I thought about running the few blocks left to get home, but convinced myself that nothing would happen.
I had an image of the cab’s roof shining briefly with some streetlights, while I thought about the two missed calls I left on his cell phone, the way those two guys touched my waist while we danced. I felt gross. Sunday, bloody sunday, roared through the speakers, and I longed his arms, his kisses. His touch, that somehow I havent loved yet. Still. Maybe never.
And while I walked under streetlights I wished for his hand against my waist, his voice telling me that I could come over. I remembered how those guys tried to tempt me, while all I could think about was him. You.
I don’t even love him, but he’s the only thing I know right now.
Does it make sense?
We sat in the car for forty minutes.
I had just bring myself to tell her everything I’ve hid of her for the past months. She wasn’t upset, just surprised. And it came pouring down my mouth, all of it: my cynicism, his respectfulness; my constant apathy towards him even though everything that has happened between us.
I told her I was nervous, that I had no idea how to deal with something so near to an actual romantic date. She told me to let go, thet it’ll be fine. I said the dynamic me and him have it’s a different sort that hers with her boyfriend, considering we sat ground rules before sleeping together: some basic “I’m not looking for a relationship” kind of speech. And she… well, she’s in love. I’m in lust. It’s different.
Tomorrow we have a picnic date. Just writing about it gives me chills, and not the good kind. They’re more the physical reaction to an ick factor. Me and him on a picnic. Daylight. No alcohol in sight.
It has never been so clear to me how romance-impaired I am.
And I can’t say it’s what you know,
but you’ve known it the whole time.
Source: SoundCloud / Kreecher
We took advantaje of the absence, the blue lighting, and the two litres of beer we had split between bars that forced us to find another one, begging for a bathroom.
Whiskey sour and your other hand found its nest in my lower back; the dress I was wearing had a zipper across the front of it, from my chest to my legs. It didn’t take you long enough to notice it.
I felt your fingers traveling down the fabric, while I explored your back with gripping hands and scratching nails. I enjoyed that game, to keep quiet when the music stopped and those two lingering seconds between songs made us realise the volume of our sighs, when your smile just made us seem more guilty, more public.
Looking back, I know I wouldn’t have let you do what you did had I been sober. The night had turned into an alcohol-guided blur, who had us stumbling down crowded sidewalks, laughing at our own boring jokes, trying to catch a red light when crossing the street just to kiss. Although, looking back, I recognize it was me the one who told you to scoot over on the couch just so I could face you while sitting on your lap.
When we came down the stairs my thighs ached. We payed and left the bar, and just as we were stepping outside, a sudden spring breeze cooled the traces your tongue left on my neck. We walked in silence, too tired to speak, too ecstatic to yawn, and you waited with me for my bus to arrive while you cradled me against your shoulder. And when my bus came and I turned around to see you waving a goodbye, I gave you a smile and you winked back at me. And you scarred me with that still image of you with your hands in your pockets, and left me your rogue smile tattoed on my memory.
I know, from that brief instant where I told myself I had to capture you as you were, that somehow I had the certainty we wouldn’t see eachother again.
Sometimes, when I feel lonely and think of you, I can still get a chill from remembering your touch and the night’s combined, as if both of you had decided to make love to me and allow the world to witness.