Every romantic relationship dies, some survive a little longer than others, but they all, eventually, die. Don't trust what people tell you, they all end. But they could be prolonged, morphed into something else. Like a bizarre friendship that gives you access to someone in a more intimate way.
There was such a relationship. I was told.
She and he met at an art show and they started to date. He was dating several other women at the same time, she was OK with the arrangement, because she dated others as well. One day he decided that he was no longer comfortable about seeing her and others at the same time. He told her that he did not want to sleep with her any more.
They started to see each other as friends. When she saw him once in a while, he made her dinner, and talked with her for hours on end. They covered politics, culture, world news, events and anything in between. They talked about books and shared a lot of thoughts and ideas. They laughed and he made her feel at home. They cuddled even, his body against hers, when he told her stories, she laid her head against his body, perfectly content. She rested her body on him, and he held her tight. They never kissed on the mouth again, but he planted kissed around her arms, as she planted kiss around his neck, he was determined to never have sex with her again, and she was never really that interested in having a sexual relationship with him, though their sex was phenomenal.
He shared many things with her, but not his body; she told him about her life, but not about her sadness over losing the love of her life.
They saw each other once in a great while. He was aware of that she started to go out and meet up with others again, and he was worried that she would one day leave him, but he kept his distance, enough so that she would come back to him. She found refuge in his arms and those once in a while cuddles made her feel safe and sound. She started to treat him like a brother or father she never had, and he started to look forward to her visit as if she was the cat that he once had and loved.
He could never love a woman but he loved that cat like his own flesh and blood. Pretty soon he started to treat her like the new replacement cat, he told her stories as she fell asleep in his arms. He hugged her when she arrived at his place, sometimes without any words they'd be lying on the couch, and taking a short nap together. He caressed her as he went on to tell those stories that he wanted to tell but no one would listen. The cat died. It was a beautiful cat. It had a white belly, white paws and lion like skin.
He was a loner. He told her that he was often bored of his romantic relationships. He let them go, he sent them packing. They all eventually found others to be with, to marry. He was happy that they did. He remained single. To him, she was not a relationship. She was only his replacement cat. To her, he was not a relationship either. He was a father figure.
That went on for a long time like this. Eventually it felt to her having sex with him would be like committing incest. He was protective of her. She never told him if she was to see another man or not, she did not for a long time. When she did see others, she did not tell him He continued to see other women, and she made sure that she only asked about them once in a while.
One day something terrible happened. She had lost her father, he died of cancer, stage four lung cancer. She did not realize that day would come, so soon. She called him. She went to his place. And while she never cried in front of others, she cried because she never could reconcile with her estranged father. He just held her and let her cry, her makeup-less face, her uncombed hair, buried in his arms. He just held her and let her cry until there were no tears left.
Afterwards, he made love to her. Violently yet carefully. Like it was their first time. They kissed again on the lips. It was tender then urgent. No words could describe the way they felt for each other. She was unable to orgasm with others but with him it was the most natural thing. Afterwards she cried again. She just held him and cried. She realized that it was not her father that she was crying for, it was him, it was always him. He kissed her tears away and held her to sleep. She curled up next to him just like she often did but this time she was without clothes on. After she went to sleep, he stayed up all night, watching her and kissing her.
They never repeated that episode again. For the rest of their natural lives, they were friends, and only friends. She still came over to his place on occasion. They would talk and eat dinner together. She would curl up with her sweats and socks on, and he'd tell her stories. When he was done talking, she'd rest her head on his body, and reach her hands out to touch his scuffled face. He would grab her hands and folded them into his. Sometimes when it was cold she would reach under his shirt and put her arms around his bare naked torso. He'd whisper to her, "Hey baby." Her eyes were closed and she had already fallen asleep.
When he died, to her surprise, he left her everything. There were not many things: some paintings, some art installations and tons of notebooks. In the notebooks he kept over the years, documenting his inventions and theories, he wrote, in the last page, "To the only woman I had ever loved, you were everything to me."
There was such a relationship. I was told.
She and he met at an art show and they started to date. He was dating several other women at the same time, she was OK with the arrangement, because she dated others as well. One day he decided that he was no longer comfortable about seeing her and others at the same time. He told her that he did not want to sleep with her any more.
They started to see each other as friends. When she saw him once in a while, he made her dinner, and talked with her for hours on end. They covered politics, culture, world news, events and anything in between. They talked about books and shared a lot of thoughts and ideas. They laughed and he made her feel at home. They cuddled even, his body against hers, when he told her stories, she laid her head against his body, perfectly content. She rested her body on him, and he held her tight. They never kissed on the mouth again, but he planted kissed around her arms, as she planted kiss around his neck, he was determined to never have sex with her again, and she was never really that interested in having a sexual relationship with him, though their sex was phenomenal.
He shared many things with her, but not his body; she told him about her life, but not about her sadness over losing the love of her life.
They saw each other once in a great while. He was aware of that she started to go out and meet up with others again, and he was worried that she would one day leave him, but he kept his distance, enough so that she would come back to him. She found refuge in his arms and those once in a while cuddles made her feel safe and sound. She started to treat him like a brother or father she never had, and he started to look forward to her visit as if she was the cat that he once had and loved.
He could never love a woman but he loved that cat like his own flesh and blood. Pretty soon he started to treat her like the new replacement cat, he told her stories as she fell asleep in his arms. He hugged her when she arrived at his place, sometimes without any words they'd be lying on the couch, and taking a short nap together. He caressed her as he went on to tell those stories that he wanted to tell but no one would listen. The cat died. It was a beautiful cat. It had a white belly, white paws and lion like skin.
He was a loner. He told her that he was often bored of his romantic relationships. He let them go, he sent them packing. They all eventually found others to be with, to marry. He was happy that they did. He remained single. To him, she was not a relationship. She was only his replacement cat. To her, he was not a relationship either. He was a father figure.
That went on for a long time like this. Eventually it felt to her having sex with him would be like committing incest. He was protective of her. She never told him if she was to see another man or not, she did not for a long time. When she did see others, she did not tell him He continued to see other women, and she made sure that she only asked about them once in a while.
One day something terrible happened. She had lost her father, he died of cancer, stage four lung cancer. She did not realize that day would come, so soon. She called him. She went to his place. And while she never cried in front of others, she cried because she never could reconcile with her estranged father. He just held her and let her cry, her makeup-less face, her uncombed hair, buried in his arms. He just held her and let her cry until there were no tears left.
Afterwards, he made love to her. Violently yet carefully. Like it was their first time. They kissed again on the lips. It was tender then urgent. No words could describe the way they felt for each other. She was unable to orgasm with others but with him it was the most natural thing. Afterwards she cried again. She just held him and cried. She realized that it was not her father that she was crying for, it was him, it was always him. He kissed her tears away and held her to sleep. She curled up next to him just like she often did but this time she was without clothes on. After she went to sleep, he stayed up all night, watching her and kissing her.
They never repeated that episode again. For the rest of their natural lives, they were friends, and only friends. She still came over to his place on occasion. They would talk and eat dinner together. She would curl up with her sweats and socks on, and he'd tell her stories. When he was done talking, she'd rest her head on his body, and reach her hands out to touch his scuffled face. He would grab her hands and folded them into his. Sometimes when it was cold she would reach under his shirt and put her arms around his bare naked torso. He'd whisper to her, "Hey baby." Her eyes were closed and she had already fallen asleep.
When he died, to her surprise, he left her everything. There were not many things: some paintings, some art installations and tons of notebooks. In the notebooks he kept over the years, documenting his inventions and theories, he wrote, in the last page, "To the only woman I had ever loved, you were everything to me."
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