Playing Footsie

Once

there was a boy. And every afternoon I’d find away to sneak away to his room and we’d slowly undress in the sunlight. It was warm and bright and I fell in love.

Eventually, I realized I was in love with those afternoons and not with the boy.

I miss that slow, langouorous, warm, and salty sex though.

When you’re single, sex is frantic or blurry or just simple.

It’s good. But it’s not sunny summer afternoon good.

I used to like Friday nights the most. Cocktails on Friday offered the anticipation of opportunities. Would I meet someone? Would I kiss someone? Would I wake up with someone? Would I remember the night? Would I want to remember the night?

Now, sometimes, I find myself ready for Saturday morning to be here. I’m ready to sit around a brunch table and tell the stories with my friends over coffee, bloody marys, bacon, and eggs. I’m ready to laugh at the stupid stuff we did and the ridiculous things we said and the way he liked this and the way I liked that and how the fuck are we still alive.

That’s the fun part. The other stuff is just so you’ll have something to share other than the bill.

If I text you, it means I miss you. If I don’t, it means I’m waiting for you to miss me.

jessicachu:

Yeah, seems about right.