He says you’re a dreamer, an optimist, a glass-is-half-full kind of guy. You’re
well aware of the negative stigma he attaches to all of those classifications.
It doesn’t bother you that he rolls his eyes when you get excited about
Thursday night television, a new art opening or really good sushi. Well, not
much.
You just wish that simple things made him happy. You wonder how he’d be
different if buying a new pair of D&G loafers got him going like the prize
in the cereal box got you going. You wonder if a walk in the park on a perfect
cool, clear afternoon in May could ever make him buzz from the inside out. You
wonder if you’d absolutely hate that version of him if this perverted dream of
yours came true.
He’s a cynic, a pessimist, a
glass-is-half-empty-and-where-the-fuck-is-the-rest-of-the-bottle-anyway kind of
guy. While this personality he’s crafted after a lifetime of love-shortage is
the very core of him, you wonder if he’s ever considered changing. If maybe he
might just like to smile when you’re happy and laugh when you make dumb jokes
and sigh when you kiss him.
He doesn’t and you’re pretty fucking sure he never will. But, you still wonder.
And as long as you never mention it and as long as you never stare at him over
coffee on a Sunday morning with that longing look in your eye, you know he’ll
never be the wiser.
So he can go on being an asshole to the world. And he can go on pretending he
doesn’t give a shit about what anybody thinks. And he can keep looking at you
like you just deplaned a fucking UFO with purple cows flying out of your ass
when you comment on how great life is. Because really, how else would you know
that he loved you?
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