The way we are

[BadlyDrawnGrrl]

I got there much later than we'd originally planned, of course. He had made me dinner, which had long since gone cold in the pan...fortunately he'd made the shrimp so ludicrously spicy (a miscalculation whereby he'd switched the proportions of fish sauce and chili paste) that reheating it was sort of unnecessary. So we sweated determinedly over our bowls of five-alarm inferno shrimp, shoveling bland quinoa into our mouths after every bite like we were swallowing fire retardant foam, refusing to admit defeat until finally we cracked, at the same time, and said "Oh my God I can't" more or less simultaneously, and then laughed at our own idiocy and drank a bunch of beer and then all was well.

 

I forget, I forget so often these days, how long it's been between us...how long in the making, how sad and full of distance and longing from afar. I forget how much he knows. I had forgotten what it is like to be liked.

 

This...

 

The way we are is elegant in a way that only makes sense when it's explained through fingertips, or playful weight. So much of this is just play - an indulgence, the breath after long breathlessness. But I am aware enough to know not to miss anything important.

 

I drink in his little details: his bronze bracelet, his two studded earlobes, the purplish dark of his hair. The long scar on his shoulder. Freckles. Pale. He looks up at me with eyes the color of warm toffee. Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me... There are little lights all around like the way the sun filters in when your eyes are half closed, little flaws and motes and colors...he is tender green and fresh, fascinating like an earring of intelligence. Next to us the radiator hisses and clanks softly in constant idle chatter. I need this in such a way that it is painful, the need to be known. I am overly strict, I am sure, but it is necessary.

 

The small shadows against the skin beneath his eyelashes are the first sign of water in a desert that has gone on for and miles and miles and miles. And I am the divining rod. I am direction. I am the polo ball...with my mallet I make you run...then I track you...

[melodymatters]

Intriguing and well written. Are you sharing with the board, asking a question, or using LS as a forum for your creative writing class ?

[BadlyDrawnGrrl]

The only way I know how to be authentic while simultaneously managing to remain entertaining. Also, catharsis. Thanks.