And beats me in the face with a pillow.
Romantic.
Truly.
This is everything I imagined.
• • •
Before I can recover he’s on top of me — wrestling, laughing, elbows everywhere, exactly like we’re ten years old again — and I am trying very hard not to think about the last time we were in this exact position and what happened after.
I fail immediately.
The wrestling slows.
The laughing goes quiet.
His hands find my face instead.
• • •
And it’s easy.
That’s the thing I keep coming back to.
How easy this is.
How easy he is, this morning, with me.
Less guarded than I’ve ever seen him.
Like something got knocked loose last night and he hasn’t put it back yet.
• • •
Like he’s trying to be present for me.
Like he’s trying to be what I need.
I appreciate that with every small, shattered piece of myself.
Because I need a distraction.
I need to feel anything other than the thing sitting on my chest with its full weight.
And I’m terrified of what happens if I’m alone for even a second with my own thoughts.
• • •
Is that why he’s here.
Does he know me that well.
Am I still the open book I spent two years trying to close.
He’s watching me.
The ease on his face shifting slightly.
