.. cant look away
I like most things about her. Which is more than most people can say. I wish she was less skittish (like those stupid wolf graphics she is so fond of doling across our text threads) and I wish she was less prone to falling asleep on me with the weighty, dreamlessness of a german shepherd. I always assure her she’s not crushing my arm because I would rather she was close to me than not close to me. Sometimes the dull ache in my shoulder makes me think this is a white lie I could afford to discard, and sometimes I’ll feel her muppet-esque eyelashes flutter on my bare chest and it feels kind of like there are butterflies on either side of my skin.
There are things I don’t understand about her. She goes to the grocery store twice a day but seems to subsist off of toast and tea, and I find her watermelon habit endearing if not puzzling because who the fuck gnaws all the way down to the rind? She applies cuticle oil and hand cream more diligently than most people dental floss, and she is as loyal to the Wordle as one can only hope their future wife is. She collects Arcteryx jackets and recently, Dyson hair appliances, and somehow she doesn’t own a single handbag so she jams everything in her pockets.
Last time we went to the club, she deemed a breathalyzer and her uncased phone the only armor she needed. We caught the last train home that night and I can’t remember if she fell asleep on me or not– I like that silence is just as comfortable as her stream-of-consciousness nattering. I think about how warm she is, and that makes me warm too; she told me she scratched out a few poems about me (but she won’t let me read them), and the flush that enlivened itself across her face put a hint of a smile on mine.
There is an earnesty about her that almost feels like she’s finally become alive for the first time only recently. She holds the same wide-eyed wonder for every lime wedge garnish as for seeing a baby bear on the side of the mountain road, and she holds a mug with two hands. Sometimes she uses expressions that are so odd or dated I have to ask her to explain them, and her eyes adopt this sheepish glow as she untangles the idiom I didn’t understand. There is a certain gingerness to the way she talks like she’s already certain you're listening. She’s right; I am.
The first time I told her I was falling in love with her she said thank you. I pretended not to notice the apology she hand printed in tedious small-caps wasn’t signed because the letter itself was a great enough profession of affection I could read it in her voice. “I’m sorry I don’t tell you I love you more, I hope you can feel it, though,” and I pretend not to notice that her voice still catches when she says the words. “I’m a decently direct person, just not really all that affectionate,” and it sometimes feels like it takes everything in me to tell her neither am I. I like when she says she “wants to do things right this time,” and I try not to think about what her implied “usual wrong” looked like.
I think she looks the same without makeup on as she does with it. Her fixation on her Dyson hairdryer seemed a bit unnecessary, until she blew me with it. The air current is so strong, it made me feel like a dog sticking its head out the window. It was also surprisingly cool, unlike the hot exhale of a cheap dryer. I like how she dresses; nonchalantly; a pair of jeans 8 sizes too big, a shirt with an age-faded graphic on it, a statement belt tucked away under countless layers, fingerless gloves, a rainproof jacket zipped all the way up her throat.. None of her clothes fit her, exactly, except for those tube tops she loves so much… I love….
I want it to last. I think she wants it too. I can’t figure out where I end and she begins sometimes. She sends me links to songs she likes in the format I can listen to. She hasn’t missed… yet. She kisses me like she means it. When she is not crushing me, I miss the dull ache in my shoulder.