some of his passion into me. This stranger touches me as if he knows me. As if I know him.
I realize I haven’t touched him in several seconds, just lying there motionless. His caress feels like a reminder, like a silent contract I have entered into, waiting to be fulfilled. And mechanically, I begin to stroke his face.
My movements are passive. They imitate tenderness and love, simulate affection and intimacy—without stemming from the slightest inner emotion. They drift along with such little effort, such little care, that the duplicity is unmistakable.
They don’t pretend to be anything more than small simulations, scattered across his skin.
​
And as I lie there, occasionally kissing him—or rather, he kisses me—but never with a receiving eye contact, I think of someone familiar.
I squeeze my eyes shut until I can see them in front of me. I imagine that it‘s them caressing me. Smothering me with their softness. Trying to conquer me, to pervade me—and that, in that moment, I wouldn’t feel nothing, but instead, we would both burn up in each other‘s arms.
​
But it feels foreign, and I know they wouldn’t touch me like this.
​
Their fingers feel real. When they find me, they are sparing, restrained—but at least, they do not lie.
I believe that.
Because if not—what protects one from lying just as unaware and naive, in their arms?