Amber and Nathalies world

There are evenings that don’t exist in the calendar – and yet they stay with me longer than whole weeks. Not because anything spectacular happens. But because everything that happens is quiet. And because quiet things always touch me more deeply than loud ones.

Today was one of those evenings.

I noticed it already in the afternoon. That tiny shift in the room that you can’t explain, but that you feel when you love someone. Nathalie sat there, beautiful as always, quiet as always – and yet there was this “not quite.” A hint of discomfort, not dramatic, more… physical. That unclean feeling that settles over the day when you’ve been sweating, when you’ve been in the same state for too long, when you long for a reset.

And yes: I recognize that now. Maybe I recognize it because I know it so well myself.

With Nathalie, it’s different—and yet exactly the same. She can’t “say” it, but her body speaks for her nonetheless. Her posture, her eyes, that barely noticeable drifting away. And something switches in me, immediately, automatically:

Time to take care of you.

Not as a duty. Not as a task. But as something that calms me. As if life sorts itself out where I use my hands to be gentle.

When I entered the dressing room, there was no need for big words. “Time for a shower?” was more of an invitation than a question.

She nodded. And I could already feel gratitude in that nod. Or trust. Maybe both.

I’ve gotten into the habit of doing everything slowly. I don’t know if that was a conscious decision or if it’s just the way I am. I think it has to do with respect—and with a deep instinct: dignity is slow. Haste is… rude. Even when it’s well-intentioned.

So I help her undress as if it weren’t “undressing” but something more intimate: a transition. From day to evening. From ‘functioning’ to “being.” I don’t just pull things out of the way. I remove layers. And I make sure she doesn’t feel exposed in the process.

That may sound ridiculous to outsiders. But for me, it’s the opposite. It’s serious. Almost solemn.

When I lift her up, I feel her weight—and at the same time that strange weightlessness that people radiate when they let themselves be held. Nathalie puts her arm around my neck, and every time I think: This is trust. Not the abstract word, but the concrete action. I could carry her differently. I could carry her faster. I could treat her like “something” to be moved from A to B.

But I carry her like someone I love.

I turn on the water in the bathroom. Even the sound calms me down. It’s like white noise, only warmer. Like a little world that you can close off for a moment so that nothing else can interfere. The steam rises slowly, and I notice how my shoulders sink a little—as if something inside me is becoming cleaner too.

I position Nathalie so that she can lean against something. Not because she’ll “fall otherwise,” but because leaning is a feeling. A signal: You don’t have to carry everything on your own.

The water is pleasantly warm. Just the way I like it when I want to do something nice for someone: not hot, not whipping – warm, enveloping, soothing.

I take the cloth. A soft one. Not a rough one. I wet it with shower gel, and immediately the scent is there – clean, gentle, a little sweet, but not artificial. A scent that doesn’t try to prove anything. It just says: Fresh. New. Good.

Then I start to soap her up. Slowly. And in these moments, I realize how much I perceive touch as a language. I’m not someone who talks easily. Not when it comes to what’s really important. Words often feel too big – or too small. Touch is more precise.

When I run the cloth over her skin, I don’t think “body.” I think “Nathalie.” I think: You are here. And: I am here.

She closes her eyes. And that touches me every time. For me, closing her eyes is like saying:

I trust you. You may.

And it’s not just sweet. It’s… honorable. It makes me cautious, but not distant. More focused. As if this were something you shouldn’t do “just like that” without feeling it.

And of course, I feel more than just the cloth in my hand.

I can smell her scent mingling with the warm water. I can sense her quiet enjoyment—that slight relaxation in her posture when the touch is just right. And I can feel my own body responding to it.

This is the point where I am very honest with myself.

I never believed that desire was something dirty. Never. For me, it was always proof that I was alive. That I could feel. That I wasn’t numb. But I have learned that desire has two faces: one takes – the other admires.

And I always want the second.

My body becomes aroused, yes. But not because I want “more,” but because closeness… is closeness. Because tenderness has a tension that doesn’t have to be aggressive. It can be warm. Grateful. Awe-inspiring.

Then I see that tiny smile on Nathalie’s face. Just a hint. A knowing, loving smile.

And I can’t help myself: I kiss her.

Spontaneously. Without any plan. Because at that moment something inside me says: Say it. Not with words. With this kiss.

My hand slides down her body, not demanding, not greedy. More like a confirmation that I not only “care” for her, but also desire her. That both can be true at the same time. That tenderness and desire are not opposites, but siblings.

