Gesture

To Be or Not To Be (The Unspoken Question)

“So,” Ethan says and his voice trembles a little, like he knows exactly what I’m about to tell him, and maybe he does.  Maybe I’m not as good at pretending as I like to believe.

I reach for my wine glass and his eyes follow the path, widening slightly even before I’ve pressed the thin curve of glass to my lip.  But on contact they catch my own gaze, questioning and it’s then that I know he knows.  He’s always been so observant.  It’s what made me fall in love with him and it’s what makes me frustrated with him now.  It just seems so obvious.

Everything feels that way though.  Like the way he combs his hair to the right to hide the miniscule recession of hair or the way he hums some unrecognizable tune when he washes the dishes.  Because he washes the dishes.  Or the way he bites at his cuticles when there’s something he’s dying to tell me but just can’t because he’s terribly shy.  I thought I loved these things.

But I know him too well now and the small habits and ticks that I used to find endearing only serve to wear at my patience.  And I think that maybe it’s because he knows that I know what each little gesture means.  I know that his fingers are raw and bleeding around the nails because he’s dying to ask me if it’s true.  If the little stick with the little pink plus sign that was somehow sticking out of the wads of tear-stained tissues is true.

But that question got filed away and stored for a later time when I reached for the wine glass.  The rim is cool and slick against my lip and I remember the article in Cosmo that said to use your drink as a prop for attracting men.  But this isn’t a game of whether or not Ethan loves me, because I’ve known that since he whispered it against my neck three months ago when he thought I was sleeping and two weeks after that when he said it clearly across the table at our favorite diner.  This is about something that he wants to talk about and that I don’t and this wine glass is the answer.  Just a tilt will do, just the smallest incline to send the bittersweet liquid across my palate and down my throat.  Just the smallest angle will send fire down to the pit of my stomach and will explain what I cannot.  That I cannot do this now.  That I am not as strong as he believes me to be.  That this kind of thing is for other people and that I’m not ready to be the woman he thinks he loves.

But Ethan doesn’t play by the rules.  So when I start to move the glass just ever so slightly he breaks and asks, “Will you keep it?”

I hesitate.