i hate not finishing things
so i'm going to finish this story. so if you're still around, hey, what's up? thanks for reading, but apologies for how short this is. it's just an attempt to get started on finishing something i started once, before things were different, etc.
I've always enjoyed watching movies with him.
TV, too. Even though that was a different experience pre-Netflix.
He's always had a thing for memorizing things. His favorite lines, whether they're from TV or movies. He incorporates quotes and references in his everyday speech, and even if I'm sick and tired of hearing his favorites, I laugh. It feels pretty lame, because I'm an adult who's been laughing at the same things for what seems like decades.
Except there was that almost-decade I spent without him.
At the beginning of our latest "courtship" - if that's what we're going to call him cheating with me on his wife, he did less of this. But I guess he's more comfortable now. We're acting like friends again, not just two people looking for corners to whispers things in. I like it a lot. Come for the sex, stay for Netflix and movies we've both seen, and the quotes even I'm way too familiar with at this point. Or vice-versa. But not yet. I'm too focused on the sex still. Too focused.
So when we're sitting on my couch, and Mom's loudly vacuuming my hardwood floors with the vacuum she insisted on bringing along with her from Forks, Edward quotes a line before it actually comes up on screen. How stupidly happy it makes me also makes me stupidly nervous. To like someone so much. Forget love. That's something I can't even think about this second, because I'm so overwhelmed with liking him.
So I put my fingers in his hair, on the back of his head, and play with the softness. This boy is softer than he was when he was younger. He's soft soft soft in a way that embarrasses my fingertips. They must be harsh and unpleasant against his skin. Because that's where I've moved onto. But I touch him despite my stupid thoughts and think about idiotic things:
is this going to last
is this going to happen again next weekend
what if I keep waiting and anticipating and it doesn't -
and this could be for a very legitimate, stupid, nothing-to-worry-about reason, but what if it doesn't?
(when do I stop worrying and realize he's in my life he's in my life he's in my life even if that doesn't mean every night or every week or something maybe even less than that)
This man who was the boy I grew up watching movies with. He watches them the same way, even if he doesn't fuck me the same way. Even if he doesn't argue the same way. Or maybe nothing has changed, but I've forgotten too many details.
Mom's vacuum is driving me crazy, making it hard for us to hear what's going on in the movie. But it's okay, because Edward knows all of it. And when he quotes things he's never looking at the screen. Always my face. Like I should clap. Like I should pet him. Like I should say "good boy" in a pitch higher than my usual.
Remember when Mom would joke about him moving to Hollywood because of the voices and imitations he could do? And the uncanny ability to remember any line, no matter how unfunny or unimportant. I used to imagine that future and be sad, because my best friend would be gone. Later, when I fell achingly in love with him it would drive me crazy because my best friend would be gone. But now my best friend had a soft voice he used with me, hands I spent too many minutes thinking about.
"Let's watch that again. It's so funny."
I'll always do what he wants. What does that make me?
And does the answer to the question matter when I remember the boy who used to ask it in the same excited way? Because I remember him and love him and the man next to me.
Head in his lap.
Head on his shoulder.
Hand in my hair.
Feet under his thighs.
Where did this paranoia come from?
Tonight all I can think is... don't leave, don't leave.