Daybreak

by Fabio Volo

  We were never truly intimate, and deep inside I’ve always known that. I was the first not to want it, the first to put up boundaries, to build walls. I thought living together was enough to become intimate. Now that I know what it feels like to be in the arms of a man, to let yourself go and lose yourself in the warmth of his skin, I can’t give it up anymore. I experienced that kind of freedom and now I can’t turn back.

  “To build a relationship.” How many times have I heard that phrase? But relationships are not built, they are lived, and by living them we reinforce them. Now I know that. Otherwise they expire. You shouldn’t make promises; nobody can bet on who they’ll be in the future. In order to fulfill your promises, you risk keeping a mummified relationship alive, like I do. I wonder where my marriage has taken me after all these years. Silences, shortcomings, the inability to really communicate what we have inside. There’s no pleasure in sharing; it’s more like a sort of report, a list of facts without any new feelings. We don’t live together; we’re killing time together. We stupidly thought that two different kinds of unhappiness, when brought together, would turn into happiness. Our relationship has never drawn us out of our respective loneliness. Any yet, from the outside, our marriage seems like something to be envied. When people talk about us, they speak of a happy couple. The freedom I’m experiencing now has shown me all the limits of my personality, my marriage, my life.

  I don’t want to be here anymore, in this hotel room. I want to go to him. I miss the woman I see reflected in his eyes. When we’re together, I feel like I’m close to something that belongs to me, something that is mine.

  Tonight I really need one of his looks and one of his hugs. All I need is to be seen by him. After a dinner where nobody could see me, I need to know I exist. He could bring down the entire hotel with one of his looks.

  At dinner tonight I watched Paolo as he was eating and noticed I don’t feel any sort of attraction, I don’t want to be touched by him, not even for a second. It’s a fraternal affection, devoid of desire.

  When we got to the hotel, the girl at the front desk told us: “We’re terribly sorry, but there was mix-up. One of the three rooms has two separate twin beds instead of one king.”

  I was happy to tell her that it wasn’t a problem and that we’d take it.

  April 26th

  Last night, after writing, I sat in bed, awake. I couldn’t fall asleep. When Paolo came back to the room, I didn’t pretend I was sleeping, as I usually do, but I just sat there with the light on. He got undressed and went to the bathroom. I wanted to talk to him about our situation, but I didn’t know where to start, how to get the conversation going. I wanted to confess that I had come up to the room not because I wasn’t feeling well, but simply because I couldn’t take that kind of life any longer. I wanted to tell him that our marriage wasn’t the way I had imagined it to be, and that we both deserved better. I didn’t want to fight, but rather to look reality in the face and quietly agree to start a better life, for him and for me. I wanted him to start asking himself what he wanted from life.

  I had thought about that moment for a long time, and yet, when it came and I started to speak, my nervousness quickly disappeared. Paolo came out of the bathroom, plugged in his cell phone to charge, and told me: “I’m not going to set the alarm, since we’re not leaving till after lunch tomorrow. We wake up when we wake up.”

  “Paolo, we need to talk …”

  “I hope it’s nothing too complicated, because I think I had one too many, and I’m not sure I can think straight.”

  “I wanted to talk about us, about our situation—I need to understand.”

  “No, please, Elena, not tonight. We’re here in the mountains with our friends, we just had a nice dinner, we had fun; please, don’t spoil everything with your usual drama. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow at home?”

  “It’s not drama.”

  “Whatever it is, let’s talk about it tomorrow. It’s late, I drank too much, and I’m tired.”

  After a few seconds of silence, he got up from his bed, and came toward mine. He tried to kiss me.

  “Come on, move over and I’ll make you forget all your troubles.”

  “Please, Paolo, leave me alone.”

  “See! You’re the one who complicates things—I’m always ready to make up, to put aside my pride for our common good, whereas you keep criticizing all the time, then you shut me out and don’t let me in. I’m trying to do my part here. You’re the one who doesn’t want to, not even tonight. Sweet dreams. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help you come to your senses and you’ll realize the kind of person you’ve become.”

  The hotel room had suddenly shrunk to half its size. I was disappointed. I thought that maybe he was right, that it was neither the right time nor the right situation. As I was beginning to feel guilty about busting his chops on the one night when all he wanted to do was have fun, I heard him snore and I realized that I hadn’t bothered him in the least. The next morning when we woke neither of us mentioned what had been said the night before. We weren’t alone in the car and when we got home that afternoon, I took a shower and went straight into the bedroom. He parked himself on the couch to watch TV.

  April 27th

  Today I managed to stop by his place before dinner. I hoped he would be hungry for me. When I rang the buzzer, he opened the door immediately. I like the idea of him standing there waiting for me, as impatient as I am. I like it when I feel that he wants me; it makes me happy and turns me on. I feel powerful. I walked into his apartment. He was behind the door. He took my hand and put it between his legs to make me feel how much he wanted me.

