John Smith wanted to reach through the warm fuzz of the television screen, and know what it was like to touch the man behind it.
His hair was curly, what would it feel like under his fingers? Belinda's hair was curly, didn't he like Belinda's hair? But this was different. His hair was short, but not like his, more like Ibrahim's.
He wanted to hold his hand, and it would feel different to Belinda's, who was smaller than him. Her hands were soft and hair nails small and pointed, but they were never marred by her cleaning and cooking and mothering, because the world was good like that. What was it like to hold a hand the size of his own, blunt and worn, and run with him?
He wanted to know what it was like to make that man's mouth smile, and laugh, and to press it to his own. He knew what it was like to kiss him, didn't he? Just for a moment, like a memory of a dream, a stranger's thumb catching tears on his cheek, and it made him feel sick.
But when he thought of the easy teasing of the man on the screen, he couldn't help but smile to himself.
I miss you. Well, more than that, I love you.
John Smith's heart hammered so hard it was like he had more than one. But it had felt right. It had felt like something he already knew. Was it really possible, out there, to love a man like a wife?
He wanted to see the stars reflected back in his eyes. He wanted to feel him by his side. He wanted to run with him and never stop.
But he must have been wrong. Because the thought of this life with him, every happy-morning good-bye happy-day good-night kiss, spare chaste touches without meeting eyes, nights facing the wall with warmth bleeding through the distance in the sheets, felt unbearable.
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