I practice smiling at him like I would want to when we wake up together. It’s the cute, “I think I love you and thanks for last night” smile.
I imagine that my smile is quite expressive and perhaps persuasive, but as I look into the mirror, I see a huge mess. This is what he was smiling back at?
Fuck. God, that smile. Did he mean it?
We wouldn’t have fucked that night, we would have made love. Sharing each other’s bodies, open to exporation and expressing our needs and getting them fulfilled–as many times as we each desire.
My thoughts are clouded by his blue eyes and stringy, messy blonde hair–which is long enough to be in a bun but never worn that way. I build castles in the sky a thousand miles high to reach his cloud nine.
We would enjoy the same things. We would enjoy listening to each other talk about things we don’t enjoy ourselves, but soon might because we’re passionate about it. We’d just be there for each other, two peas in a pod that are seamlessly knitted together like stitches of a wounded heart.
“I am here for you, never leaving.”
Who says it? I’m not sure. I’m really not sure.
He is unlike anyone. Completely unlike anyone I’ve met and I want to know more. I get the sense that we would make sense–right? I want to know more. I need to stop wondering about our future when our present barely exists.
Besides, he’s only there on Mondays and Wednesdays. Sometimes Tuesday. Never Friday.