He will never read this. That’s not a crime, just a fact. And I will not go cycling or ask about what he is reading, nor will he ask me about my books or the inner workings of my mind.
I am sharp-tongued, impatient and pushy, sardonic and quick. He takes his wounds silently and quietly retreats, his vulnerable parts protected, unexcavated, safely out of reach.
I cook. He does the dishes. I complain, he (mostly) listens. He drives. I ride. We share a surreal sense of humor and, often, a telepathic sense of what the other is going to say next. We have formed together, each growing around the other, our unused bits and pieces atrophied. Dormant. This is the way of all long relationships, I suspect.
It is neither good nor bad. It is not exactly a choice, though we could have chosen differently. But sometimes I am aware of what lies hidden, the heartbeat of emotion, thickened veins of want thrumming with need. Over time, it becomes harder to access what we’ve left behind.