Human beings crave love and intimacy, or so I’d read and been told. Maybe I’d grown more susceptible to that craving, and that was why I finally accepted Matthew’s invitation to have coffee with him.
He seemed surprised when I said yes. As for me, I was surprised he’d been so persistent in asking. Everything about me—my boring hairstyle, my plain wardrobe, the extra weight I carried—it all served to render me invisible to most people. Having just turned forty, I’d come to the realization that I would spend the rest of my life alone.
Matthew was my downstairs neighbor, and we often encountered each other at the long row of mailboxes in our apartment building’s lobby. On an afternoon when my key caught inside the mailbox door’s lock, refusing to turn, Matthew stepped closer and said, “Let me help you with that, Jillian.”
And I blurted out, “I’ll have coffee with you.”
He made no attempt to hide his pleasure. I guessed he was in his mid-forties, and he had some kind of office job. On some days, he was in business casual, while on others, he dressed more formally. I spent a lot of time outside, sitting in the gazebo to the right of the building, and I’d seen him come and go often enough to know that he didn’t date much.
But instead of proposing a time and place for us to meet, his gaze dropped to the spiral notebook tucked under my arm. “Heading out to the gazebo?” He’d clearly been observing me, too.
“Yeah. I figured I’d get some writing done.”
“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?” he asked. “Seems a little silly for us to wait to have coffee when we’re together right here.”
I hesitated a moment, which led him to hurriedly add, “Of course, I understand if you’d like to be alone.”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
Once he’d managed to unlock my mailbox, I discovered I had no mail. He said he’d grab his on the way back inside. As we started toward the gazebo, I kept my stare focused on the grass beneath my shoes. Our building was on a quiet dead-end street, so the distant traffic reached us only as a soft whooshing sound.
I expected Matthew to sit across from me, but he sat down at my side and then turned my way. Maintaining a pleasant expression, I looked down at my hands and tried to think of something to say. I knew how this game was played, yet I wasn’t sure I had the energy to pretend I was skilled at doing so.
I also hoped he wouldn’t mistake my silence for disinterest. I certainly didn’t think I was too good for his company. He seemed like a nice, normal man. People like him fascinated me, because I felt anything but normal. He was soft-spoken, and his blue eyes had a kind of sleepy look to them, which made him seem the opposite of a guy on the make. He was undoubtedly different from the characters I wrote about. His dark blond hair had a little bit of gray, and his hairline had begun to recede. Sometimes when he was speaking, he would cover the crown of his head with his palm. That gesture, unconsciously made, led me to believe he was sensitive about that spot, where his hair was thinner.
That day, my light brown hair was pulled back from my face in a messy ponytail. The sun fell across the gazebo’s floor, close to our feet, but we remained in the shade. I was in jeans and a blouse with a paisley print, while Matthew was dressed nicely. At some point after he’d left work, he had ditched his suit coat and tie.
The brief silence between us continued until he took a breath. Instead of asking me what I liked to do for fun, or where I was originally from, he stunned me by saying, “What are you thinking that makes you look so… forlorn?”
Snapping my head up, I stared at him, incredulous. How did this man who hardly knew me sense that something was amiss?
Maybe he asked because, like me, he didn’t expect this to go beyond a one-time coffee date. Maybe I answered him honestly for that very reason. Or maybe it was because of that craving.
“I’m sorry, I’m not exactly dating material,” I said in a rush. “I’m not even sure why you asked me.”
Matthew offered me a bemused smile. “And why do you think that?”
How could I explain that despite him sitting right beside me, I felt as though there was an invisible wall between us? I could see and hear him perfectly fine; I could have touched him if I chose to. But I couldn’t… reach him. The more I thought about my inability to do so, the more unsettled I became. If I wasn’t careful, that unease would bloom into full-blown panic.
I stumbled over my words, trying to describe to him how removed I felt, from both people and my surroundings. A hard lump formed in my throat, and I struggled to swallow past it. “I mean, I know I’m here, sitting next to you right now. But sometimes—a lot of the time—I don’t feel like I’m… anchored in this moment. I realize that probably doesn’t make sense.”
“It sounds like you’re dissociating,” he said in that quiet, soothing voice. “Have you been to a doctor?”
Averting my eyes, I nodded. “I’ve felt like this, off and on, for about twenty years, and it took me a long time to find a doctor who recognized that I have Depersonalization Disorder.” I started to reveal more but then abruptly fell silent. He didn’t need to know about the medication I took each day. It didn’t stave off my symptoms, but it usually subdued the resulting panic during my worst episodes.
