In-Between Alphabet: H is for He

Feb 25 2013

He is inherently masculine, the perfect embodiment of male.  It forms in solid layers, the singular embodiment of this entity that possesses a form of acknowledged life, perhaps even a soul burning somewhere inside.  He brings together two disparate chromosomes to form a potent mixture that falls into proscribed roles already predetermined possibly hundreds of years ago, and then throws it out so it sticks to another.  It isn’t personal.  He is not me nor you.  He is outside of that circle. 

She says He, and he stiffens, swiveling his head to pinpoint the particular specimen she’s referring to.  Sounds rise up his chest, to his throat, before he clamps his teeth in front, trapping them, afraid of whether they’ll burst out as antagonistic or pitiful whimpering, neither one welcomed.  He watches the other male, tracking him step by step, measuring, evaluating, comparing.  What about the other man catches her eye?  And does he, himself, possess those qualities?  He still can’t figure out why she chose him, out of every possessor of the Y chromosome alive in this world.  Maybe, at the moment of meeting, he was the only fitting option, and, as she steps out further into the world, more options, better fitting options, will coalesce before her, drawing her away from him.  And he can’t bear that possibility.  She is his.  Even if everyone she meets falls at her feet, and why wouldn’t they, he is the only one whose fingers twine with hers, whose nose nuzzles the soft hairs at her temple, who knows the imprint of her body against his.  She says He, and he wraps his arm around her waist, whispering inside jokes to her until she laughs and forgets everyone else in the room.

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