I told him all of it. Yesterday. Walking on the beach.
The thoughts that keep cycling in my head that I don’t want to admit. That I don’t want him to know.
That I am older.
That I realize that there will be a time when I am gone and he will still laugh.
The dog will bark. The mail will come. The rug will fray.
I tell him that my knees hurt. As I get out of bed. As I climb the stairs. Or slide down a sand dune.
That I am afraid to eat dessert because it makes me sweaty at night and I know that I will have diabetes in the morning.
That I feel I don’t matter when I am in the office at my desk writing and hear everyone laughing in the kitchen.
That I am afraid to bike again because I will fall as my friend did in traffic on that Friday, four years ago.
I tell him that I want to be thinner, as I used to be, but ice cream is too powerful now. Noodles too safe. Butter too seductive.
That I feel insecure when we enter a party and he drifts off to talk to someone.
That I am afraid my friends will categorize me differently because I am categorically older.
I tell him that I feel myself aging but don’t want him to know because I want him to desire me.
I tell him that these ideas cycle in my head.
When I lie in bed in the morning. When I am driving to the grocery store.
When I sit in the soft grey chair by the fireplace in the kitchen.
I tell him that I thought he should know.
But, really, I don’t want him to.
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