There is a girl (not watching but) watching a man walk a woman into the room. The automatic (the unplanned but instinctive) movement of the man toward his woman is like a gentle collapse. The movement of the man toward his woman is neatly changed into the motion of his woman’s smooth turning around in the embrace, not yet enclosed. The man facing this woman; his arms are loose and it is clear that there is no forethought before his body pulls towards hers, hips towards hers, lazy but sure. Ducking his head to graze the woman’s neck with a nose or ear or cheek.
Girl watching can tell Man loves Woman. She can tell this even if it is not quite true. The power of her knowledge is this clear. The strength of her secret is this strong.
This secret she has, it has two pairs of everything. Two pairs of eyes and two pairs of arms; four lips, four hips, some knees wedged between some thighs. All of this secret trembles tightly inside her hot little head.
Her ache secret is a heavy thing to carry around inside locked up / choked up / stuffed up. Tied up tight. Her jaws are sore from biting words back and her fists are clenched over emptiness and her heart, well, it’s still in there somewhere, beating madly. She’s sure she's got soul but it’s buried away.
Her secret is: she knows about having a man lean in from behind. She knows about the pull in bodies, hers towards his, her surfaces straining and hairs alert to air currents. The pull in his fingertips, like magnets gently straining toward her hidden niches and corners. (Her neck where it meets her shoulder, the soft spot inside her elbow, behind her knee, behind her ear). Little strong magnets.
Another thing: She wants to shout ‘Bury your face in me’ but the damn secret isn’t hers to tell until she is sharing it with someone. She wants to shout ‘Wonderful Wonderland’ and take a trip, but the words mean nothing until she can take someone with her.
Problem is, she knows about hips to hips and she knows about lips to lips. She knows all about magnets and skin and hands that stray without warning, hands that stray of their own volition. She knows about jigsaw puzzles that fit together, she knows about curling up in a small drop of morning, and she also knows that her knowledge is a useless secret.
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud. The sign her forehead says “Welcome to Heartache Head” and no one comes to join her.