Bee Box
She didn't believe, in all honesty, that any man was capable of loving a woman. It was an inborn, almost a religious feeling within her heart.
Studying him through the light of dawn, inches from his face and covered in the carpet of his hair. Emotion came to her in trickles; fondly, she remembered the first day they met. Matt had facilitated the meeting, of course, he hadn't enjoyed being dumped by her so that she could move on to Christian. But six months later, she lay there beside him in a Quebec hotel room.
His behavior had amused her yesterday; he'd been raised in the Toronto area, which was bilingual, with a heavy leaning on French. He took her from store to store, proudly dragging out his "Merci Boucoup" for every sign proclaiming French-speaking occupants.
His accent was horribly false; and he remained jealous that her Spanish was pretty close to flawless.
She was drawn to Sylvia Plath again; a woman whom, as a human being, she saw as generally a pathetic creature, violently against and for men and therefore drawn into halves by her own inner turmoil.
But the poetry amazed her, reflected her own inner darkness like a pool of oil swirling below her, looking up. The image was both frightening and intriguing.
She had touched the darkness before; knowing it rather well, until he came along and held the mirror back up to her own personal distresses, shining light on them, showing her how false it was.
But if he loved her, she had no clue.
He was beautiful; hauntingly so, in a little-boy way, with his wide-set eyes. She knew he found her beautiful, despite her cynical knowledge that she was no perfect physical specimen. Though she received enough physical attention from men, it didn't necessarily translate for her to love.
Once again, the question of love haunted her, scraped her insides like a rusty hook. Separating lust from love was an easy task for her, but remained painfully difficult.
She simply wasn't sure.
Mostly, there was the sensation of being trapped; love or none, the ultimate question that pinched her mind without relief.
And then he wakened, eyes fluttering open and focusing on her. Smiling, he reached out and pulled her body to him, melting, flesh to flesh. And the very heart and soul of her conflicting nature seemed to dissolve. He understood her, just as well as he could possibly understand her.
Suddenly, with the small ways he took care of her, she understood that he loved her, deeply, probably always would.
The box is only temporary