He Told Me to Stop Thinking and I Did
My mind races. His voice is slower. "Give it to me." Surrender felt like exhaling a secret I didn't know I was holding.
In bed with my husband I perform satisfaction like a student who studied the material but not the music. With Marcus I forget the syllabus.
He dims lights. Removes watches. Places my palms flat on the mattress.
"Don't narrate," he says. "Don't manage. Don't predict my next move."
I want to joke. Jokes protect.
He waits.
Surrender begins as silence. Then as heat. Then as the terrifying relief of not being the smartest person in the room.
Marcus is not my husband. He is my practice in letting go.
Afterward I cry—not from pain, from space opening where anxiety lived. He holds without fixing.
I drive home. I wash. I smile at dinner. The secret is not only the affair. The secret is that I am capable of surrender and nobody at home asked for it.
That hurts worse than guilt.
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