Speechless

Ever since I was a girl, I’ve liked it best when lovers talk. This one, this Lover, is no exception; more like a dream come true. His tone is low and even and when he finds his voice, the words start coming hot and passionate. He takes me to the highest place I know. I can’t resist when he talks.

Don’t stop, Lover. Say it, let me hear you. That’s it, Lover.

Don’t stop.

Later, when we’re dressed, I take him to a restaurant. He’s always nervous in public. I watch him and his eyes dart from place to place, then he turns his menu and points. Without a word, he picks fish on a bed of pasta, salad with Italian dressing, a glass of white wine. This is our game: he’ll make every choice and show me before the waiter gets here, then I’ll order for both of us. It looks queer, me ordering for him, but it saves him the shame of pointing at a menu while someone asks him one question after another. Before he learned this trick, we never ate out: he just couldn’t stand it.

I could teach him sign, but why? I like him like this. I knew he was mute when we met. Then we had sex, and he talked to me. I couldn’t believe that voice could be trapped in him. It’s really sexy, almost unearthly. How could I change him? He’s perfect, just like this.

When I place our order, disaster strikes. He forgot to choose a bread. Rolls or breadsticks? He forgot to pick, and now the waiter and I both stare at him, waiting, while he struggles to find words on the menu. I could just say something and the waiter would leave, but then I ‘d miss this beautiful moment, the panic-stricken-animal look in his eye.

His finger shakes and he shows me breadsticks on the menu; I repeat his pick out loud. I don’t know that’s what he really wants; it could just be the first thing he found. As the waiter leaves, I can see that Lover’s shaking all over, absolutely terrified. It’s so hard for him, dining out with me. I touch his trembling hand.

"Need a cigarette, Lover?"

He shakes his head emphatically, "no." He looks like he wants to tell me something, but I know he can’t. So frustrated, he won’t even look at me.

"There, there, Lover. I’ll take you home soon and make everything Ok."

I run my fingers up his forearm and back again, drawing fingernails gently down his skin, and he starts to relax. That’s it, Lover. Soon, you’ll tell me everything I need to hear…

At work, I make a list of things to do when I leave. He’s been wonderful lately. I think I’ll make him cookies; chocolate chip of course, his favorite. So I don’t forget, I call myself at home and leave a message on my voice mail. This is perfect: I know he’s there, after all where could he go? But he’ll never answer the phone. When I get there, I’ll play the message and remember, then go to the store. It’s flawless, really.

On the way home it’s snowing hard, a total mess, and when I get to the apartment I see something strange. His coat is hanging by the door, dripping wet onto the hardwood floor. Below it, his sneakers are covered with snow and mud.

I find him scrunched up by the radiator in the kitchen, shivering and wiping his runny nose. Next to him is a bag of groceries: eggs, milk, sugar, chocolate, and eleven roses with frozen petals. The idiot played my message and tried to go to the store! I never gave him keys to the outside door. Like I said, where would he go? He must’ve been stuck in the snow for hours before some fool took pity and let him in.

He’s such a sweet-heart, though. He tried to save me a trip in this weather. He even tried to buy me flowers. Poor thing. I hold his head to my chest.

"I know just how to warm you up, you dear, sweet thing."

His hands find the buttons on my blouse…

"Sarah—"

"Yes, Lover?"

"I think I love you."

"Of course you do."

"Set me free, Sarah."

There’s a sound in his voice I’ve never heard before, but I know what to do.

I pull him deeper, and the words keep coming like a fountain. He shakes me like an earth quake; his tongue carves poems for me. He is the absolute essence of passion.

It’s Friday. I cut out from work at lunch time and cash my check, then I go shopping. At the book store, I figure I’ll surprise him. I know how he likes to read. I’ll come home early, and show him the gifts I bought. I can just imagine how his face’ll light up when he sees, and then we’ll make love, maybe fuck all afternoon. It’ll be perfect.

As I turn my key, something’s wrong.

I hear music through the door: Pachabel’s Canon in D, Lover’s favorite. But there’s something else. Voices. Two of them, and one is his. The little prick is cheating on me! How could he?

I smash into the apartment and find them— fully dressed.

They’re sitting at my kitchen table drinking tea. And they’re talking. They stop and look at me, then at each other. She squeezes his hand. Why doesn’t he pull away? What’s going on here?

He’s a million miles away from me. It feels like I just stand there forever, and nobody moves. Then I see it: in their eyes, the way he looks at her, the way she holds his hand. I can’t believe it.

They were making love. With words. They were making love.

And for the first time in my life I’m…