I was up by midnight. It is 4am now, and I have thought of nothing else but you. Your skin, smooth like a song. I think, if this were a scene in an American rom-com, it’d be set on a Friday night. You would be at the bar with your friends, and I would be at a table outside, looking in through its glass wall. The bar would be on a crowded street. There would be so many people out tonight, and that’s the beauty of the charged moment: noticing somebody in a crowd. I imagine you now, an orange shirt, black pants, thick hair locd off your scalp. I notice your demeanor : confident, you own the room. At first, it’d feel like an episode of YOU- creepy. Me casting glances of want at a stranger in a bar. That’s until you catch my eyes by accident. And the accidents become a thing for the rest of the night, frequent. I too, would be sitting with a friend, her beautiful smile and voice fading into the background of the heat building between you and I. I’d begin to rise from my seat, floating into the bar through the door, and you, lifted into the air with me. Suddenly, it’s just us, magically floating in the air above the inebriated, loud crowd. We have a table too, two seats, and two glasses of red wine. You smile at me, and the clichés roll in : I forget how to breathe, time stops, the world stops, there’s tingles up my spine. I blush. You put out your hand across the table and gently touch my fingers. You are asking, I am stumbling over my words to say yes. My yes is an ask, too. We look up into each other for a minute, and I see the tenderness in your eyes; you see the adoration in mine. I am worried that my desire shall offend you. You take my worry and roll it up into a kiss. In the kiss, you ask me for myself, and I open up to let you fill me. I want you to come home with me, for you to stand behind me as I lock the rest of the world outside. For me to turn around and pull you in for a kiss. I want you to see that my body was unprepared for this, soaked in the shower of surprise and inexperience. I want your hands to convince me that you see it, and you find it beautiful. I want to hate the morning after, watching you whisked off by an Uberian stranger, not knowing whether we’ll ever cross paths, again.
Except this is not a scene in a movie, it’s 5am now, and I have been up since midnight thinking about you, and lots of nothing else.
