The Last Night

The Heart wants what it wants – or else it does not care

Emily Dickinson

I want to say that I felt small and fragile like a child, but I never felt those things as a child. I had to be broken a few times before I understood how being fragile feels. He was sleeping peacefully next to me. He still looked the same as he had when he was the man who loved me, who had made me feel so safe, protected. Even when I wanted to hate him, all I could do was sigh.

He seemed so harmless in his sleep. All of my bravado melted. I tried not to cry. When that failed, I tried not to be loud enough he could catch me crying. I turned onto my side with my back to him. Sleep was still elusive. I stared into the darkness until I nodded off until I woke again. 

My trust is rare. Yet, I’d been so vulnerable with this man. One drunken night, I shared my deepest darkest secrets and he took care of me. He ensured I was tucked in safely at the end of that night and he kept my confidence. For years after that, I told him everything. He was the first person I talked to about the things I was excited about and the only person I talked to about the things I was ashamed of. I felt so seen and so safe. I had faith in him. That’s not something I do.

I nodded off. I woke up. He rolled over and put his arm around me. I could feel that familiar poke through our bedclothes. There had been a time, a lifetime earlier, just the week before, when I would have wiggled back against him, trying to gauge if he was awake or wanting to be. My question-marked hand would have traced his hip, fingertips listening for clues of wakefulness. More often than not my touch would bring his body even closer to mine, definitely awake. 

I had been so deep in grief over losing the romantic relationship and the hope of our life together. This is when I first realized that I was going to miss sex. There was something decadent about middle-of-the-night sex, taking our time. It was so different from the urgency, the frantic hunger, of taking each other at the end of the day. It definitely wasn’t the conspiratorial naughtiness of sneaking off early when people are still awake and could figure out our absence. It wasn’t at all like the morning negotiations, when we have places to go and things to get done, and this man would lie to my face. He would look me in the eye and promise to be quick. He was never quick. In the middle of the night, there was never anything beyond our bed, nothing beyond that moment, slow and lazy, the luxurious indulgence in each other’s bodies. 

I thought about starting something. Goodness knows I don’t owe his sancha anything. Why should I deny myself pleasure? It was never about the sex, though. What was the point if it wasn’t part of anything meaningful? No, I had no interest in being fucked by this man who did not love me anymore. All I’d ever wanted was love and connection and this feeling. His arm around me still felt like home. Knowing it was the last time, I let myself exhale and nestle into his unconscious embrace. For a little while at least, I had that feeling of being held and safe and home. Finally, I slept. 

I’ll close my eyes, then I won’t see

The love you don’t feel when you’re holding me

Morning will come and I’ll do what’s right

Just give me till then to give up this fight

And I will give up this fight

‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t

You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t

-Bonnie Raitt
I Can’t Make You Love Me