Tonight, I remembered to appreciate the man sitting across from me at dinner. He reached across the table to take my hand, and I gave it to him without one iota of doubt, fear, or question. It made me think of the early days of our relationship, when every touch was stolen.
For years and years, his presence would consume a room. Not touching him could occupy all of my mental resources. Our relationship would be active and then not, on and off, but always, always, the tension between us was dense and palpable. If we were located within the same geographic region, his hands would find their way to my body, his breath to my neck. It might be brief, stolen, painful, but it was always true, always certain to happen, and always backed with a deep, honest hunger. I was terrified and thrilled by him. I could barely meet his gaze for fear of getting lost in it.
Tonight, I can look this man straight in his eyes, and I can tell him that I love him. I can let him kiss my neck and let his wonderful hands roam with their native familiarity all over my body.
"Nobody can tell me that I can't let you touch me!" I announced to him. He laughed. "And I can touch you whenever I want!"
That's a gift. It's something that once seemed too distant, too difficult, too impossible to ever realize, and it's here now. If we can be husband and wife after years of hiding, we can do anything together.