“I’ll have to think about it.”

I could tell that Brian was really bothered by my response; he had just asked me to move back into the loft with him, after all. It was a big deal. He hesitated, biting the flesh inside the lower lip, his way of stopping the words from coming out before he’s thought about them. He thinks no one notices that, but I do; the lower lip slightly thins, and the skin just beneath his mouth indents slightly inward. Sometimes I wonder how much he hurts himself by biting down there. I’ve kissed him after one or two of these wordless self-mutilations, and tasted blood. I wish he wouldn’t do that. I wish there was a way I could let him know that he’s hurting himself a lot more than he would ever hurt anyone else by policing his immediate response, his natural emotional reaction, in that way. But Brian needs to figure out things for himself.

God knows I've always had faith in him; he’s so fucking amazing, so fucking strong, and so fucking smart about everything else. The idea that he may never transcend the emotional limitations that have been imposed on him, that are not a natural part of his character, the real doubt that’s begun to creep over me, well, it’s been like a snake coiling just under my ribs, where my heart beats. I don’t know if Brian, as he is now, with the slow progress he’s been making, if that’s going to be enough in the long run for me. For us.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say. And he bites that part of his flesh inside his mouth, and something changes in his eyes. They were so vulnerable; that I drew that look from him made me hate the position I was in, having to put him off. I hadn’t expected this, though – I’d practically been living in the loft as it was. Eventually I would have moved in without either of us acknowledging the change in my status. I can even imagine the conversation.

“That’s not a very sunny expression,” he would say upon arriving into the loft after work, coming to kiss me as I frowned over on-line ads for Pittsburgh rentals.

“Yeah,” I’d say, “Daphne’s giving up her lease with the end of the school year. So I need to find a new place to stay.”

“When’s this happening?” he’d say.

“Uh… three days.” I’m crafty like that. "I guess I procrastinated a little bit." Right.

He’s onto me, of course. But then, my pseudo-helplessness suits his own purposes, so he'd answer with something like, “Well, I suppose you could stay here while you look.”

So I’d haul my crap over, and then I’d pretend to look up roommates and other places to live. And then I would stay with him until we got into another fight, and I’d find somewhere to move and he’d let me. Or, more likely, he'd kick me out himself.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

That’s what I had expected. I had learned not to expect much from our relationship. And I was starting to hate that.

I always have wanted the acknowledgement, the proof he cares about me. And here it is, in Brian’s way. He said he wants me to move in with him, and he’s actually asking me instead of just letting things take care of themselves.

His request took me by surprise.

When I was out at Brett’s place, and Brett asked about my “extra-marital” activities, I could feel my heart flutter, just a little, just enough to let me know damn well how much I love that other people assume Brian and I have that level of commitment. And the response I gave, the usual blather about being together because we want to be, not because we have to be… nobody forces anyone to get married, do they? It’s a choice. Divorce is a choice too – marriage, divorce, equally viable options. You do them because you want to, not because you have to.

See? It’s just plain logic. So Brian’s position about being trapped by marriage is completely illogical rhetorical bullshit. There are no locks on marriage doors.

But language is a form of denying his real feelings, which he doesn’t trust. Take how he asked me to move back in with him. There he was, saying he’d do things differently. And just when I hoped he’d say he’d handle me, handle us, differently. I was hoping for him to make some sort of declaration. There I was, heart fluttering. And then he starts talking about redecorating the bedroom, and that he should have chosen a different color scheme. God, I am such an idiot. What did I expect?

But it’s so totally him to deflect like that, and I know it - but at that moment I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream in frustration or just punch myself in the head. It was like when he downplays his role in his son’s life. Of course he means a lot more to Gus than just the man who teaches the kid how to dress. It’s the same thing as when he finally asked me to move back in – burying the one thing I wanted to hear beneath everything else, talking about his inconvenience, how this arrangement will make sorting socks easier for God’s sake… saying how he wouldn’t mind if I were around. How… yeah, I know, I’m not supposed to use the word, even in the negative. But there it is. How unromantic. As Brett commented when I repeated Brian’s bullshit spiel like some Kinney-fucked, Kinney-trained monkey, “How Rageian.” And he’s right. Those are Brian’s words. Not mine. Why do I want so much more?

And the thing that really kills me is that I should know better than to expect any more than that. As I said when we got back together, I know what to expect. And I don’t expect more than that from him.

But I do want more.

So I asked him, are you proposing? As the words slipped out of my mouth, I realized, right then, how much more I do want . I do. His response, that swift, brutal, "of course not" – and I didn’t want him to see my expression. I pretended to rub my eyes, putting my hands over my face. Of course not.

