Find Me Alastar(79)

Hmm, interesting.

He throws the tea towel over his shoulder as he chops the ingredients for our Spanish omelet, and he turns a jar slightly to the right again as if it’s bothering him.

I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “How long have you had OCD?” I ask.

He keeps his head down and his face straight as he keeps chopping.

I wait for him to answer for an extended time, but he doesn’t.

“It’s worse today than it normally is, isn’t it?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine and he nods once.

“How come?”

He shrugs.

I watch him, waiting for his answer.

He pours his egg mixture into the hot pan and it sizzles. “Some days it’s worse than others,” he replies without making eye contact, continuing to chop the bacon.

I watch him. He doesn’t like that he has this and it’s upset him that I have noticed.

I stand and put my arms around him from behind and kiss his back. “Breakfast smells good.” I smile.

I feel his shoulders slump in relief that I am not going to push for more information. He turns and kisses my lips. “It will be ready in about ten.”

“I’m going to go upstairs and freshen up.” I smile.

“Okay.” He kisses me again. “Don’t be long.”

I walk upstairs, sit on the bed and take out my phone to hit up Google.

Why is my OCD worse today?



OCD is usually triggered by stress and anxiety. It may be heightened by the fear of losing control over a situation. Repetitive actions such as excessive cleaning, turning switches or having a need for things to be just so may be caused by the feeling of helplessness in other areas of your life.



I frown. He’s stressed or anxious. He doesn’t like not being in control.

I throw down my phone and stand there scratching my head as I think.

What has he lost control over?

I stay deep in thought as I a take a quick shower.

What’s he lost control over?

I stand under the steaming hot water when it hits me like a truck.

He’s lost control of his feelings for me.

It scares him.



* * *



I lie on my back and laugh up at my photographer. Alastar and I have had the most perfect day. He has taken me to two art galleries and explained every painting that he loves to me in great detail. We’ve held hands and kissed like kids, laughing more than ever before. We came home this afternoon and made love. Then we lit the fires together and now he has me naked in bed on top of the sheets that he has changed twice because he wasn’t happy with the colors. He is at the top of a ladder with his camera and is taking photos of me from above. Apparently I am his next painting project. Every now and then he climbs down the ladder and rearranges my hair spread on the pillow, or he readjusts the cashmere throw he has strategically draped over me. He smiles, as if enamored with my beauty.

One of my breasts is on full display and the blanket is just covering my sex.

He drops the camera, stands and smiles at me.

“What?” I smirk.

He shakes his head as if hardly believing it. “I’ve never photographed someone so beautiful.”

I laugh out loud. “You horrid liar.” He chuckles as he snaps away. “Nobody I have felt this way about, anyway,” he mutters under his breath.

Now. Ask him now.

I lie looking up at him. “How do you feel about me, Alastar?” I whisper, not completely sure if I want to know the answer.

He drops the camera and looks at me from his perched position on the ladder.

My eyes search his.

“I feel like I could fall hopelessly in love with you,” he replies softly.

My heart sinks. Not the answer I was hoping for. I drop my eyes and stare at the blanket. Of course he’s going to say that. You idiot. What were you expecting?

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

I feel tears at the back of my eyes but I am determined not to let him see them. I got myself into this position; I knew it was never going to be more.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I drag my hurt eyes to meet his.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

I stare at him.

“Say what you want to say.”

The lump in my throat nearly chokes me.

“Emmaline,” he whispers. “What are you thinking, my love?”

“I’m thinking that you are lucky that you just could fall in love.”

He frowns.

“Instead of have….. like me.” I whisper.

Our eyes lock and, unable to help it, mine fill with tears.

I’m pathetic. I wipe my tears away angrily and fake a smile.

“Don’t… don’t mind me,” I stammer. “I told you not to fry my brain.” I half laugh.

His sad eyes hold mine and he puts his camera back into its tripod, setting it on auto.

I watch in slow motion as he pulls his sweater off over his head and slides down his pants. He climbs into bed with me and holds me in his arms.

I feel like crying to the moon.

“I wish things were different,” he whispers into my lips, the sound of his camera snapping every thirty seconds filling the silence. My shining bright Star makes slow, tender, yet terribly sad love to me.