Beauty Of Negative Space by Tab

Beautiful Negative Space

In art, negative space is the space between objects.

We are in a large airy room. I am bent over a winged back chair. My chest is pressed down against the top. My hips are back and my butt is pushed out slightly.

I am nicely dressed. I am in dark fine wool suit pants, a brown leather belt and a white twill cotton shirt, a long maroon tie with paisleys hangs around my neck. I wear dark socks and excellent black leather shoes.

I am not sure why I have done this. Assumed this position. You did not ask me to.  Couples are dancing together downstairs in the main ballroom. I can hear the string quartet. You came upstairs and I followed. We stood together at the top of the stairs for a minute  and then I walked over to this chair and leaned over it as I am.

You said nothing. In fact you have said almost nothing to me about positions and how I should place myself before you except on that day we met. That day, after I had turned away to watch an event, you tapped me on the shoulder and whispered "turn and face me." That was all you said.

You haven't asked for my attention since and yet I can't give enough of it.

Yet you haven't ignored me. Even now after I took this foolish position, for some unknown reason, you walked over and ran your fingertips over the back of my neck for a few moments and then stepped away. You seemed amused, I hoped you might be grinning. I could only feel you leave.

Now I am here and impatient. I want to say something. I almost whisper out loud. "Is this what you want?"

You remain quiet though your presence, what I can feel of it, seems immense, even frightening.
There's so much space and distance.

I imagine you sitting in a chair  behind me. Waiting. Watching. Or maybe you've walked downstairs, and have found another dance partner. But after many long minutes you are at my side again and you run your hand gently over my shoulder, and down my arm as though you're caressing me. I feel crowned,  excited, a happiness breaking through me until I realize....until it occurs to me that your touch seems more about straightening the fabric of my shirt than a caress. You're such a stickler for appearance and order. I feel your foot touch mine and nudge my legs further apart opening me like I so want to be opened and I tremble again, but you step back (and I can't help then but think your intent nothing more than a whim.)Then you are gone again from our space, or so it seems, and I wonder if you've left.

I want to turn around and look this time, to see the expression on your face, but that might violate a rule that seems to exist, some unspoken expectation that holds me here, brought me here, that has me bound down, bent over and silent. The silence becomes almost terrible, it is both soft and promising, foreboding, and threatening, threatening to never end. But to break it might be to break something tender that may exist, that might be rising between us, that I want, that I need, that I cling to.

I can not help myself and I start to look back but stop. I start to speak but stop. Silence, agitation. Perhaps you looked me over and decided it wasn't right, that it wasn't time. The thought breaks through me as if I'd been pricked with a thousand pins. I hold to it, embrace the sharp dread of that potential wound that is mixed with a throbbing excitement that thickens me.  I yearn for you though I barely know you.

For several long minutes my eyes are closed. You return and hover near. I want you to take my belt off,  pull my pants down, and strike me, wound me, break this fever that is  overheating and burning me up. But you come and touch me.. very gently, almost too kindly...raise me and say, "Why don't you go home now and get some sleep."