Nightblind

As long as we don't see each other, you said. So we did it in the dark, a single candle dancing by the mirror as we lifted the duvet, watching itself burn out as we lay on the hard mattress.

I thought you beautiful though I had not seen your face. Can beauty be felt, or tasted? Can it be divined from the softness of skin? Can it be heard? I heard your beauty. It was in the soft whimpering of your voice as you pressed into me, as my hands searched for you like moles desperate for the dark.

Though it was not quite dark enough.

From time to time the moon caught the edge of your nose. Before it had burned away, the candle revealed the curve of your eyelid. Small details that couldn't be put together, but that told a story of their own.

Will you let me? I asked. When we've finished?

You didn't answer.

I moved you onto your back, leaned over you, and let my hand hover above your face. You must have felt the warmth of it, the sudden change in air pressure perhaps; soon your own hand was on my wrist, pushing me back. I could have felt your face. For a moment, in the dark, I could have been blind. If you had been stronger, I might have pushed harder.

You can't see, you said. Nobody can see.

You turned away and let me spoon you.

You've got to go, you murmured. Was it all right?

I would wait until you were asleep, until your breaths had settled, and then I would not turn the light on, but would draw back the curtain instead.