  After waiting a few days my desire grows and my body is more awake, alive, and sensitive. I like it when he takes me passionately, when he devours me and, after a few seconds, he’s already inside me, without even undressing me completely. I found out that I like making love with my clothes on. I’m overwhelmed by his attentions, by his desire to know who I am and what I want, as we look into each other’s eyes, in a mirrored reflection, or with our eyes shut.

  As we made love I confessed that I had missed him, and that I feel like he’s mine and that I find it hard to be away from him. I love this man who makes love with my head, and because of it, rules over my body.

  May 8th

  When I get home at night I only want to shower, get comfortable, have dinner, and then run immediately to write. Yesterday, instead, I went out for dinner with a few girlfriends. I didn’t want to be at home. He hasn’t called me in two days, and I haven’t tried to call him, either. I wonder if I said or did something wrong. At dinner I wanted talk about what I was going through but I didn’t. He is my secret garden and it has to remain that way. I don’t think anyone would really understand what’s going on; they could only understand it through their own experiences. Plus, I don’t think I could explain what I experience when I’m with him; sometimes I can’t find the words to express it, even to myself. By not talking about him to anyone, I hide him from other people’s gaze: Nobody can pollute our relationship with their comments, conclusions, judgments. That way there’s no risk of seeing what I’m experiencing crumble under the blows of those who could minimize, belittle, and trivialize it. And maybe even insert a few moths in the folds of my insecurity.

  I was only tempted to confess everything to Federica. One morning she dropped by my office and, with a smile that went from ear to ear, she told me: “I won’t ask you anything, but if one day you feel like talking about it, I’m here for you.” I think I must have turned purple, but I told her I didn’t understand what she was talking about. “Have it your way, of course, but if you change your mind, I’ll be there, at my desk.”

  I spent the whole day trying to decide if I should talk to her about it, but then I thought no, maybe another time.

  At dinner with my girlfriends, the only one who noticed something suspicious was Beatrice, who told me I’ve been acting strange lately. The desire to see him was growing by th
e second. I went to the bathroom and sent him a text: “I’m out with a few girlfriends—if you want, afterward, I can stop by for a quick hello.” Before going back to the table, I waited a few minutes for an answer. Then, when I was back with my friends, I checked my phone every five minutes.

  “Are you having an affair? You keep checking you cell phone,” Beatrice said, and everyone started to laugh, me included.

  No response. The desire to stop by his place, even if just for a few minutes, was reverberating in my head and wouldn’t let up.

  “Why isn’t he answering?” I kept thinking. “And tonight, of all nights, when I’ve had a few glasses of wine.” I think I’m better at making love when I’ve had a few drinks.

  His silence bothered me. When I was in the car I thought that maybe he wasn’t alone and that he was making love with another woman. I started to picture him on top of another woman, to see her kneeling in front of him. On the one hand, I felt a deep rage coming over me; on the other, it turned me on even more. Many times I’ve wondered if I’m the only one or just one of the many women he plays with. One day I even asked him if he saw other women besides me. “Only if you step aside,” he told me. He laughed, but in the end he didn’t answer. Smartass.

  He’s certainly been with a lot of women. You can tell from the way he kisses, the way he looks at you, the way he touches you. Who knows how many have been through that house? My orgasm is not only my own. I carry their moments of pleasure inside me, as well.

  I don’t know if I’m the only one for him, but I can say that he makes me feel like I am: When he looks for me, when he asks me to go to his place, when he writes me how many hours are left until our next encounter. The way he looks at me makes me feel special—he can read my thoughts: With him I don’t need to say what I want—he understands immediately if I want to be taken forcefully or if I need him to be sweet and gentle. If I feel like being loved by his words, caressed by his hands, or loved as if I were the last woman in the world.

  Last night I hated him for his silence. As I drove home, I went by his building. It was out of the way and I don’t know why I did it. As I was about to park by my apartment, I finally received his reply. “Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. I’m waiting for you.”

  “Too late, I’m already home.”

  I wrote that because I wanted to punish him. “It’s too late; hopefully you’ve learned your lesson.” That was what the text really meant. He called me and asked me to stop by his place even if just for a kiss. I tried to resist, but, in the end, he won. He always manages to be stronger than me and to make me do whatever he wants. But after all, I wanted the same thing, too. We didn’t have much time: I was going to give him a quick kiss and then I would leave. When I got up to his place and opened the door, he took my hand and pushed me against the wall. I felt his lips on my neck; he lifted my leg, moved my panties, and we made love right then and there. Then we slid down to the floor. I was looking for something to hold on to, but there wasn’t anything. I grabbed on to him. I felt my nails digging into his back. Everything happened so quickly; I don’t really remember much. My head was spinning. Before leaving, he hugged me and put my clothes back on. I left carrying our smell. I didn’t feel like going home; lately I never feel like going home.

  May 13th

  I have discovered the wonders of losing myself completely.

