would pass and I would wave to him while he surfed and I ran. Roxy would trail at my feet, making me feel some semblance of comfort in her proximity. We would chat briefly as I returned Roxy to him, basic conversation: weather, running, surfing, never delving too deep.
Eventually I caved and had coffee with him one Saturday morning. It became a regular occurrence for months. He became a friend and a close one at that, and over the last few years we began to teeter on the edge of that muddy line between friends and something more.
I wasn’t looking to fall in love. Nope, not me. Been there, done that and boy, oh, boy did the ending suck. I’m serious, ambitious, goal driven, at least that’s how I want to be perceived, but I know my view might be a little skewed. I’m the girl who wears white pants and assumes they won’t get dirty. I’m clumsy and silly, but long to be taken seriously. Yep, that’s me. A damn fool. With Ben it falls to pieces. I can only see him and the warmth that spreads through my body. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. He makes me weak.
I remove my shoes and begin to unroll my yoga mat as Ben strolls up. Drying himself with a beach towel, he commands Roxy to sit, his deep brown hair still damp from his morning surf, his muscular body tanned and flexing as he dries his hair again. He in turn unrolls a mat directly behind me, giving me a coy smile. I know his game and I giggle at the thought. He’s only here so he can be with me and he reminds me of that with a shy grin on his face.
“It’s been ten years today,” I whisper for some unknown reason. I guess if I say it loud enough I might will it to go bad. After the words leave my mouth I have to suppress the urge to tap my fingers and to my surprise, the urgency subsides rather quickly.
“Well, I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself, Miss Mullins. Not bad for a midwestern girl.” He smiles and it melts me. I want to reach out and grab him. Pull myself against his chest and seek the comfort that only his embrace brings me. I trust him implicitly with every part of my being, but he wants more and I can’t give it to him.
Placing my feet squarely on the mat, I bend forward into down dog and he slaps my ass. “One day,” he says and winks at me.
Again I giggle like a schoolgirl. I part my legs and glance at him, “It took five years to get to this point, hope you got another five in you,” I respond.
I’m good at seduction. We both know that. It’s my heart and my commitment that he wants, not my body. Yet my body is so easy to give away—a few choice movements and he becomes mine. His words “one day” bounce around in my head and I know he wants what I can’t give him. It’s the only point that we argue about and it always comes back to the same thing. He wants a title, ownership, commitment... love. I’ve never fully loved him, always one foot out the door, that way when the pain invades I can break away without feeling or guilt. But I want to change for him and I’m compelling myself to be a better person, starting today.
I glance back at him as I move into warrior pose, his board shorts hanging from his hips so low that I can’t help but think inappropriate things about him. He’s absolutely and incomprehensibly gorgeous and he wants me the way most women would kill for. His short dark brown hair drying into an adorable faux hawk. Stomach muscles clenched while the sun shines off his tanned body. A body that only surfing and manual labor can create.
As the class draws to an end I move swiftly into his chest wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. I nuzzle my head under his chin where it fits perfectly. I breathe deeply taking in his smell and basking in his comfort. Rarely do I touch him without warning or provocation.
“What’s that for?” he asks pulling away from me just slightly. I don’t answer his question. I can’t because admitting I need him shows weakness, which is a term I’m not comfortable with.