Not even the rain has such small hands, Part II

“No. Don’t go yet,” I say when he reaches for his shoes.

“Babe, I have to…” His voice and face are tired, but I ignore it.

“No you don’t. Not yet.”

I feel and sound like a petulant child, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m not ready for him to leave yet.

He sighs and sits back with the remote in hand, flipping through the previews on the OnDemand channel. He laughs at something and I smile, but nothing on the screen makes sense to me and for some reason seems only to make me feel more upset. I wordlessly take the remote from him and turn it off, replacing the cheery sounds with the crackle of the parts as they cool.

He takes my hands in his, commenting on their size. I line them across his palm like puzzle pieces, noting the way two of mine together barely make one of his.

“Not even the rain has such small hands,” I say. I explain before he has the chance to ask. “It’s from this E.E. Cummings poem—‘Nobody, not even the rain has such small hands.’”

That last line has always been a favorite, but as I say it, I understand why this is so difficult. I might be the one with the small hands, but it’s really him who has the ability to naturally unclose me, petal by petal, effortlessly slipping into those tiny spaces no one else can seem to find. And when he's gone? They close up again--empty and quiet until the next time he makes the trip over from his half of the world.

Another minute ticks by and I watch him shift. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s got his eye on the clock. My stomach suddenly starts to cramp—sharp pains that shoot up like knives and make it hard to breathe. I wince and tell him this.

“Is it from the wine?” he asks.

“No…I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is.” I’m lying, though. I know exactly what it is: my body is rejecting his departure.

I take a sip of water and lay down on the couch next to him. He’s allowed me a few more minutes and I take them hungrily. Lifting his arm, I slip my body under it, right ear pressed against his chest, within which a beat pounds steadily. I know that thump, having fallen asleep to its rhythm many times—nights, mornings, even one cloudy afternoon on the middle of a carpeted floor just inches away from a brownish wine stain.

I’m straining right now, wishing I could stop time or at least figure out a way to bottle this feeling of quiet contentment I feel only when he's around. Instead, I shut my eyes and lie still, breathing in the familiar soapy scent of his sweater. For a few more seconds, everything is in place. I’m afraid to move, knowing that once I do I’ll have to get used to missing him again. The task feels exhausting, unbearable, even. I want to say things, convinced that maybe if I just express this thing inside me just right, it'll make the moment easier.

I give myself a deadline. 30 more seconds, I think. In 30 seconds and I’ll get up and say good-bye…

I count them out slowly in my head, measured in time with the heartbeat in my ear. 28…29…30...

I wait one more beat before I tear myself away.

"OK," I say.