“We’re at your place again and you’re walking around the room with no real purpose, but it’s a sight I enjoy from the seat I’ve claimed the very first time I came to your place.
Your navy leggings hug your round butt cheeks so well that I can barely contain my …excitement. And you wear a loose grey knitted sweater that you stole from your mother’s attic. It has holes in it and it’s well worn, but for some reason, it makes you boyish and irrestistibly feminine in the same time.
Your bare feet and your little painted toes stick to the wooden floor as you pace back and forth on the same trail you’ve been following for an hour now.
I have no idea why you’re walking around the room, looking so worried. I gave you no reason to be nervous around me. We’ve seen each other naked and touched each other’s bodies a thousand times. And I’ve seen you cry, and you’ve also seen my cry, and also mad and drunk and puking and whatanot. There is no barrier between us and yet you choose to please my view by swinging your deliciously round hips that I’ll be grabbing on fiercely later in a distressing way.
But the silence between us is not awkward. It’s not complete silence though, it’s just that we’re not talking. I like it when we’re not talking just as much as when we’re talking, when we’re moaning or when we’re fighting. I love not talking to you.
My phone is buzzing with notifications somewhere in your proximity, the rain is hitting the window violently, the balcony door is creaking because you left it open. You always leave it open when it rains, because you love the chilly wind and you always ignore everyone who tells you to shut it when it rains.
You always do so.
Therefore, it’s not complete silence.
You sigh. God, how I love it when you sigh! Although I’d rather have you sigh under me rather than sigh of worry, but it’s alright. I’m not going to break this wonderful silence by asking you what’s wrong, because you’ll eventually tell me. Perhaps tomorrow morning, at out nonconformist breakfast that implies popcorn instead of cereal, when your dark, unruly locks will be restrained in a bun that will make your head resemble a pineapple.
You’ll pinch my sides while I’ll be pouring myself coffee, and then you’ll kiss me and sit at the table, waiting to be served, when you’ll start telling me your problem. And you’ll begin crying. I hate it when you cry, because your face looks like a red balloon. And because it crushes my fucking soul. Of course, I’ll hug you and mutter some clichés, but then you’ll wipe your nose on the sleeve of my pyjama top and you’ll ask what’s the song playing on the radio.
You always do so.
And why the hell are you even wearing that sweather?! It’s mid-June, for Christ’s sake! I’m the only one who knows you better than anyone else and I swear I don’t understand you at times. But your mind is a labyrinth I’d rather die in than reach the exit. Your mind is so goddamn complex and tangled and hard to understand, but it’s so fascinating. When will I get you, woman?
The food on the coffee table is getting stale and you’re still patrolling around. Now I’m starting to get worried.
You stop and you finally land on your butt on the couch, next to me,you grab a plate and eat like you haven’t eaten in weeks. And then you put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes, smiling content and peacefully.
I really do hope that you’re not asleep, because I really wanted to take off your sweater and make love to you or fuck you or do whatever you want me to do to you. I just want to take that sweater off you and throw it on the floor and watch you pick it up in the next morning and put it back on your naked body.
You always do so.’”