I know I was being ridiculous; he didn't do that big of an offense, but I was emotional. It was even partially my fault, somehow making my tolerance all the less manageable.
I wanted to throw something, to hit something, to scream inappropriate things, hurl the sticks and stones with my tongue and watch them wound. It had been years since I felt that upset; I had no idea what to do, what I was going to do or say.
So I left. I announced that I was running away; didn't state the reason was to give me a time out from my temper against loved ones. I needed a glaring neon sign above my head that said: "doesn't play well with others".
Runaway. I have always been a runaway at heart, a seriel monogamist, but terrified of commitment. Once a relationship got too serious, I was gone. In high school I'd break up with boyfriends the day before Valentine's Day, because I couldn't handle the pressure. On a more serious note: I was a teen runaway, traveling the country, regardless of how worried my family was. It was selfish, stupid, and hurtful; it solved nothing. My mother used to say that I can never run away from myself, that's the problem every time I run - I take me with me.
Well I was certainly taking me with me when I turned on the engine to the car and drove away. But at that point, I thought that at least the ugly me didn't have to expose and scare away the wonderful man that I had just railed at. I turned off my phone, knew he would call to stop me, someone else would call to just chit-chat. Talk was certainly not going to help. And then, I paused on the freeway entrances, debated my path.
I pondered what path to take at the same time as pondering my reaction. It didn't matter that I was being ridiculous, it didn't matter that I could not escape myself, I had no place to put all the crazy energy. And then I thought of him. It was time to trust him to do the right thing. It was time to trust him with my dark places in my moods. Time to trust with the tempest. If he failed, I could always get back in the car.
I turned around, hoped for the best, but not really expecting anything. I started into the house, threw down my keys, walked into the main room, and saw him pausing in a task, looking at me curiously. Warily.
"Calm me," I said, and he dropped what he had in hands and followed me into the bedroom.
We didn't engage in conversation, just silently stripped: him - because he was afraid that with a wrong move I would leave again, me - for almost the same reason, or to scream at him unfairly.
We fell into the middle of the bed, came in at opposite sides, and immediately became a tangle of limbs and kisses.
"Make me forget, make me escape myself," I whispered pleadingly. I so badly wanted this to work. He looked at me for a moment. "I have never turned back before, I'm hoping that you can do this," I warned him. He smiled, slipped the covers over his head, and proceeded to make me forget with this mouth and tongue, until my urge to run was gone.
And then he made me orgasm with his fingers, roughly, until my angry energy was depleted.
And then he entered me, fucked me, and took my mind into oblivion, my body into only feeling, until I laid in an exhausted, sweaty heap.
And then he pulled me into his arms, whispered how much he loved me, how he was grateful that I came back to him.
I smiled, too sleepy to say anything, remembering my simple words: "calm me".
And amazingly enough, he did.