And so I put off telling him about accepting Brett’s offer to work out in L.A. I’ll have to tell him, soon enough. Michael will find out as soon as he talks to Brett, which mean Brian will find out one minute later. So I have to tell him first. I have to tell him soon.

I know exactly how that conversation will go. I know what to expect, right?

“Hey, Brian,” I’ll say. “Well, so, Brett’s given me this really great offer to go out to work on the movie as assistant art director.”

“Oh?” He’ll look at me, just watching, waiting.

“Yeah, actually, and… I told him I’d do it.”

“What about school?”

He would bring that up. I’ll answer, “It’s just, this is such a great opportunity, think of how it’ll look on my resume!” Something Brian would be sure to understand. Once again I’m speaking in Brian’s language, with his professional ambition accent. “And I can re-enroll at the Institute when the movie’s done. It’ll only be six months or so. I’ll be back in time for fall classes. And then I'll move in here, with you.” By that time, I'll have sidled up to him, probably rubbing something of his with something of mine. Doesn't matter what. Brian’s a slut, and I’m easy. It’s probably the main reason we get along.

He’ll pause, watching me. Then he’ll make that slow nod, and he’ll bite the soft, tender flesh just beneath his lower lip. Of course, about thirty seconds into this conversation, he’ll have already made up his mind that I won’t be coming back.

I’ll want to yell at him, “Give me more! More than that fucking ‘I wouldn’t mind having you around,’ more than 'of course not' when I ask if you're proposing! Something, anything! I know this is huge for you, asking me to move in, but I’ve compromised myself for you, changed myself for you, never ask for flowers, am happy as shit when we end up actually eating Chinese food on the floor even if we never do call it a floor picnic, I accept the crumbs I get and right now I could use a crumb to think you would put up more of a fight than just tossing me off at the first counter offer I get to what you offer me! This isn’t Ian all over, is it? That was about romance, this is about a job. And you may say you understand the latter over the former, but the real issue is that it’s always going to be something, there’s always going to be something, and I would give it all up in a heartbeat if you just ask, just ask, just once…”

I can hear my pathetic little speech play out in my head already. How many times has it played, different version, but basically the same speech, the same fucking humiliating, prideless plea, please, Brian, god, please take a leap of faith and help me out here, help us out here, compromise your rigid fucking illogical terror of emotional commitment and just once trust yourself enough, trust us enough to just tell me you love me, tell me you want me to stay! I’ve heard the echoes of this speech while riding the bus, working at the diner, waiting for classes to begin, babysitting Gus… everywhere. Bouncing around in my head. And that’s where it will remain this time too. I’ll be screaming at Brian in my head, when all I’ll actually say to him is, “Okay.”

My mom has told me, and I know she’s right. No one changes for anyone else. They change because they have to. But I know that’s not true because I’ve changed for Brian.

Only, have I? Essentially, have I changed, has my desire that he express his feelings in some sort of declaration, has that changed? Do I really accept him as he is, or am I still that little annoying stalker crushing on my idea of who I want him to be, waiting for him to become the fairytale Prince in the role I’ve cast for him in my fantasies?

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck me, I am so fucked here.

I know it would hurt him if I left. I don’t need that kind of proof anymore. And don’t get me wrong – I know how big this request is, that I move into the loft and live with him. But would he have made this offer at all if he had known about the counter proposal I had received just the day before from Brett? I seriously doubt it. He would have tossed me out in a second. Brett’s better for you, the movie’s better for you, everything’s better for you than me.

He has to stop doing that to me. He needs to stop doing that to us.

I want him to just get it – that what he offers me, his love, the community, the family I have here, is valuable, it’s important. I want him to have faith in what we have here, and I need the words that show he gets it. I need to hear that he has faith not just in me, but in us.

The real problem, of course, is that he needs to always prove himself, because he doesn’t really trust himself, he doesn’t really have a great deal of faith in himself. So how can he count on us, when he’s part of that? So we need to keep proving, over and over, that “we” are reliable, and that we are important.

And I’m just so fucking tired of it. Because I’m a part of this “we” too. And it feels like I have to keep fighting him.

I want him to tell me he loves me. I know not to expect that, not ever. I want to think he would ask me into the loft even if he knew about the other offer I have. I want to believe that he believes in what’s between us. I want the words to be there in the air between us, binding us together in a way that two bodies can’t, unless they’re making love. Sadly, even WE can’t be in each other all the time. Fucking always ends at some point. But words, once they’re out there, they’re always there, in memory if nowhere else.

And that’s what I think marriage is. It’s the words, “performatives,” they’re called. Words that actually perform action. The speech makes whatever you’re saying so. “I do,” and you’re married. Special words, they're not just bullshit.

I know I’m expecting too much. But I know what I want.