Blister

I like to think of him thinking of me sometimes, his brow furrowing as he wonders what he’s going to do with me, how I wandered in uninvited, if he remembered to turn off the coffee pot before leaving the house that morning. We both know that I WAS invited (by him no less), that it’s a standing invite that we both enjoy because I’m the type to linger. The pinball-like game of his internal dialogue is played out in the complex layering of his silent expression: anger, mocking, hope (inhales), thoughtful, disdainful, intelligent (exhales), inquisitive, distracted, rejection (inhales), knowing, whole, horny (exhales, slowly…), fury, wantonness, wanting (smiles with his eyes, coughing slightly).

I also like to think of his hands, fingers thick and determined. They pour themselves into a surprisingly crisp script, block letters almost childlike in their proportion, linear and precise – not the clumsy, cumbersome alphabet I expected after being pummeled into submission by the rounded vowels bellowed from his determined tongue. His handwriting doesn’t rant like he does, betraying him while confirming the softness that his eyes reveal when he’s not looking, only reinforcing his appeal.

On days like today -- distracted, overextended, drowning in a demanding sea of "to do's" -- I like to think of him... so I do.