Song: L'équilibre

Artist, Year: Kyo, 2014

https://youtu.be/4besUaZWHDc

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-La première nuit on s'emboîte, puis transpirant on se décolle-

(-The first night we fit together, then sweating, we pull away-)

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I had dreamed of her a million times. Visions of what I'd say to her played across my eyelids almost every night since I first felt that spark. And when I finally had her in my arms, I almost couldn't believe it. Somehow, beyond any other's soul out there, she was drawn to mine. Or maybe mine was drawn to hers.

I guess that's what she meant by "soul mates" or "âmes sœurs". She never ceased to fascinate me, slipping little French words into conversation here and there. She told me that the literal translation of the phrase was something like "sister souls". I thought it was a silly translation, but at least it sounded sexy the way she said it in that accent.

So there we were, sitting side by side on my dorm room bed that night. Her, reading her French novel aloud. Me, listening in complete wonder. We'd maybe gone on five quality dates at this point. But I couldn't have enough of her.

And although I was happy to be here beside her, I couldn't truly be satisfied. I wanted more. It wasn't just the fact that her perfume was intoxicating or her accent was incredibly sexy. I just knew, somewhere in the deepest part of me, that once I was connected with her, that would be it. I wouldn't want anything more in life.

I turned to her, heart hammering in my ribcage. She tipped her head to face mine, dropping her paperback book to her lap. I tentatively brushed a lock of her soft brown hair behind her ear, her dark eyes shining like precious gemstones I was the first to find. She was a treasure - one I could no longer wait to indulge in.

That kiss put all the other ones I'd ever had before to shame. I felt her within me and around me, her amazingly talented tongue dancing expertly around mine. It was almost as if my body was telling me I never really knew how to kiss before. I fought to keep up, desperate to feel more of her.

The book fell to the floor with a soft thud when I pulled her on top of me. Soon, more and more articles of clothing were shed and dropped to the floor, until there was nothing left to remove. Just her soft skin against mine. And with shaky, uncertain breaths, we were intertwined, although our gaze and pulses were far braver than we appeared.

I tried to hold her softly, carefully, as we wandered through this first embrace together. With each breath and each step closer to climax, I readily drank her in. Forget alcohol, forget drugs - give me her.

And though it likely lasted for much shorter than I remember it now, when we were finally done, we gently removed ourselves from each other, sweat glistening on our skin as physical proof of what we'd worked so hard for. I tucked her back against my chest, draping my arms across her as if I were now her clothing for that evening. We had no more words to say that night - everything we could have said, we already felt.

If only those feelings lasted forever.

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-On rêve d'un goût inconnu dans la bouche-

(-One dreams of a taste of the unknown in their mouth-)

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We'd been married for over two years now - together for five. I was a lawyer now. She was a French teacher. We had a dream life - a picturesque house, stable jobs. But I didn't want a dream anymore. What a shitty idea that was.

I looked up from my desk, my eyes begging for a break from the droning legal document on my desktop screen. A flash of red fabric caught my eye from the sliver of space between my office door and its frame.

Her. The new assistant who started last week. I didn't remember her name - I didn't remember much from those dry weekly office meetings. But she was colorful, vibrant. Unknown. The curiosity of her form intrigued me.

I closed my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb. I needed to slog through this work and then head home to see her - my wife. All these years later, and I still wasn't used to calling her that.

Wait - it was Wednesday. She'd be home late today. Staff meetings.

When was the last time we truly spent time together? Not just rushed breakfast and a peck on the cheek in the morning or a quick embrace before passing out for the night.

A soft knock sounded on my door and it edged open a little more. I held my breath and she poked her head in, a gentle smile on her lips. Damn it, her lips were red today too. Calling out at me like a big fat target to kiss her.

I kept my eyes on my fingers, which were curved over my keyboard, ready to act, but still. She asked me how long I was staying and I murmured back something about not being long. It was a lie, but it was a lie to keep me sane. Safe.

She wished me a good night in her melodic voice and pulled the door closed. Slumping into my leather office chair, I sighed and closed my eyes, willing myself to see her just like the first time I saw her. The only problem? It wasn't working anymore.

I closed my eyes and saw her instead.

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-Comme une dose d'adrénaline sulfureusement injectée-

(-Like a dose of adrenaline, sulfurously injected-)

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I close the door after me, my form attacked by her kisses on all sides. I can't escape them. I don't want to. They're sloppy and drunken - she must be nervous and I am too.

We back into the couch of her apartment and I hold in a curse, feeling her fingernails dig into my skin. For what I'm doing, I deserve this pain. But I can't stop. My values are hiding deep and refuse to come out. So maybe, for a little while, I'll pretend this isn't me. This is someone else's life I'm making a mess of.

