Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Harriet
I remember fallinginto my husband and wishing he’d never find the end of me. I remember using my softest touch, my roughest words. My beating heart in the palm of my hand, emptying my soul to make room for him.
He always knew.
He always saw when I did. When I was there.
He would gather me close and kiss me the way I liked. Long and slow. The kind of kisses that outlast eternity.
I remember stretching myself as wide as I could go, from one galaxy to the next. A universe of longing and desire. The absence of oxygen. Time. Awareness.
The world would fold into itself until it was the size of the bed.
Reality would shrink until it was only us.
Me.
Jerrison.
I remember trembling from his sounds alone. The slow hiss that meant the pressure was building. Building. Building. The groan from the back of his throat, trapped inside his vocal chords and aching to release. The moan that escaped low and guttural. The pulsing. The clenching. The weight that fell on top of me.
I remember feeling safe. Holding on to him a little longer. Holding still so he could savor. So he could ravish.
Just a moment.
Couldn’t a moment stretch into two? Three? Forever?
My legs would close around his because I couldn’t wait for him to catch his breath.
Again.
More.
Harder.
He would smile and I would fly.
Love flickered like candlelight, a gentle glow that filled the room without infringing on our privacy. Passion consumed us. Burned everything to a flame. And yet love remained, steady and consistent through it all.
Jerrison effortlessly unlocked my desire.
One touch.
Sometimes, it was one look.
The explosion that hit me was always intense.
I remember turning to him, watching from the corner of my eyes as he moved on top of me. Watching as he rested his forehead on mine and filled me. Watching as he embraced more than just my body but my very heart.
I remember.
And it stings.
Because I can compare it to now.
To this.
To a soulless romp of elevated breaths, creaking bed springs and slaps of flesh against flesh.
Sweet love. Tender whispers. Toe-curling caresses.
Gone.
The hint of what we used to be is agony. The past has become tattered rags in my hands. Forgotten memories swept away in the sands of time. Buried beneath perfumes that don’t belong to me and broken shards where trust used to stand.
He thrusts into me.
I grit my teeth. Dig my fingers into the blankets. Twist and cry.
Tonight… it’s different.
Tonight… it hurts.
My husband reaches for me.
Hot kisses fall down my neck. Never my lips.
All wrong.
So wrong.
His pace is hard. Rough. Piercing.
He’s not making love.
This is—it’s something else. Biology.
It used to feel like magic. Like a fairytale trapped inside humanity’s dull existence. Like a rollercoaster ride that could make a woman fly so high she forgot she wasn’t made to leave the ground.
Now, it’s a suffocating weight on top of me. Sweat mingling with tears of pain and sorrow. Tears I try to swipe away before he can see it. Tears that soak into the pillow that jerks further and further away from my head with every harsh invasion.
The veins in his neck are bulging. His eyes are closed.
Can he see me?
Does he even want to?
A part of me wants to push him off.
It hurts so bad…
I bite my lip to keep quiet.
It’ll be over soon.
Soon.
He finally opens his eyes. Eyelids burst apart like the night exploding into dawn. Crystal clear waters. Turquoise blue. Caribbean Sea. Waves lapping on fine white sand. For a moment—just a moment—it feels like he belongs to me again. Just me. Only me.
I ignore the discomfort between my legs and wind my hands around his neck. His soft blond hair is such a contrast to the rest of him. Broad shoulders. Rugged abs. Hard as granite. But his hair is silk. His lips are too.
I pull him down for a kiss.
Jerrison devours me and I tell myself that I’m okay. That it doesn’t hurt so bad. That I just need lube next time. That I shouldn’t make a big deal about this.
I tell myself it’s okay if my heart is bleeding after being slashed by betrayal. It’s okay if the galaxies are crushing me and fairytales have turned into nightmares.
He’s still Jerrison.
He’s still my man.
I can endure for now.
I’m a strong woman.
His passion releases him to gentle trembling. Then my husband pulls back. Rolls off. Goes to the bathroom to throw away what he needs to.
I’m left with the aching emptiness of the bed.
I run my hands down my hips and close my legs, folding into a fetal position as the pain expands and sweeps over me. Wave after wave. The throbbing emanates between my legs. Nothing stops the discomfort.
There’s a flush from the bathroom.
Jerrison steps out. Even though my back is to him, I can feel his eyes boring into me. Can feel the hesitant way he approaches the bed. “Harriet?”
“Leave me alone,” I croak. The tears are back. Am I crying because it hurt to be intimate with him or because I’m ashamed that I did?
“Sweetheart?” A touch on my shoulder. A gentle hand. Much gentler than when he was inside me.
“Go away,” I snarl.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” It’s a pitiful murmur.
Can’t he hear me screaming?
Don’t leave.
He does.
My husband…
He actually walks away.
I hear the soft thud of his footsteps. I hear the door creak open and then the click of the lock as it falls back into place.
Silence.
Emptiness.
Shadows crawl on the floor because there’s no one to protect me. Monsters slither out of closets. Climb through the windows. Doubt. Insecurity. Regret. They shriek at me. Stupid woman. Stupid, stupid woman.
The echo of his retreat plays over and over in my head.
No fight. No interest.
You sure?
Yes.
Just like that, he disappeared.
I’m alone.
Forgotten.
Abandoned.
Anger threads into my sorrow, weaving in and out like grass in a basket weaver’s hands.
At the start of the night, he slipped into the old skin and became the man I married. At the start of the night, he was quick to kiss me. Quick to shove a bouquet at me and hold me close. Quick to rub my shoulders and massage in deep, rough circles.
He whispered that he wanted me. That he needed me. That he was ready to make up and wouldn’t it feel good to have a truce?
He used me.
I got played.
My thoughts jumble and cascade into an unending stream of consciousness. I couldn’t say no to him. Not when he was finally giving me crumbs. Not when he felt so close to the Jerrison I loved.
My Jerrison.
He would drive for hours just to see me. Fight the naysayers who claimed he was too young for me. He knew I was hurting inside even if I never spoke aloud.
But we’re not living in the past.
This is us now.
Tonight, Jerrison drove home prepared to pull on his disguise. There was no hint of a man who had come to lose. A hunter on the prowl. He came with weapons. Flowers. Jewelry. Sweet words in my ear. Affection. Water on a dying flower.
I was his prey.
And he put a target on my back.
He saw beyond my earliest resistance to the heart that still wanted to please him. To the woman who still wanted to be told she was beautiful. Seductive. Who wanted her clothes to drip from her body like wine and her lips to remember what it was like to be parted.
He knew.
Understanding flowed from his easy touches. His liquid caresses.
He saw the parts of me that got hot with one look from him. The parts that panted and clawed and reached for nerves that were far too sensitive to the touch.
My husband took me to bed.
He took what he set out to claim. Conquered the land of wild and half-naked natives. A nation of one. Me.
But now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he can’t see my pain. My agony. My burdens.
He took.
And then he threw away.
In my head, I see a busted up orange. Peeled raw. Squeezed to within an inch of its life. Discarded in a trashcan somewhere in a back alley. If anyone would care to brush off the label that, somehow, managed to stick, they’d see one word.
Wife.
Trembling fingers close around my pillow, the one that smells like him. I weep until I pass out from pain, sorrow and exhaustion.
