“Sorry I’m so needy.”
“I’m needy too.”
“Oh no, you mean it gets worse?”
“No that’s not what I mean.” But I couldn’t explain. I knew what it was like, the heaviest pressure on your heart—on your skin like tendrils drying in hot wind, too sensitive to touch. But I couldn’t explain how the anticipation, the steeling of resolve for impact, felt worse than letting the feeling wash over you, stimulating and tingly, enveloping you like an Epsom and lanolin bath.
When I give in I get this beatific slack-jawed, open handed gesture. I look skyward and everything relaxes. I no longer needed to take control. I no longer needed to remember what stance I’d taken in the conversation because there was no effect I was trying to create, no lie to give evidence to.
It lasts a little while.