Clasping my hands tightly in my lap, I finally said, “I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand why I was reluctant to say yes when you asked me out. It’s hard for me to fathom how people can simply be together. As a couple.”
Matthew furrowed his brow. “Are you saying you’ve never been in a romantic relationship?”
“No, I have, but it’s been a long time, and those relationships happened when I had a better handle on this.” As I spoke, a little sweat bee buzzed at my wrist. Matthew gently ushered it away with his fingertip. “Maybe it’s best,” I went on, “if we don’t waste each other’s time. I seriously doubt I could be what you’re looking for.”
His fingers remained at my wrist, giving my skin the lightest caress. “I asked you out because I think there’s something… captivating about you, Jillian. I realize I can’t relate to your disorder on a personal level, but I want to understand. I have a dear friend who’s bipolar. I can’t relate to his experience, either, but I still cherish his friendship.”
I was at a loss; I’d expected him to listen to my story and then hastily wish me a good evening before making his exit. But he was still here, trying to bridge the distance. I felt a rush of gratitude, combined with the yearning to experience what others did: a bond so strong that it made two people feel as though they were one.
Glancing around, I wished my surroundings were comfortingly familiar to me, the way they must have been to Matthew. But everything seemed strangely new, like déjà vu in reverse. Trying to distract myself from the disorienting sensation, I said, “Enough about me. Tell me more about yourself.”
He appeared reluctant to be the focus of our conversation. Still, he humored me. “Well, I work in sales. I think I’m okay at it because I’m not pushy, but I’ll never be one of the top earners.”
I was surprised by his candor. “What did you study in college?” I asked, figuring that would give me a clue as to what his true passion was.
Matthew looked downright chagrined. “Philosophy,” he revealed with a grin. “A wasted degree, my dad always said. And he was right that I couldn’t make a living from it.” Leaning back, he tilted his head while regarding me. “Maybe my love of philosophy is one of the reasons I’m so interested in your experience of… detachment, and your feeling of unreality. You’re probably aware that numerous branches of philosophy deal with the self and the nature of reality.”
I did realize the philosophical implications of a disorder in which the sense of self didn’t seem concrete. It practically screamed existential crisis. But again, I wanted to keep the focus on him. “Ever been married?”
“Twice,” he confessed. “I guess you could say I have my own issues with relationships.” He nodded toward the notebook I’d placed beside me. “So you’re a writer. And what exactly do you write?”
Now it was my turn to look chagrined. “You won’t believe it.”
That piqued his curiosity. Leaning closer, he said, “Try me.”
Feigning nonchalance, I told him, “I write romance novels. They sell well enough for me to make a modest living from it.”
Matthew’s eyes widened. “But what you said about romantic relationships… I mean, how can you—“
I shrugged. “Romance in fiction is easy; it follows a formula. And I understand the way people are supposed to feel when they’re in love. I’ve just… never experienced it.”
“When I was in school, the teachers always told us to write what we know. The fact that you can write so far beyond your own experience leads me to believe you must be one hell of an author.”
I ducked my head, offering another shrug. Being praised always flustered me.
“Do you write under your own name or an alias?” he asked.
“I use a pen name.” When I revealed what it was, I could see him mentally filing away the information.
Matthew and I continued talking, and though I still felt that same remove, I also felt lighter after telling him my secret. Only a couple of close friends, and my parents—people I couldn’t easily hide from—knew the truth. Now Matthew did, too.
“So,” he said after walking me to my front door, “want to meet for coffee tomorrow?” He wore an easily smile, which made me marvel at how relaxed he was in his own skin. It always amazed me, how most people could effortlessly go about their lives without even thinking on their existence.
“Sure,” I replied, returning his smile. “Tomorrow would be great.”
A few days after our coffee date, we went out to dinner, and then to a movie. That was always a surreal experience for me, for I felt I was in a film, watching a film. Where was reality?
Throughout this time, I sensed that Matthew was careful not to push. His kisses were sweet but fleeting, as if he feared more would send me running. Over dinner one evening, he mentioned he’d read one of my novels. Though he was quick to say how much he’d enjoyed it, I knew he must have found the contrast between me and my characters striking.
In those early weeks of our relationship, I did my best to seem normal. I was quite adept at pretending. Part of me dared to hope that my disorder was abating—I’d always had bad and good days. Maybe now that I’d met Matthew, the good days would begin to outnumber the bad.
