She Wants to Hear My Voice

This distance strains us. Intimate words appearing in fits and spurts, as crossing lines of dialogue, are not enough. She is afraid that I am a phantom. Though she has my picture, she wants more.

We have agreed not to meet in person or talk on the phone until I have returned home (where we will, instead, be only hundreds versus thousands of miles apart), until I have broken completely with G. We want to be sure that I am making my decisions based on my own desire to leave an unfulfilling relationship, not my lust or desire simply to be with M; to make decisions about G based on G, not on my feelings for M. This seemed to have made sense a week ago for both M and me, but seems less realistic now.

This is all quite a strain on M, and I feel I place a terrible burden on her. She fights her own jealousy that while she makes love to me this way, in a month or two when I return home, G will enjoy the fruit of M's labors by unexpectedly fucking me in person, just to even some score or make me stay.

But it is clearer to me, each day, that M and I are able to share with each other a kind of openness, respect, strength and fragility, trust and care that I haven't shared with anyone else, ever. And I find her hard to refuse. Because I trust she will not ask me to do more than I can, more than I want, more than is safe for me.

She wants to hear my voice.

Her voice is higher than mine, a little giddy, very nervous. She is breathing quickly, her voice is tight and breaks in nervous laughter. She has been like a school boy waiting to call at the agreed upon hour. Practicing what she will say when the phone is answered. I spend 15 minutes picking up the receiver and checking and rechecking to make sure there is a dial tone (there always is) until I realize if she calls the line will be busy. Then I wait and watch two clocks that seem to count the universe at different speeds.

Her voice is serious and formal as she asks if she may speak to me. I answer lightly, breathlessly, "It's me." I am giddy, nervous, my breathing is shallow, I fear losing my ability to speak. We share our obvious nervousness and our joy and we laugh. And then we become ourselves. We find in each others' voices another dimension, another connection to who we are together. We sort through a misunderstanding from the day before in two minutes, she tells me how beautiful and sexy my voice is, I tell her how glad I am to hear her, and then I whisper in her ear "I love you." Whisper, whisper, because the human voice can whisper, can say softly, what these printed words cannot. I can hear her catch on her own heartbeat, and tenderly, softly, sweetly, she whispers "I love you, too."