Confessions of a libra

Sanctuary | Credit: Home

31.05.25

They say there is no rest for the wicked, but I promise you he isn’t. Not my man. He is up before others and home later than is godly. He is steady, consistent and always taking on more. He smiles through his pain, he attends every meeting and misses little. But my soul aches for a system that forces anyone to choose between presence and performance.

I’m pacing. I’ve been pacing for a while now. It’s nearly 11pm and this man left the house at 6am. Either I’m crazy or something has to give. Surely the human body wasn’t made to sustain all of this activity. It’s in my frantic reverie that a brilliant thought forms, and just in time. He arrives not long after, as confirmed by the sound of crunching gravel. I yawn and stretch on the couch, moving the blanket incidentally. I rub my eyes, it’s been a long week and I’m so glad it’s Friday. The key turns in the lock and there he is. Nearly out of view because of the couch placement but I see him shuffle in silently. He comes upon me on the couch.

“I hope you didn’t wait up for me,” he says in exhausted guilt.

“I did wait for you, my love.” I declare in a chirpier tone than his.

He plants a kiss and he lingers more than I expected. I feel his body exhale into me. A marker of his arrival. “Well I’m sorry that you waited. You know how it is on a Friday.”

I do in fact know what it is like on a Friday, I think to myself. I get up onto my knees while still on the couch and wrap my arms around him. I look up with doe eyes and a pout.

“Wanna go for a pre-bed shower with me?” My tone is gently coaxing.

“That actually sounds perfect,” he says in a relieved tone.

We disrobe and step into the shower.

“Turn around,” I command.

He turns around without question, leaning his head on the shower wall. I lather him up and I start washing his back with a loofah.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to. You’ve been working really hard and I want to help you to relax tonight before you collapse. Is that alright?”

He lets out a long-held breath. He nods slowly as I reach up to get right into his shoulders. It’s always amazed me how much men could hold within. All carefully held back behind the most expressive eyes. Ready to snap from the pressure of the build-up. The shower is slow and intentional.

Once it’s over I ask for him to lie on the bed face down. There are no complaints coming from him tonight, he’s probably too tired to verbally spar anyway. I straddle him at the base of his spine. I pour the massage oil in my hands and rub it in to warm it up. My massages are slow and unhurried. Sometimes I throw in an elbow or leverage my weight to get some knuckle in there. While I’ve always been told I have a healing touch, I also do not have the strength of a masseuse – but I try anyway because it matters.

I can’t say that I successfully removed any knots but I am thorough in my attentions. I finish by massaging and stretching out the back of his neck. Every groan in this massage has felt well-earned. I had realised that while I could talk to him about burning the candle at both ends, maybe I could instead facilitate the ease he was struggling to have. It’s possible as a man he has been socialised to believe his worth lies in achievement. He is merely doing what the society has asked, and securing his position. There is something noble in it. Something worth rewarding. Sure enough by the end of the massage, he is dead to the world.

We wake at dawn. I’m up first due to my body clock. I let myself just daydream. Laying on my side in bed, I look behind me to find him sleeping on the other side of the bed. I roll over and secure my place as big spoon, gently throwing my leg over his sleeping form. He stirs and hold me by the calf.

“Good Morning Angel,” he mumbles.

“G’morning, my Atlas,” I say in equal morning fog.

“Atlas? That’s new.” He says, surprised.

I say with ease, “Yeah Atlas. Because you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

There’s a long moment of silence. He must think it’s stupid. Then he moves, he turns his whole body to face me on the bed, our faces mere inches. His eyes water and he intertwines a hand with mine.

“I don’t even know what to say,” is all he can manage. He rubs his chest, to self-soothe.

I smile at him, warm and inviting. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”