the unspeakable

How hard it is to define a word that defies almost all definition - in French, sous-silence. I could define it with an ellipsis. Perhaps, ‘do not say it for it is unspeakable; what is between us - what is strictly entre nous is understood - that is to say, the closest we can come in English then is tacit. It is then, understood. It is beneath silence. It travels well below the surface of things, like deep waters beneath an ancient city.

I have not been here before; perhaps once, so very long ago. Do you recall?  

Do you remember that awkward conversation through the wires. I do... It was necessary onlyin that  it was clear to all others that there was something between us and clear even to us that we were, yes, ‘more than just ordinary cousins.' More than what is ‘expected' of, well... I cannot say it even here for it is verboten. But we spoke of the unspeakable - the verboten.

I told you, I will say this once. I will step outside of myself (out of my shyness, my incredible awkward bashfulness and terrible blushing self and I will do what must be done for the sake of loving you and protecting what I want, which is to preserve the us of Us.

I remember it well.

I sat on the garden stoop, smoking a furtive cigarette (for which you would have killed me had you seen it) and asked you, Are we more than friends then? Am I alone in this.

"No" you said. "Yes" you said.

Yes, you agreed. Yes, we are more than friends. Yet neither of us able to truly define the us of us. Why the need for definition anyway. So long as it remains between us, then there is no need for definition. Definition is only required when one has to explain to a third party, and in my world, in our world, there would never be, will never be, any need to explain to any third party.

Elias - we already had and have and hold our secrets. Don't kid yourself. We had our secrets, our love letters, our tokens, sweet, our hand-holding, our sharing of the same spoon, of fruit, our almost kissing, our exchange of furtive and codified gifts, our dialect that excluded all and we kept it all to ourselves. This was all secret. Ask of yourself, Did you ever take it home? Did you tell your her? I still have the ring you sent in the card that read, "I've got my eye on you." I put the ring on my hair ribbon and I carry it with me and fiddle with it. It is a Cindarella fit on my wedding finger. God. And you, you kept the ribbon from the honey-jar, you told me. "How could I not?" you said, "It is your hair ribbon..." I see it breathing in a secret place, that place where you keep our other secret exchanges. We each have our separate drawers and hiding spaces, don't' we.

I never once told him about it. It never crossed my mind. Never once. Not because it was wrong. I never once thought that. But because it was mine - it was ours - and it was and is innocent and good and finally I had found, we found, refuge and sanctuary and with you the world felt alive again. I felt alive again and I felt safe again. I had regained all that I had lost from the orchard of my youth. We refound each other, Elias. After so long, we land squarely in love again.

You held my hand. When I was with you, infrequent, too infrequent, you sat on my bed and eagerly shared of gifts. We broke the seal of the honey jar. We ate of the same spoon. We shared in the sticky sweetness. We broke the seal, Elias. We came so close. Your telephone call as I rode in a taxi-cab from uptown;
"Come tomorrow morning,"
"Why?" I laughed, "Will you embrace me passionately?" I laughed again. I wanted it. I never thought you'd say yes. And even if you did, I never even expected you to call in the morning. You, shy like me. But I was glad of the call.
"Yes," you said,
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I will embrace you passionately..."
I gulped, I laughed, I fumbled with the bags as the taxi dropped me, as you were still on the line, as I dealt with my shock, my blush, my everything.

You did call.

At 8:32 a.m., early for you - you took the subway early so that we could Be - for us, Elias, and you called just as you promised and into the phone you spoke but one word, "Come," and I did, arriving in record time, which you noted.

When I arrived, you sat with me, drinking tea and sharing honey, only this time you came back to the room where I sat and brought with you what you knew to be my favorite fruit: a ripe pear - perfumed and rich. I had written poem after poem about this, Elias, and there you had it, halved, and you took two bites. Forbidden fruit, yes? I bit where but seconds before your lips, your mouth had eaten, and in this, I tasted you. We passed the pear, like our honey spoon, back and forth, always biting from where the other had bitten, tasting of the each. A scented, Anjou kiss. How to explain to another the erotism inherent in that moment... in all of these small details.

Oh, Elias, you are too smart for the meaning to be lost even on you, shy as you are. We are both bashful. Yes.

We never told a soul about this. I have never written this until now and even now, I write only here. Only here because this is the only way I can say it, sous-silence, Elias. We do not speak of the kisses, the quick kiss that began that now lingers, that your mouth slides closer to mine, your lips on mine as we open - a half-part - I wait for the offering of Communion. Your communion. I wait. We are patient in our love.

You held my hand as I left that awful, rainy day - after the pear -  as we ran across the road to the taxi that would whisk me away. You held me, but not a passionate embrace, almost, not quite. We said Goodbye three, four? times. More? We kept trying to kiss full-on. Too shy. Each of us, after all of this reassurance, we are yet shy. We move incrementally closer however with each passing month; we both see this. . Not what you promised. I had taken your fruit. I had half-kissed you in so many ways: sharing the spoon, sharing that pear, and as we kissed, hands locked, we said goodbye and your mouth almost made mine but your lips slipped off the side, an "almost". We are full, we are almost, we will one-day - soon we both know, reach that break point. I feel the breaker breaching the seawall with a slap. And god, what a relief that will be.

You told me that day, Yes, we are more than friends. I taught you the word: sous-silence. I told you, It is almost untranslatable, it is like a sigh then. An ellipsis almost. Perhaps ‘understood,' as something that we both know, as tacit. We need not speak of this again. Ever.
 

Where are we Elias? Where are you? I reach for you in my dreams and I see you, but you seem far away now; your hands, those hands - which now, sadly, hands that I loved, they become hands like any others; just hands. You take of the extraordinary and you make of it ordinary.

I gave you a book of eight words. I hand made it: wrote each word in French with it's English translation. 8 pages of "Ansi-Dire" and that image on the cover - the statue: the woman falling to th man's embrace; his Coy Mistress. His passionate embrace. All that you want. We are not sordid, Elias. We are both too shy, too innocent for this world.

Sous-silence was one of these words. I will make for you here, for whoever finds this, a writing of each, and the title of each will be the word, a page in that 8 page book.  That same one you never take home, but that you treasure, wrapped in tissue that smells of my perfume, wrapped tight in the French ribbon of my hair.

Sous-silence, you leave me with only an ellipsis... a dot dot dot. Elias, we are, don't deny any longer, ‘unnaturally close,' then. What is for us is to decide how to patrol the corridor of our methods. How we make our peace with our virtue, with this love. Your love is inconvenient at best - mine likewise, but then, that has always been the case. We should not love in this way, yet we do... we do. We do.