He's lying across from me in the halflight from the streetlights outside, and he is beautiful.
We broke up about a month ago. It's not difficult to look at him, never was, and I catch myself following the lines of his face and shoulder above the blanket, his arm and pectoral a stupidly perfect half image of comfort and unreasonable contentment. Something you want to cuddle up to, be close to, steal body heat and softness from.I know I've been caught staring when he opens an eye and looks right back. That tension he's so very good at building, where you can feel a kiss in the air well before he let's you have it. Not having a kiss tonight. Broken up, after all.
I know I would be caught eventually though, that eye was always going to open, and I was never not going to be looking. Even in the practical dark his one eye is light and silvery and bright with humor and intelligence (he should be tired. I'm tired. We've had a long day, long week, whatever that eye should be, it shouldn't be blazing with anything. He never loses control). I check myself for a response that isn't there, just a deer in one little headlight. Trapped and caught, not like I can talk my way out of having taken him in. Not like I want to.
I know why he opened that one eye, it's open because he was planning to lie there and take me in as well, to connect in an almost fully one-sided way, like he has been scratching my shoulder while I was watching a movie and he was checking in for his flight, because I know it's difficult for him to not touch me a little. It's probably difficult for him not to touch me a lot (I hope it is, and I don't), and he's not exactly turning away from my stare, in a way that makes me feel he could've been caught looking just as easily, but he didn't get caught and so he's winning this one. I'm not aloof, with him, not running hot and cold to keep him where I want. Not in control, no layer of careful artifice to keep him at a distance. He's where he wants to be, comfortable, in his own bed.
I am, however, in trouble.
Because I'm strong and have set a course of platonic close distance I'm stupid, and I move a little closer through air as hazy and full of dumb decisions as an Irish pub around midnight, and link an arm round his and press my forehead to his shoulder to feel him around. He presses back, I feel his breath on my neck as I search and he searches for the connection that isn't, can't be, shouldn't be, there.
At least I think that's the connection he's looking for. Would like to think that it is.
I'm not even absolutely sure I want that kiss to solidify, that connection to be searched for. In fact, I am sure I dont, actually; would heartily reject kissing and turn round and sleep on my other side if it even got close to happening.
But he's smarter than that, as am I (he's much smarter, of course, much more used to having this effect and throwing it out just to see what happens in an infuriating non-committal way. Just out there, to be picked up or not, either way works for him, proves something to him), and we move closer and touch innocent parts, platonic parts. Meaningless, stupid parts. Nothing over the elbow, just arms, hands. Safe. Ha. Safe...
We broke up a month ago.
He broke up with me a month ago. No part of my body is used to not responding to him being so near just yet. Near, sure. We've met in the last few weeks. I'm careless, brave and stupid but not stupid enough to jump into this deep end without some preparation, been close and hugged and carefully monitored my responses and emotions so I could confidently sleep next to him with no ill effect tonight. But not so near, not so near to do this touching-but-not-touching. I'm not sleeping and neither is he. Sleeping would have been the right choice. Not trying to steal a moment that is destined to break.
I want to turn away. There's no eye contact now. I can see only a small patch of his skin and it should be easy to turn round and pass out. But it would require a little more strength to do so without looking at him again.I don't want to start moving and look into his face and see that expression that means he's doing this for my benefit, he's letting all this closeness happen because it makes me happy, or he thinks it makes me happy. I've seen that face before. It's probably a lie (a charming, beautiful, distant lie), but such a convincing lie I'll feel bad for days.
I'm sure it's a lie because I'm sure I'm not the only one who still wants this. Not the only one who's body betrays him at certain points and longs to be close. If it is a lie he's one of the best liars I've ever seen, an artist without a canvas. An artist with all too willing canvases.
I fall asleep and I wake up. Our arms are now fully knotted. Weirdly comfortable. I don't open my eyes but I untangle.
Sleep again, wake up again. Arms back in position. Fingers curled. He's asleep, and as far as I can tell has been asleep. Lucky him. Untangle.
Sleep, and wake. Spooning. It's getting light and alarms will be going off soon. I'm in his arms and I shouldn't be. Don't want to be. Do want to be, but want to be voluntarily there, want him to want to have me there and not just because bodies have gravity and there's only so many positions you can be in after that gravity has run it's mindless course.
But I'm in his arms and that seems natural (even though it isn't), and we'll wake up soon anyhow and there's no reason to break this now if it'll break in a few minutes. I'm torturing myself. Not then and there, of course, because there's little that's torturous in spooning, but I know I'm going to think about this later, that it's going to take that much longer to not feel him around me. His skin cools at night to a pleasant spooning temperature. Not cold and unpleasant, nor warm and sweaty. Though spooning being what it is, not all parts are as cool as other parts. His chest against my back, legs against mine, smooth and dry, even now he keeps it all in. Comfortable. Sweet. Familiar, though we haven't slept like this often.But I can feel his body responding to mine as much as mine is to his. An arm initially carelessly thrown over makes a spirited attempt to crest a hipbone and finally just jumps it, coming to rest in the hollow of my waist, hands brushing across me accidentally in a way that wasn't always accidental.
Isn't, possibly, this time.