Diane's Writings

Where's Jack

Where are you today, Jack?  Are you thinking about me like I'm thinking about you?  Have you discovered yet that I've blocked you from sending me email, text messages, and calling my cell phone?  I should have told you why, but I don't have the strength to see you.  Not if I can't have you. 

I think you always wondered about me- my motives, why I found you so attractive, why I wanted you.  That was all you, you know.  All in your own head.  My affections were genuine.  Yes, I was terribly curious about your accident and how you came to be in that chair and what it meant from a guy/girl stand point when we first met.  I'm sorry if in my ignorance, I offended you or made you more self-conscious. 

Did you know I researched the Internet to learn everything I could about sci?  That I once gave blood just so I could ask someone in the medical field questions that I couldn't get answered any other way?  Me!  And I hate needles. 

You see, all the time you were worried that your sci and all of its implications would scare me away, I was worried I wouldn't know how to be whatever it was you needed from me and I was so crazy about you.  I still am. 

It's been, what?  Four years now since we met?  Has anything about your sci ever scared me off?  You ask me why it doesn't and I can't answer that.  I don't know why it doesn't, it just doesn't.  Curious, yes; scared off, no.  I've learned a lot in that time and most of my questions have been answered anyway. 

For instance, I now know better than to sit on your stomach and squeeze you with my legs when we rassle and you're trying to throw me off.  It can be kind of like squeezing a tube of toothpaste, just not as minty.  But it didn't bother me, did it?  Shit happens.  Sorry, no pun intended.  It bothered you though that it didn't bother me.  I can feign bother if that would make you more comfortable. 

I don't think about those things when I'm with you.  I think about your blue, blue eyes and your thick dark hair.  I think about how good it feels that you can make me laugh.  I lust after you and don't question why.  I don't even question why I don't question.  I'm too consumed in enjoying your company, the way your arms feel around me, and the way you kiss my neck. 

I think about that soft spot, just under your jaw, where I can feel your pulse against my lips and the way you smell musky and masculine behind your ears.  Put your arms around me and hold me and I will think of nothing else except to revel in the way your hands, rough and calloused from years of pushing the chair, feel against my skin: frighteningly strong and yet gentle and tender with me. 

Where are you today, Jack?  Are you thinking about me like I'm thinking about you?