I am back home.

I woke at birdsong and automatically reached in both directions to find Robbie. He wasn’t there of course. There were a couple of cats, but it’s not the same.

We had a visit full of up and downs that I won’t describe in this particular post. But to me it’s enough to note that we didn’t kiss or touch to speak of for 48 hours of the hours we were together and that we didn’t have sex for 72 hours. (I tallied it up during the everlasting drive home.)

We have never done anything like that. There is an electric current between us that is almost irresistible . . . or if that is mangling a metaphor I could use the standard but more cliche image of a magnet. Earth moving under my feet; sky rockets in flight; thunder, lightning–whatever words I choose to put to it, the desire doesn’t go away, especially when I’m in his three-dimensional presence.

Lying in his bed on the nights we didn’t touch, I still felt it, felt it across the three empty feet of space between us. When he rolled over and I glimpsed a shoulder, or the rippling muscles of his left arm, or his forehead furrowed with worry, my fingers danced with the need to touch him. When I lay curled on my side of the bed, the wanting felt like a snake coiled under the bed, ready to strike me, at least, at any time.

Nastassja Kinksy and the serpent, Los Angeles, California, June 1981

I’d move and it would rattle through me; I’d imagine him reaching across the arc of space between us to pin me down and say something like, “This is one night you’re not turning me out!” But he didn’t. We don’t live in a movie, and he doesn’t play this game when he is angry.

He wasn’t angry when I left, and neither was I. Sad, upset, hurt, confused, but not angry. When he is like this, he needs quiet–his own space, that distance between us in the middle of the bed.

Now if I could only figure out what I need.

Above is Richard Avedon‘s iconic portrait of Nastassja Kinski.