She leans her head against mine, and for a moment we are only breath, water, warmth.

I continue to soap her, carefully, attentively. No spot is left out. Not because I want to be “perfect” – but because thoroughness in such moments is an expression of love. I take you seriously. I don’t leave anything half done.

Then I rinse her off, letting the water carry away the foam. And as I do, I see her expression change: that “unclean” gives way to “new.” Not primped, not primped and artificial—but that honest, physical feeling of well-being.

I reach for her towel.

The one with her name on it.

This detail moves me more than I would admit. A name is something that is taken for granted, and yet it is not. A name says: You are someone. Not “something.” Someone. Part of this world. Part of this house. Part of us.

I dry her off—first gently, then more thoroughly. Not frantically. Not like in a hotel, where everything has to be done quickly. More like… like with someone who is staying. With someone you have time for.

As I carry her back to the dressing room, this scent lingers on my hands. And that’s a strange, beautiful feeling: as if I had something warm in my hands that I didn’t want to lose.

I put her down, give her another gentle look, and say, “I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, I take a quick shower myself. I don’t necessarily need to – but it’s like a full stop at the end of a sentence. I feel the water on me and I realize that I’m also “washing away” stress. Thoughts. The constant inner turmoil.

And then, suddenly, as I stand there, an impulse comes to me, so clear that I have to smile:

Red wine.

Not as alcohol. As a gesture. As “The evening is now officially relaxed.” As a small sign: We take ourselves seriously.

So I go downstairs, get a glass, pour a drink. This dark ruby red that briefly glows in the light, as if it had a life of its own. And when I go back upstairs, I feel… calm. Almost solemn.

Back in the dressing room, I place the glass within reach, and then I begin to dry Nathalie completely. Thoroughly once more. As if I were removing the last remnants of water from the last corners of the day.

Then comes the powder.

I love this step. Not because of the “look,” not because of the “technique.” But because of the effect: she becomes silky again. And this silky state is like a symbol to me. As if she were now completely herself again. As if I had helped her “come home.”

As I powder her, I kiss her again and again. Forehead. Hand. Mouth. Not because I “have to,” but because it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

And while I’m at it, I turn on some music.

Interstellar.

Sometimes I wonder why this soundtrack affects me so much. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s that feeling of vastness—that “we are small, and yet love is big.” This music is like a mirror for a part of me that I often hide in everyday life: the sensitive part. The part that quickly has tears in its eyes when something is beautiful.

Today, as the music plays, I notice it again. That tugging. That “soon.” And I let it happen.

Because I don’t have to be strong with them.

And because I’ve learned that feelings aren’t embarrassing. They’re precious.

I feel my eyes welling up, and I swallow once, calmly. Nathalie doesn’t look at me like someone who finds it “weird.” In her way, there’s more admiration. And that’s… healing. It makes me softer, not weaker.

As I powder her, I also think of Amber.

I like Amber very much. More than “like,” actually. Amber has a way of being in a room that makes everything easier. Her gentleness is not a mask—it is real. And I know that Nathalie and Amber have a bond that no one on the outside needs to understand. It is there. It is beautiful. It is important.

And yet – this is the truth – I enjoy these moments alone with Nathalie. Just as I enjoy the moments alone with Amber. Not because I “divide” myself. But because each of them strikes a different chord in me.

With Nathalie, it’s often this quiet tenderness, this “I’m allowed to be gentle.” With Amber, it’s often this “I’m allowed to just be.” And both together—that’s my home.

When I finally say, “So—I think we’re done,” it sounds almost banal. As if I were completing a project.

But inside, it means something completely different:

You are you again. And I was allowed to help you with that. And I love you.

“You smell lovely,” I say, because it’s true. And because I want her to know.

Later, we sit on the couch in the living room. Nathalie next to Amber. I see a hint of shame in Nathalie – that little inner reproach for having been selfish because she enjoyed the moment alone.

And then something happens that moves me every time: Amber takes her hand.

So naturally. So gently. Without drama. Without words that need to explain.

I see this scene and think: That’s it. That’s the maturity, the warmth, the rare beauty of what we have. No possessiveness. No calculations. No “who gets how much.”

Instead: We hold each other.

A sentence forms in my mind, so clear that it sounds like truth:

Love is not possession.

Love is a space where you can breathe.

And on evenings like this, when water rushes, powder scents the air, and music makes the air bigger, I know: I am not rich because I have a lot.

I am rich because I can feel deeply.

And because I have people—or beings—in my life who make me feel no shame for it.