Blushet
Blushet; a young, modest girl.
I remember when we used to go down to his bedroom in the basement of his mother’s house. The light would filter through the thin blushet drapes, lending a kind of aquarium atmosphere to the space. We used to lie on his bed, clinging tightly together, feeling the heat of our bodies but afraid of what that might mean. He told me what he thought about me and us with the dulled edge of innocence, and the tender way he spoke made me burn with the want of more words, as if what he was saying wasn’t enough to fill whatever space inside me that needed filling. At that time, I didn’t know what I wanted, but I loved him all the same all those years ago with a fierceness that often thrilled and frightened me. I didn’t understand it.
He would say to me, “I could lay like this with you forever,” and it would be the truth and I would believe him because it was also my truth.
I would nod, my eyes closed, my hand resting lightly on his chest.
It was enough, but it also was not enough.
