Aubade

It was just one of those nights.

We had finished and we lay tangled in the bed sheets, nothing but slow breathing filling the air as we tried to regain our breath. Our bodies weren’t touching but I could feel her on me, her lips weren’t on mine but I could taste her on me, her eyes weren’t on me but I could sense her looking at me with adoration, reverence, and much more immense feelings that I knew I didn’t deserve. But I knew her and I knew her well, so I kept quiet and let myself accept the compliments, the words of praise that could be sung throughout Sunday mornings and evenings.

And soon enough, she reached for me. Her hand met mine, albeit hesitantly, and then I turned on my side, opening my arms and she cuddling into me, the sweet scent of her thick hair the only thing I could smell. She was soft and small yet like porcelain in my arms, and I held on tightly, protectively as if any other move could break her. My lover kept close, not speaking but holding on tight as well, holding on to me as if I were gentle wind that could slip away.

And at these moments, it was silence that we needed.

At these moments, silence assured us.

It wrapped around us, after the noise of the day and the noise of the night.

It hushed us when we had to, and we eventually fell under its comforting lullaby.

At that moment, it was a friend.

And finally, when she spoke, the silence crept away as if it was never there.

“Why me?”

Usually, the question would be said in painful agony. Why me, a man would ask as his wife kicked him out of the house for the nth time that month. Why me, a young woman would cry as she found her boyfriend kissing another girl. Why me, a victim of murder would think, before death would come and take him or her away. Why me, I would think, every breath I took a risk to my safety.

But now, her question was soft. Musing. There was no trace of agony nor was there any pain. It was curious just like always, wanting to get an answer from me. The question, I recall, had come many times.

Why me? She first asked when I told her I loved her.

Because you’re you, I had replied.

Why me? She had asked months later when she was a collapsed heap on the floor, crying her eyes out.

I had not answered, but I thought, because that’s how life goes.

Why me? It came again, when she got home from work and told me that she was in charge for a few days.

Because you’re qualified and gifted, I assured her.

And here it was again.

Why me? Why me, Matt? Of all the women in the world, why me?

The second and third follow-up questions weren’t said, but they hung in the air, the night whispering it into my ears. Why her. She wanted to know why amongst the women I could have, I picked her. She wanted to know what in her exactly attracted me like a moth to a light, like a butterfly to the sweetest flower, like a magnet seeking the opposite pole. And there were so many reasons why I had picked her, why I fell in love, why I kept careful just for her.

And she didn’t see it.

If she were to look into a mirror, she would see herself. Nothing special.

But if I would look at her, I would see a goddess. I would see Aphrodite herself with the wit of Athena and the fierceness of Hera, ruling me with an iron fist, a mere Adonis who fell at her pristine feet. From top to bottom, she was perfection screwing me over. She could shave all her hair off, and she’d still look fantastic. Her eyes were a deep pool of shining emerald that always took my breath away, whether they looked happy or sad. There was her mouth, her smirk, her smile, her grin and her laugh – beautiful. She was beautiful in every way, radiating aesthetic appeal everywhere she went.

But scrapping away all of her physical traits, she was much more endearing on the inside. She had an endless amount of determination and dedication, constantly standing her ground and refusing to take any bullshit anyone would dare throw. She was hardworking, industrious, never taking mediocre work and working to her fullest. And at the same time, she was kind-hearted. She radiated warmth as well, her smile lighting up the dark corners of my world.

I loved her.

I loved her despite her flaws, despite the large supply of alcohol she kept in the cupboards in the kitchen. I loved her despite her tears and her screams, despite the times where she’d hide away from me and turn from a loving woman into a cold and hard-shelled statue made of marble. I loved her despite all her fears and trauma, even when she refused to let me drive more than 80 kph because of her fear that we would crash.

She believed that all her flaws detracted from her beauty, but I thought otherwise.

I thought her flaws made her believable, more human, worth much more than everything I ever wanted. I loved her flaws and wanted to each physical mark of torment, sooth her subconscious when it was stuffed to the brim with stress and work, anxiety and pressure. She was a flaw-filled masterpiece crafted by the world’s finest, but her flaws were the kind of flaws one would stop and stare at, transfixed on how the balance of perfection and chaos molded together perfectly, complimenting each other.

She was priceless, a balance between want and need. She was a mere human, but held my total being in her hands, able to crush me whenever she pleased.

She was many things.

“Why me?” she asked again, as if I didn’t hear in the first place.

She was equilibrium, a goddess, an imbalance on the scales. She was a star in my dark sky, a muse that would never stop inspiring me.

She was the one I would choose over the world’s worth.

She was a song, a passion, a true work of art, a novel in itself.   

A woman I would walk a thousand miles for, just to see her smile.