Silent Soft Strokes Scare Me To Sleep.

Soumya Sahay

Something was wrong. 

Call it female intuition, call it whatever you want, please do not call it anything at all. Honestly, at that point in time, I did not know what to call it myself. I didn’t even know something like this could happen to someone like me. I didn’t know that the boy--the man--with pale skin and teardrop eyes could look at my chocolate stained skin and smile, could hope for more. I was aware that women had a reason to look behind their shoulder when walking alone, I had to be, but I didn’t know that the thing I should be afraid of could look so heartfelt, safe, so genuine. When his deep-set eyes held mine, I couldn’t help but feel joy, to desire passion. God, he was so beautiful. 

It was almost frightening how closely he resembled the boys of my dreams; that cotton milky white shirt that blended with his snow pale skin and those skinny midnight black jeans that seemed to fit him just right. Jet black converses with rainbow laces were constantly sprinting back and forth in the depths of my mind. Strands of golden hair would appear in my dreams as I imagined my trembling fingers slipping through each lock. He checked all my boxes, so much so that I felt as though I knew everything about him before he even opened his mouth. 

And he never did. 

Bits and pieces of his essence still remain intact in my memory, but one memory I will forever hold is of the fingers that told his story, the palms that connected our souls, the nails that shed my tears. His vernacular was hands, and I obliged. It was a beautiful language after all, filled with silky soft palms of dreams and desires, curved with rough calluses of family trauma and former heartache. Why would he need to move his lips when his hands could fill pages and pages of his autobiography? And they did. His face may have been turned, our eyes may not have met, but the moments in which his long, mature fingers stroked the side of timid arms were the seconds in which I transitioned from girl to woman. 

Pop culture has taught me that prolonged eye contact equates to a possible romance, that hungry eyes can only mean he loves me, he wants me, he connects with my soul not solely the shape of my body. Politics and law have taught me that pop culture can be deceptive, that men are not creatures capable of love and loyalty, that they are truly characters of manipulation and manic. With two provocative forces stretching my faith in opposite directions, I was reluctant to trust anything at all, forcing me to maintain trust in myself and my own instincts. Unfortunately, what they don’t tell you is that an inexperienced innocent young girl like I once was can easily interpret circumstances of importance quite incorrectly. Without words spoken to convey pure intentions, it is easy to hide behind a mask of soft touches and silent but sweet eyes. But I didn’t know. But I wasn’t taught. But I didn’t push. But I didn’t ask. 

And so I fell.

...but did I really? 

Learning to trust others once again becomes a difficult task that shapes the way you look at everyone you encounter. The phrase “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me,” holds new value after being deceived and tampered with; glances over the shoulder are no longer enough. After coming into contact with the mask of a man, it’s hard not to imagine the mask of humanity as a whole. When people speak, you wonder if they are feeding you lies, pudding laced with poison. When people stare, you shift to your shoes, forcing the possible pain away. When women breathe, you wonder why, is there a point to respiration if the release is simply a surprise punch in the face. 

Something was wrong. Someone was wrong. But I have to ask--was it him who swindled me to love, or was it I who was wrong all along?