We tell ourselves stories in order to live.

The first time we had sex it was morning and the September Sunday sun was shining brightly through your blinds.  The first time we had sex with the lights off, your face came towards mine and I saw his face and it felt like my breath was caught in my throat.  I wasn’t with you anymore – or you weren’t you anymore.  You were him and your bed was his bed and I was suffocating under an invisible pillow of fear and all I could see was bright eyes and the outline of a head above mine in the dark.  Then the head pressed its cheek against my cheek and I could no longer see eyes.  I could see nothing.  But I could feel the difference -- your skin on mine and your breathing and the way you took my hand and linked your fingers with mine.  You were you again and I wanted to cry.  I squinted my eyes against the feeling.  I was supposed to be fine.  There had never been any bruises and I had never even cried.  Months had gone by and I had thought I was fine and then I had met you and I was even happy.  And then, there it was: the first real proof that I was not fine.  I listened to the sound of your breath against my ear and I placed the palm of my hand on the back of your neck.  I memorized the details like a prayer.  Your body began to feel like a blanket over me and I wrapped myself up in the feeling.

*The title is from a Joan Didion's essay "The White Album"