Dude’s got three different facial hair styles in his profile, and there’s only one I could maintain a conversation with for an hour
It was raining, the day they visited, so we watched a movie and then another and then another. He sat to my right in the blueish greyish leather chair, jittering around, unsettled and bored, sprawled out, stretching far past the chair’s structure with his very long legs. He was silent, and I was stiff. I dared not look at him, more than every hour or so, scared to so obviously move my head away from the entertainment, and away from his more friendly friend to my left, to investigate where he was in his world of Twitter and exasperation.
He’d sat quite upright in that place, months and months ago, when he settled there and tugged me on to his naked body. When I gave him my keys for the weekend, he had teased, “I’m going to sit in your chair with my naked butt,” and he did so, but more politely than first implied.
He did not want to be back, in that chair, now.
Alone I feel,
Without me on your mind.
Full I feel,
With me in your eyes.
Myself I am,
With you I feel,
Without you I am, despite my feel.
The truth I know,
But do not feel,
When I was 13, I learned to mediate. I closed my eyes and pictured an empty beach, shiny blue waves, quiet white sand, waves receding and then rushing towards me, with every slow, drawn out and audible inhale and exhale, I listened intently, savoring the moments of total silence, upon fullness and emptiness in my lungs. I’d focus on the waves, stop my thoughts, drift asleep.
Some nights, I’d crave more. My fantasies would merge. I’d have with me, holding me, whoever it was, I was thinking of most often. I found my happy place.
I went to bed, I closed my eyes, I breathed, I listened, I pictured for eight years.
Sleeping with someone else in the bed can be hard. When you’re trying to be perfect, not shift an inch they might feel, not breathe so deeply they might hear. When they make you anxious, and you’re already anxious, sleeping with someone else is hard.
On spring break, anxiously awake at sunrise, I poked and begged and pleaded that he leave bed with me. He caved, left his contacts behind, and I eagerly dragged him down the street, around the corner, straight ahead and into my fantasy. We landed on the beach, laid down our towels, laid down our backs, and listened.
I was still anxious there, next to him. The waves weren’t as loud as I remembered. It was hard to listen. Eventually the sun was too hot. We got up. We returned to our real beds. We went home to our real lives in Massachusetts.
I tried to close my eyes and picture the beach. Picture the cute boy next to me. I can hear the waves, I think I’m approaching close enough to almost see them, but my heart races in the other direction, every time, every time I try now.
Once I wanted an excuse to invite my crush to my birthday, so I invited every single one of my Facebook contacts.
Someone I don’t want to hang out with promised me a future in gossip that he doesn’t even have if I hang, and we don’t really know any of the same people to gossip about, but I’m sold like damn he knows me well