But my hopes were obliterated late one night, not long after Matthew had seen me to my door. Once inside my apartment, I’d gotten ready for bed, humming to myself as I changed into a knee-length nightgown and brushed my teeth. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I thought I would see happiness in my face, for I’d had a lovely evening.
Instead, the woman staring back at me looked utterly unfamiliar. Her brown eyes were large and haunted. Her features—the bridge of her nose, the line of her jaw—all strange. That couldn’t be me.
This had happened before. I knew the worst thing I could do was panic. Turning off the bathroom light, I headed to my bedroom, but it, too, felt like a strange place, devoid of comfort. Tears flooded my eyes as I futilely tried not to hyperventilate.
I needed reassurance. Helplessly looking around my room, I found none.
It was then that I realized what I really needed: Matthew.
I grabbed my keys and fled the apartment, locking the door behind me. Barefoot and wearing just my nightgown, I took the stairs down to Matthew’s place. Even as my terror became excruciating, I had the presence of mind to stay quiet so as not to disturb the neighbors. My knock was so soft that I feared Matthew wouldn’t hear it.
But he did. I’d clearly roused him from bed, for he wore only his boxers, and his hair was a little mussed. “Jillian, are you okay?”
I let him draw me into his apartment. Its layout was similar to mine, and I’d been inside on several occasions for a drink following a night out, yet I still had that same horrible, uncanny feeling that I was encountering this place for the first time.
We sat down on his couch, and because I was trembling, he put his arm around me. “What’s wrong? Talk to me,” he urged.
“I’m sorry, I just…” When I closed my eyes, tears leaked from my lids. “Everything seems strange, even my face in the mirror. And it’s not only that.” Finally, I gave him a pleading look. “I sense this… darkness creeping in. I don’t know what it is! I just have this awful, sinister feeling.” I grabbed his hand. “Is it madness? Am I going crazy?”
“You’re not going crazy,” he insisted. “I promise.”
I searched his face, looking for a sign of deception, but he held my stare, his eyes full of compassion. “You’re cold,” he continued in that soft voice. “Come lie down with me.”
I went with him to his bed, where we climbed beneath the covers. I lay on my side, and he lay behind me, his arm around my waist. I expected him to turn off the bedside lamp, but he left it on its lowest setting.
Though I felt his lips against my hair, the sensation was muted, as if there was a layer of gauze between us. “You know,” he began quietly, “I’ve been reading about your disorder, and there’s a technique that’s supposed to help.”
My stare darted around his room in search of something that would tether me here. I managed to ask him to describe the technique he’d read about.
“We just need to focus on the senses,” he said, “and on what you perceive here and now. Tell me something you can see.”
“Your pants and socks on the floor,” I replied.
He laughed low and soft. “Yep, I can be a bit of a slob. Now, name something you can hear.”
While listening for any sound, my panic slowly began to subside. “Your breathing. It’s deep and even.”
“Good. And now something you can feel.”
I closed my eyes, relaxing against him. “Your warmth.”
“And what can you smell?”
I nestled against the pillow beneath my head. “Clean bedding.”
“Just changed the sheets.” I heard the smile in his voice. “How are you feeling now, Jillian?”
“Better.” My relief was almost palpable. And along with it, I felt a surge of gratitude toward him for his kindness, and his effort to soothe me. “I’m more grounded now. But you forgot one of the senses.”
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Taste.” Reaching for his hand, I brought it to my lips. My pulse quickened when I slid his index finger into my mouth.
I heard Matthew breathing faster while I sucked his finger. The act of swirling my tongue along its length sent a flush of arousal coursing through me.
Turning my face toward him, I said, “I taste the salt on your skin.”
Matthew gazed down at me, his eyes revealing his desire. He’d been patient, so patient, but it wasn’t for lack of wanting.
When he lowered his mouth to mine, his kiss was far from chaste. I eagerly returned it, and while I still felt like I was outside myself, at a slight remove watching everything unfold, my body immediately responded.
Breaking the kiss, I whispered, “I want to try that technique again.”
He quickly nodded. “Sure, we can absolutely do that. Tell me what you see.”
Stroking his cheek, I replied, “I see your gorgeous blue eyes.”
The compliment made him smile. “And tell me what you hear.”
I sat up a little so I could ease him onto his back. Then I rested my head upon his chest. “I hear your heartbeat. It’s quite fast.”
He chuckled. “You’ve gotten me quite excited. And what do you smell?”