  I wasn’t able to express any of my feelings through my body. Maybe that’s why it hasn’t truly been my own. I have lived in it as if it were a shell. Something has always prevented me from filling it, listening to it, becoming acquainted with it. I couldn’t think, act, and love the way I should have, and maybe the way I wanted to. Letting go feels like I have removed a cork, and my body finally resurfaces. It wasn’t easy learning how to love it, and the education I received hasn’t helped me in the least. As a young girl I was very close to my father; I loved him, I’d hug him, I’d follow him everywhere. When my body started to grow, and my breasts started to show, something changed between us. My father stopped hugging me and the physical contact between us became less and less frequent. My femininity had taken me away from the person I loved the most in the world.

  That change embarrassed me at school, too. That’s why I would try to hide my new breasts under baggy sweaters.

  As a young girl I would often stare into the mirror, at that most mysterious part of myself. I would touch it, caress it, I would try to understand. Once my mother saw me, and slapped my hand and cheek. In the days that followed I wanted to do it again, because I liked it, but by then I knew it was wrong and was ashamed of it.

  From the sexual point of view I’ve never known myself very well—I’ve never wanted to experiment, search, investigate. Sexuality embarrassed me. Maybe that’s why Paolo was my ideal husband. We’ve always lived to please others, so we would be accepted, without ever asking who we really were. And then we forgot whom the others were, those for whom we were making all those sacrifices. We let our limitations, our fears, dictate our path, the direction our life would take.

  Without ever questioning it, we’ve always lived absent from ourselves. Like me, Paolo has never asked himself what made him happy; that’s why our lives were a perfect match. Like me, he thought he didn’t deserve happiness, pleasure, in any shape or form. If I wasn’t able to get turned on, I would feel guilty toward my husband. If I experienced pleasure, I would still feel guilty, as if having an orgasm was something I didn’t deserve.

  We should have listened to the voices inside ourselves, instead of listening to the world’s chatter. Now I finally realize that it was our intimate and deep sensation of emptiness that prompted us to say “I do.” When I left room for the unforeseen, when I had the courage to put my own pleasure before anything else, I changed and my own desires came to the surface. A kiss was enough to wake me up, as though in a fairy tale. A kiss on the mouth and the spell was broken; the lies I had told myself crumbled and vanished. My pleasure has become an exercise in learning about freedom. I am an awakened woman.

  May 15th

  We saw each other at lunch today. When I got to his place, the doorman was standing on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. At first, in order to avoid any contact with him, even if only eye contact, I would pretend I was on the phone. I could feel his eyes on me until I reached the stairs. He still does it, especially when I’m on my way out. He says good-bye with a certain smile that says: “I know what you did up there; you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  At first, I was afraid that my face would betray my secret. Like when I was a young girl and I got my period. I remember that that morning I went to school thinking something was different with my face, as if I weren’t my old self any longer.

  Now I don’t pretend I’m on the phone. I say hello to the doorman and his judgment doesn’t concern me anymore. Neither his nor the rest of the world’s. I’m sure that if I were a man, and I were going up to a woman’s apartment, he would smile with a conspiratorial look, and I would walk with my head held high, proud of having indulged in my daily pleasure. Instead I’m a woman and should be ashamed of myself because I, too, desire, because as a woman I’m only allowed to desire being a wife or a mother. Not anymore. I walk with my chin up, as solemn as a man, because I have the same right to pleasure that men do. I look at myself in the reflection of the shop windows and I’m proud of myself, of the air I have learned to displace with every step, proud to go through the things that used to obstruct me. I realized I have an endless power. I can seduce with many parts of my body: my feet, ankles, legs, because of the way I move them, because of how I play with my hair, how I bite a pencil.

  It’s not like I rediscovered something I had forgotten: It’s simply that nobody had ever told me that I could have as much pleasure as I wanted, whenever I wanted it. I learned to enforce my right to have pleasure, to enjoy, to demand. Without passing judgment, I found my real shape.

  So, my dear doorman, you’re welcome to look at me as I walk by; look caref
ully, notice the differences between the way I wear my hair on the way up and the way I wear it on my way out. Notice if my skirt is a bit twisted, if my face is red, if my lipstick is more faded than when I went up. Have you noticed that lately I walk close to you when you’re in the doorway, so close that I almost touch you? I want you to smell the scent I have on my skin, the scent of what I’ve just done. And I know that you have fantasies about me, I know how it works. So go ahead, smile as maliciously as you want, you must continue on your own what the two of us used to do together: classify, label, interpret things without leaving any room for possibility, the unexpected variation. Let’s just hope that I’m always in a hurry when I walk by you, because one day when I have some spare time, I might stop by and, in order to make you feel closer to who you are, I’ll be the one judging you.

  May 17th

  I finally realized what the important things are I look for in a man.

  The way he treats me.

  The way he fucks me.

  At that time, the sense of liberation I was experiencing also brought a sense of omnipotence. Like when a teenager has the naive certainty of knowing everything. I couldn’t see the limits and the boundaries of what I was experiencing, overwhelmed by the euphoria of those encounters.