What if I picked a rainy Sunday morning in November when it was too cold for us
to bother to get out of bed. What if I made coffee, got the paper, slipped back
in beside him and watched him sleep until he finally opened his eyes to the new
day. What if I leaned in right then, so close he could hear me breathe and said
everything he’s been waiting to hear.
What if I did it as we danced to the beat of some mundane song on a typical
Friday night. Swaying and laughing and drinking. His half-lidded eyes so
focused on me, like I’m the only thing in the world he can see. I could lean
down, press my lips to his ear and just tell him.
What if I did it right now, in between bites of this cut-rate salad, on a warm
day in July surrounded by all these…people. What if I made some sort of
over-the-top, disgustingly romantic proclamation in front of everyone. What if
it made up for the million times I didn’t tell him.
“Justin,” he’s laughing with Ben about some part of some book they’ve both
read.
“Justin,” his eyes meet mine. He’s still half-laughing about whatever the good
professor just said.
He waits.
I breathe.
“I...” What if I can’t ever say it?
A pause that lasts six seconds is drawn out and twisted around and poked in my
side and made to feel like more than an eternity.
“I know,” his smile is slight and knowing. His eyes beam with secret
recognition. He turns back and continues his conversation. And I would think
the exchange didn’t exist at all, except for the fact that his leg moves up against
mine and his ankle hooks around my calf and his foot flexes and touches me in a
way that says ‘thank you’ a million times over. I go back to eating my shitty
spinach salad and so what if I never say it. He knows.
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