Lifting my head, I buried my face in his neck. “Your scent. Most of the time, we’re not close enough for me to detect it. But whenever you hold me, I always try to breathe you in.”
Gently, he brushed my hair back from my face. “What do you feel?”
I slid my hand along his chest, and then farther downward. He let out a faint moan when my fingers reached his groin. “I feel how excited you are. You’re plenty hard already.”
Matthew’s stare grew hotter as I caressed him through his boxers. Slipping a hand inside them, I stroked his erection before sweeping a fingertip over his cockhead.
“What do you taste?” he asked.
Once more, I brought my finger to my lips. Extending my tongue, I licked up the precum I’d gathered on my fingertip. “Salt again. Stronger this time.”
He reached for me, his mouth seeking mine. Our tongues met, and he lifted my nightgown until it was bunched around my waist. I welcomed his hand between my thighs. He moaned louder upon feeling how damp my panties were.
Frantically, we stripped out of our clothes. I stared longingly at his cock, which stood at attention. I trembled with the need to feel it inside me. When I tugged my nightgown over my head, revealing my large breasts, Matthew drew me back down onto the bed, then set about kissing and fondling them. I smiled at the contented groan that issued from his throat as he sucked my nipple.
Holding him to me, I released soft cries. I could feel his erection against my skin, just as I felt a needy throb emanate from deep within my core. Lowering my lips to his hair, I whispered, “Make love to me.”
He rushed to tug my panties down my legs before settling between my parted thighs. I eagerly watched as he positioned himself to take me.
And then he slid inside. I made a guttural sound, primal and full of lust. I basked in the weight of his body on mine, and the heat of his skin beneath my palms. When he began moving with a slow, gentle rhythm, waves of ecstasy inundated me. Each of his thrusts drew a pleasured moan from my lips. Staring up at him, my eyes widened in astonishment.
“Stay with me,” he said, his smile tender.
“I’m here.”
It was as if our lovemaking unlocked something inside me. I felt such clarity now; I was indescribably present throughout every moment.
We shared another kiss, which served to quiet my cries. My body revealed its desperate need by delivering me right to the brink of orgasm. Matthew must have sensed how close I was, for his thrusts grew more fervent.
He broke the kiss to beg, “Come, Jillian!”
I strained beneath him; the intensity of our coupling had reached an exquisite level, and my yearning for orgasm was almost painful. Yet I threw myself into its powerful grip, my muscles tightening so fiercely that I pressed my mouth to Matthew’s skin to muffle a scream. Then there was an instant of delicious relaxation before another spasm seized me.
“I’m close,” he panted, falling prey to my contractions. “I need to pull out, sweetheart!”
Reluctantly, I loosened my hold on him, and when he withdrew, I quickly sat up. Still lightheaded from the ferocity of my climax, I sought to bring Matthew the same satisfaction. Once he lay on his back, I lowered my mouth to his erection. I heard his gasp when I circled my lips around him. His skin was covered with my fluids; I tasted my own sex while sucking his cock.
“I’m gonna come!” he warned, his voice almost a whimper.
I took him deep and then pulled back, my head bobbing up and down as I strove to pleasure every inch with my mouth and hand. His breathing grew shallower, and I felt him tense just before he climaxed.
A loud groan fell from his lips while he filled my mouth with semen, hot and thick. I quickly swallowed, then allowed more of his seed to form a dense pool in the back of my throat. Finally, I gulped it down.
He twitched when I set about licking him clean. After I sat up and wiped at my mouth, he again reached for me. “Thank you,” he whispered, holding me close.
“Thank you for being so patient,” I whispered back. My upturned face invited the kiss he planted on my lips.
A little later, Matthew and I cleaned up in the bathroom and got cold drinks from the kitchen. Then we returned to his bed, where we continued talking. The conversation flowed effortlessly between us.
Lying in the darkness, and in his embrace, I dared to confess my fear. “Matthew, what if I’m able to love you only because you make me feel real?”
He was quiet for a brief moment, considering my question. “People love for all sorts of reasons,” he said while stroking my back, “and yours is as good as any.”
That night was the first of many I spent next to him. A year passed, and we wed in a small ceremony. Our new house was quaint and modest, its price well within our means. The yard was large enough for a gazebo.
I still had good days and bad. There were still times when I flailed about, lost in a sea of panic as I tried to reach the solid ground of reality.
Always, I found Matthew waiting for me, his hand extended. And I always took it, knowing he wouldn’t let go.
