“D. What’s wrong?” She is concerned, and I try to hold it together long enough to press my fingers to her lips. “I’m fine,” I say, and feeling her hand at the base of my neck, so sweetly touching me, so tenderly, I feel like I’m the one who was holding up walls all this time. It all comes out. It pours out of me. I know I’m freaking her out, but I can’t stop.

“D?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I love you, I want to say, I love you and cherish you and I can’t stand hiding it a second more. But thankfully those words don’t come out.

I think she gets the point though, or at least understands that I need to be like this for a few minutes. She gently rolls me over and kisses my forehead, then goes to work on that stupid strap on. She loosens the buckle on one hip, then the other. My belly feels loose and quivery from crying. I know my face is red and I’m gasping for breath.

She meets my eyes and it makes it all rise in me again. Please tell me you love me. Please.

On one level I’m lost in the visceral sensation of my crying, but I admire, in awe, as if from a distance, the way she removes the contraption and sets it aside, gently kissing my hip, then moving to lie beside me and wrap her arms around me. She is quiet, and I had thought that her submission was the greatest gift she could give me. But it pales in comparison to her patience as my breathing normalizes and my tears slow.

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face her. I want to bury my flaming cheeks in the dark space under her neck.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. I don’t know how I can speak another word without telling her that I love her, so I don’t dare open my mouth.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be sorry.”

I nod, wondering at what point our roles have reversed. Now I know where they got the phrase “turned out.” That’s what I feel like – as if I’ve been turned inside out, and my nerves are on the ourside.