We stare at each other across the table.
Nothing is going to happen unless I make the first move and that’s fitting – our entire relationship is based on the dance...around and around, him wanting me to take the lead, me wanting him to do the same. In the end, with every argument and every decision, I always acquiesce, and I’m sure this will be no different.
I’m tipsy, a little sluggish, and though he’s participated in the earlier merriment, he’s completely clearheaded. This, more so than anything, makes me nervous. I’m wondering if I’m reading his signals wrong. And they have to be signals because he would never come out and say what’s on his mind. Dragging the truth, dragging any sort of feeling or desire out of him is exhausting. This may be the first time we’ve physically met, but I’ve known him long enough to understand what he may not: As long as someone else is making the decision, he’s not really responsible for what follows.
Be that as it may, I want him.
We move to the living room and he deliberately sits on the far side of the couch and grins. It’s clearly a challenge and I decide I’m tired of playing games.
I crook my finger. “Come here.”
“What”, he says, still smiling. He slides a little closer and I meet him halfway.
It’s only the second time in my entire life that I’ve kissed someone I have genuine feelings for...and though I’m not prepared for it, I’m immediately aware of the difference.
He pulls back, hands on either side of my face, our breath still mingling and says, “It’s been a long time coming. Three years...”
I’m suddenly too wrapped up in what’s happening to be rational, to be me. As I follow him up the hall, I try to tell myself one last time that it doesn’t mean anything. But when he kisses me again I forget all my promises, all my warnings...
And I think, “How could he not feel this? He must – it’s unreal.”
The Itch - a story
1 week ago