I don't remember our clothes coming off, but now our bare forms are face to face. She studies me and I study her. My mouth starts to water and I'm not sure why. Something within this stranger I am must be craving a taste of something unknown. And who am I to stand in the way?

And so I give in to the explosion of her embrace. At first, I delight in the adrenaline, which invigorates me and brings vibrance to my monotonous life. But that dose of adrenaline feels laced, as if with acid. And no matter how much I try to give in fully to this indulgence, I can't ignore the lingering burn.

We finish almost quicker than I can believe it began. I refuse another drink because I have to get back. Today I can say I got held up in a case. And alcohol on the breath won't strengthen that story.

I make it back to our picturesque home, careful not to make any obvious racket while slipping off my shoes or hanging up my coat. I leave my briefcase behind at the bottom step before heading up the stairs, straight to the shower.

The water isn't hot enough to scrub off the burn I feel. But it's enough to wash off her smell and to remove any trace of what happened before I came here. I stand before the showerhead, chest heaving, as I mentally rehearse every line of what I will say.

Even with what I've done, I don't want her to suffer. I tell myself this is temporary. Just once is enough to get it out of my system.

I shut off the water, wishing with every fiber of my being that I can just as easily turn off my desire for her. Pushing the shower curtain out of the way, I step out, stray water drops flying every which way as I reach for the plush towel just out of reach. I towel off, get dressed, and brush my teeth thoroughly before making my way to the master bedroom.

My eyes fall on her, sitting up in bed, reading another French paperback novel. I think it's one about the Knights of the Round Table this time, but I can't be sure. Maybe that was last week's book?

She closes her novel and sets it on her bedside table with a small smile. She proceeds to ask me about my day and I give her my rehearsed answers, climbing into bed beside her.

After a few minutes, I say goodnight and lean in to give a peck on the cheek, before turning over and settling into bed. I try to breathe deeply to bring on sleep. But my heart pumps like crazy, as if it's going to go into a dysrhythmia.

I know that my heart can't deny the growing fear within me. One false step and I could blow it all up.

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-J'essaye de prendre la mesure de l'étendue des dégâts, mais c'est trop tard-

(-I try to measure the extent of the damages, but it's too late-)

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When we were first married, I worked my ass off six months straight for a case. I don't know how many nights I come home later and later. And I don't know for how much longer she won't suspect anything.

Again, I make it back to our picturesque home, following the same cautious, cleanly routine. I take my long, scalding shower, trying to convince myself to stop - and finding it harder and harder to want to. I finish getting ready for bed and open the bedroom door, expecting darkness and her sleeping form to greet me based on the time of night it is.

I am dead wrong.

The room is dark. But she isn't asleep like I expect. By the fluorescence streaming from the bathroom, I see her swollen eyes and damp cheeks. She knows.

I don't recognize the broken voice that speaks to me, wanting to know details. Where? When? How? What does she have that's better than her?

I'm not ready for these questions. And I'm sure I answer them poorly, shamefully. With each response, I see her tremble and cry more. Each word is just ripping her apart.

Like a distraught child, I try to take her in my arms. She refuses my touch, recoiling as if I'm the monster she's long suspected was hiding under the bed. She doesn't want to hear anymore. I'm paralyzed as I watch her leave me, slamming the door behind her. The sound doesn't even make me jump when she leaves.

Instead, it's the silence that grips me, snakes along my body and whispers to me all of the ugliness of my life that I already know. I curl up in our bed alone, knowing this picturesque life is over. I lit the match and set this life into flames. And she was smart to leave, before I could burn her anymore.

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-Mais comme l'amour est trop fort, il ne veut pas qu'on se défile-

(-But when love is so strong, it doesn't want to run away-)

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It's been a few years since our divorce. I buried myself in my work and that assistant is long gone by now. I now live an automatic, dreary life. I didn't truly know what that was like until now. I thought I did.

My new home is a dark, cold apartment. I have everything that's mine in the settlement. Not a single briefcase or pen out of place. No need for being quiet when I come in. No need to scrub feverishly at my skin to remove someone else's scent. There's no one here to judge me for it.

I've heard that she's doing fine and she's remade her life - remarried to someone who's not at all like me or would dare make her suffer. Another new picturesque life for the perfect girl - no, woman. And I should be happy for her. Maybe one day, I will be.

But me? I'm not doing fine. I didn't remake my life. I'm living in the self-imposed punishment I deserve. A cold life, devoid of contact so I can't hurt anyone else like her. I can't trust myself.

