A Waking Dream, Part One
Oh no, what even is this?!
She laughs. And there it is—a pink stuffed something, sitting on the bed and grinning up at me like it belongs there. From an ex, she says. Proudly. I question her judgment on several levels and decide she must be drunk. Except she isn’t. She just genuinely likes the thing. I lie down next to it anyway.
Her apartment is small. Smaller than small. I stood there taking in the photos—photos and more photos and more photos still—thinking: for someone who lives in this amount of space, she’s arranged everything with a strange tenderness. After a while the smallness stopped registering. What do we do now?
Some laughter, some shy non-eye-contact, and then we were back out on the street, walking to the video store.
Choosing a film together took longer than it should have. We ended up with one I’d already seen. I didn’t say so. The alternative was going to be a porno—genuinely all that was left on the shelf. We walked back mostly in silence.
We put on a comedy special. And there it was, the first time: that look. Gone before I could be sure it happened. A quick nod ended the moment. The first touch came after. Familiar. Not unwelcome. The apartment gave us no other option anyway, and I was glad for that, even as I turned away from her. Too much going on in my head. I checked the time to make sure we weren’t missing anything. The comedy was funny. I couldn’t concentrate on it. She was there. I was there. And that look. What was I going to allow, what wasn’t I. I stopped watching the screen. Just waiting to see what came next. A kiss at the back of the neck. Being pulled closer. A smile. That look again. It hasn’t stopped following me since.
The air had a charge to it, something ready to catch. The comedy ended, which meant separating and turning our attention to the film we’d rented. I’d already seen it. I laughed before the good scenes arrived, which meant there weren’t any good scenes anymore—for her. For me, watching her face move between confused and wryly amused was its own reward. It got late. That film ended too. But the touching didn’t stop. It got harder to pull away from. The only rule I’d set for myself: no kissing. Can’t kiss her. Hands everywhere. Breathing fast. The film’s over…
Her voice close to my ear. Then we’ll have to put something else on.
She let me choose. Cruel Intentions. Maybe not the right film for that particular evening. I was supposed to be resisting. The film became irrelevant almost immediately. Cat and mouse. I let myself get caught—by her, by that look, by the voice. Against the wall. In the corner. Colorblind playing over all of it. No kissing. Only wanting.