It still bothers me when I see photographs of Jamie with his wife–partly because that’s where he belongs, with his family, but mostly because it hurts so much. I love this man, and I don’t doubt for a moment that he loves me–but he’s still married to her. Legally and morally, he’s her husband. He’s the father of her children–and that brings to the surface yet another kind of pain. The knowledge that I’ll never have children with him.
As a photographer, it’s second nature for me to examine every detail of a photograph. One thing stands out in every photo I’ve ever seen of Jamie and Liz: the way he touches her, the way he’s always got one arm around her, much in the way one would embrace a platonic friend. This is something he never does with me. No, no touch between us is ever platonic. He holds my hand. Our fingers are always entwined, joined. He kisses my hand. He has this habit of stroking my palm that’s maddeningly erotic. He seems to just instinctively know what I need, we’re that connected.
I remember once…we were in a fast food restaurant. I’d been eating a chicken sandwich and got mayo on my chin, or was it my lip? I don’t remember. What I do remember is how he gently dabbed it off with a napkin, the tip of his finger lingering for just a moment on my lower lip. Just enough….
Jamie’s the only man I know who can make love fully clothed, in front of a cast of thousands, and only the two of us are aware of it.