Thursday, October 6, 2016

Shut up. You Talk Too Much.

I wore that blush dress again. Different man, same dress. This time I didn't wear the sneakers. I wore the boots. 

It was already dark out because that's what happens when the season changes into autumn. The night falls early and everything is so much more inspired and mysterious and romantic, just like he is. 

I was leaning up against the columns in my dining room, waiting. I can't sit when I'm nervous. I can't eat when I'm nervous. Just about the only thing I can do when I'm nervous is talk. So I just leaned and tried to compose myself. 

He knocked on the door. And then he rang the doorbell. And then he knocked on the door again. Because he's also obnoxious. I smiled and walked over slowly, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair was bouncy ... messy ... huge. I was good to go. 

"Took ya long enough," I squeaked as I opened the door.

He smirked, his infamous smirk, "I'm here aren't I? Lose the attitude."

"Are we already going to start arguing," I returned.

He threw his hands up and started backing down the stairs, "If I'm already going to get verbally abused, I'm out."

I rushed out the door and grabbed his arm to pull him back. He giggled and wrapped his arms around my waist forcing me back into the house. He closed the door with his foot and there I was, leaning against the column again taking him all in. Thick eyebrows, blue eyes that have too many secrets and not enough time to share them all, crooked ears, a shadow on his chin, I was nervous again. Because he makes me nervous. His face makes me nervous. The way his eyes always look like their focused on something far passed me makes me nervous. That damn smirk makes me want to lose my mind. 

We weren't even talking. We were just giggling. His hand rested above my head on the column, and his other arm still circled my waist while he buried his face in my neck. I was just enjoying the moment. He was here. I could feel him. I could smell him. And now I could maybe, possibly figure all of this out. Whatever this is.

"If you're not going to kiss me can we leave?" I blurted.

He grabbed my face in his hands, "Shut up. You talk too much." 

His kisses never start off strong. I've learned that now. They're soft and questioning. He would never ask for permission with his words, instead he does it like this. Are you ready? Do you want to go further? I can read it all with one touch. I have no idea why he's still doing it though, I've never turned him down before and it's not likely in the future. 

He stopped though and touched his forehead to mine. Staring down at what seemed to be the floor. "What are you doing," I asked. 

"I'm trying to see down your shirt. Show me your tattoo."

I laughed, "If you're a good boy, maybe later."

He tugged on the lace straps peeking out from the neck of my dress, and I slapped them away. I grabbed my purse and headed to the door without him. 

"I like my coffee black, just so you know," he said. 
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