The first time I let you touch my body, the sky is dark; the lights are off. I close my eyes, too, because intimacy feels easier this way. An inverse reaction between particles—or are they waves, or perhaps they are both, I can never remember—of light filling the space we inhabit and my willingness to share parts of myself that I whisper into you like a secret I’ve never told before. 

It feels easier this way, and I wish it didn’t. 

I wish I could love you and be loved by you as the sun shines down on our cheeks, glistening with sweat from the heat of the day. But night has always felt more simple—more safe. There’s less to lose if you can’t see what might go missing. If the curtain of night has been drawn and the world can’t see through the open window of my smile, see you behind it, then no one will ask where you are when I open the blinds to allow in light upon waking and you are no longer there.

Amie M. Geistman holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of New Orleans. She’s spent time working in the trenches of Louisiana restaurant kitchens and is working on an essay collection about these experiences. Her background degree is in Sociology from Louisiana State University, and she aims to incorporate this sociological lens into her food writing and beyond. Amie’s work can be found in The Daily Drunk and online at ViaNolaVie.com. She is from Houston, Texas.

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