When I do feel lonely and craving contact, I pull out a box tucked in the corner of my apartment. It's full of the nostalgia I used to find suffocating - old mixtapes, movies, and letters. I've seen the recording of our wedding an embarrassing amount of times to admit - sober and drunk. I've read and re-read the letters and postcards she sent me from her study abroad in Normandy. Each time I do it, it's another cut to my already scarred heart. But I don't care and I can't stop.

Tonight is a listening to our first mixtape drunk kind of night. I plunk a chilled stone cube into one of the whiskey tumblers I didn't happen to smash against the kitchen floor in a pissed-at-myself drunken rage, then lift the bottle over the glass for a hearty pour. Taking my liquid anesthetic to the black leather couch and sitting down, I start to self-numb as soon as I can, knowing the next song will be her favorite.

I don't know what the hell the lady is singing about - it's in French. But I can tell from her tone and how she sings it, she feels as shitty as I do right now. And it's not going to get any better.

Why would she like such a sad song? What drew me to someone so melancholic? Someone that left me at one point to drink wine in another country and give me love through postcards?

And why, after all that... Would I throw it away?

There's a knock at the door - right in the middle of this sad French song. Annoyed, I take one more swig of my whiskey and let it burn down my throat. Can't someone let a man self-punish in peace?

I throw the door open, tempted to let all my rage out on whoever decided to bother me tonight. But that rage dies in my chest. And I'm convinced I am lucid dreaming.

Her dark gemstone eyes have my stunned reflection in them. And in each hand, she has two small suitcases. She looks scared, ashamed. But at the same time, she looks driven, brave.

I back away, leaving the door open as I rush to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of water - and splash some on my face. This can't be right. She's happy now. She's with someone who can love her better than I can. Who will never hurt her.

I turn around to find she's closed my door after her, leaving the suitcases by the door. She saunters over to my abandoned whiskey glass and my eyes roam every inch of her body, noticing not one mesmerized detail out of place. She lifts the glass to her lips and starts humming along with her favorite song like nothing has changed at all.

Afraid to scare away what seems to be an apparition, I approach with hesitant steps until I'm right beside her, standing in front of the couch. Her, sipping my whiskey. Me, watching in complete wonder. I can't have her. I don't deserve her again.

Although she's right beside me, she doesn't look satisfied. With a sigh, she sets the whiskey glass down on my scratched wooden end table. Her fingers start to wander and I hold my breath as she does. First trailing down the side of my face, then down the line of buttons on my wrinkled dress shirt, and stopping at my belt.

I'm terrified to reach out my hands and touch her. At any moment, she could dissipate into a thousand grains of sand, slipping through my fingers. My abused heart starts to thud loudly in my ribcage, and the sensation stirs up a seductive nostalgia in me. She tips my head with the faintest touch down to hers, moving her fingers to clutch my hair.

We had kissed countless times before - each with a different fierceness and tempo. None of them since were like the first one that put all others to shame. Until now. I felt her again, within me and around me, revitalizing my charred soul. This was my body recognizing her as essential to my life. I was taking her in with an unmatched thirst.

We started slowly, hesitantly to remove our clothes, and when she covered herself in shame, I lifted her hands away, leading her to my small, plain bedroom. I set her gently down on my dark grey sheets, taking one more last, long look across the geography of her body as if I were afraid to be jolted awake and find her gone.

With shaky, uncertain breaths, she reached for me, inviting me to be intertwined with her once again. Each kiss, gasp, and movement in sync and far braver than we appeared. I never wanted it to end, but I couldn't stop chasing the exhilaration that I knew we both needed more than anything in that moment.

Once we had both enjoyed the exhilaration now within our grasp, we gently removed ourselves from each other, sweat glistening on our skin, just as it had before. I wrapped her in my arms for a long moment, knowing that being connected with her again, that was it for me. I didn't want anything more in life.

I know I didn't deserve to have her this time. But when love is so strong, it doesn't want to run away. No matter what we know to be right or wrong.

Sighing, I get up and pour us both more water. When I come back, she's curled up perfectly on my side of the bed, lightly snoring and a peaceful appearance to her sleeping face. The reflection of the lamplight on the ring still on her finger makes me pause in the doorway. It's not the ring I gave her.

I set the glasses on my bedside table and wait a few minutes for my hands to warm up before I allow myself to run my index finger along the curve of her face. There's no explanation I can find for why she came back to me, but I don't care. I should, but we've already established that I'm selfish.

So here I am, corrupting my soul mate, my "âme sœur". And I have the feeling it'll be her that will be returning home later and later.