How ironic. Most of them lie about who they are. He told me the truth early on, in that dulcet voice. I’m the leader of a group of fallen angels. I thought to myself, what a charming description – he must be a parole office or something.
Ian, my beautiful stranger.
How can I describe his incredible magnetic appeal? The way he gazes into your eyes makes you feel like he can see into your soul. He laughs gently at your jokes. He kisses the top of your head. He makes you feel beautiful and feminine. And wanted.
And his kiss. Oh god, his kiss. Most men don’t really know how to kiss; they mash their lips against yours and shove their tongue in your mouth. But Ian’s kiss…there’s nothing like it in the world. He starts off gently, delicately, savoring your lips and inhaling your breath. He builds up the passion at just the right pace, kissing you harder and probing insistently – and wantonly – inside your lips. Stealing your soul. You lose your breath, your blood pulses and you feel every part of you become warm. Moist.
I was lost when he kissed me. Completely lost. I would do anything for him.
Of course I’ll take care of your child. Yes, I’d be happy to steal money from the school in order to buy your child drugs. No, you sleep, I’ll stay up with him. Let me carry him to the playground. No, he’s not too heavy. Anything you want. Anything you need. Anything.
Such a precious child. You could see immediately that he has his father’s ability to gaze into your soul.
If only I could have gazed into theirs.
It was clear there was something otherworldly about them, but I resisted admitting it to myself. Pretended I didn’t see toys hovering over his playpen. That there was nothing strange about living in an old church.
I was getting ready to head over to the church when suddenly I felt an enormous psychic kick that stopped me dead in my tracks. No one was there, but I felt his voice.
Stay. Don’t come. Don’t need you.
Don’t need you.
Like being punched in the stomach.
I felt an invisible wall blocking my path. Completely impenetrable.
She was there, with him. I knew it. The mother of Malachi. He never told me who she was, but I knew from the way he refused to discuss her that her memory was sacred – that he had put her on a pedestal in his heart, and locked the doors of the altar. I knew I could never compete. It had to be her, returned. And now he didn’t need me. Didn’t want me.
I couldn’t move. I stood, for over an hour, frozen in the spot. It was a strange feeling – like I was coming out of a drugged haze. My body quivered, remembering his touch, and knowing that I would never feel it again. And that was pain. Excruciating pain.
I know how drug addicts feel when you take away their precious substance. Agony. Nausea. Wishing for death. Certain that the pain will never end.
But slowly, and surely, I’ve become cleansed. Free. Determined to be healthy. Forcing the thoughts of him – of the drug – out of my head. Forcing myself to sleep. Forcing myself not to dream.
And now here he is, returned, in my room, sitting on my bed.
Give me strength.