Why Are You Mine?

It was an inopportune moment for a quiz. Well, for me anyways--he seemed to think that the timing was quite appropriate.
I hate answering questions in the middle of sex. I mean, I'm no good at it during a whipping or other such event, but it doesn't kick me out of my head-space the same as it does during sex.

Why are you mine?

It was a valid question. It is a valid question.

I flailed. If it was a graded test I would have bombed it with flying colors.

The truth, the obvious reason, was there floating on the edges, so close that I couldn't see it.

Because I need to be.

Of course, this becomes 21 questions terribly fast and "Why are you mine?" would morph into "Why do you need to be mine?"

Because of who you are, because of who I am, because of who we are. Because of what we need to be.

That' a slippery slope--each and every one of those answers could easily lead to another question.

Once upon a time, the answer might have been because I didn't know how to be anything else. I have recently learned how to be something else, and I'm not loving it.
That woman who sets a crew down in front of a whiteboard and walks them through compliant logging, that woman who spends hours on inventory, who people seem to think has answers, who spends hours of overtime every week trying to get out the door and back home (I'm an employers dream for salaried employees. Not so great for me).
I have learned to be the woman who runs around plugging the holes of need and compliance in a desperate attempt to stop the hemorrhaging of a multi-million dollar business, on a salary that, while good, is laughable given the position. And I watch him do the same.

I have learned how to be something else.
I know how to be something else. I am still unsure of what that something is, but it is there and it is all-consuming, leaves no room for breathing, no space for simply being.

Simply put, the answer to, "Why are you mine?" is that being his is what makes me happy. The one thing in this world that makes me complete.