“I… I love them.”
He grabs his phone, swipes, and the surround sound comes on. Joshua Radin’s voice plays through the speakers. His songSomeone Else’s Lifebegins to play.
“I’m glad,” he whispers. “I love them, too.”
The way my heart is beating makes me dizzy, so I grip the counter. He reaches for my elbow and stops me from leaning into it. He envelops me in his arms, knowing exactly what I truly need —what I don’t even know I need.
I sigh against his chest. His heartbeat is powerful against my ear, heavy and sturdy. He lowers his head, nuzzling the side of my face.
“I love you, Blesk,” he says into my ear. His words hit me like an electric shock. I believe him. “I can’t write or play the guitar, Duch, but this song reminds me of us.” He feeds his fingers through mine and begins to dance with me, lowering his other hand to the small of my back so he can lead.
“Sing while I dance, Kon. Sing and whistle.”
“I wish I could dance with you Liz, like a walzz.”
“It is called a waltz. With a T."
“Yeah, a waltz. But I would be in charge because I’m a boy. The boy is always in charge.”
“Na-ah! I’d be in charge! You’re my pet. I’m your master. Watch me, watch me twirl. See... Spin in your cage, spin like this. It’s fun.”
“You’re a terrible dancer, Liz.”
“You’re a terrible singer, Kon.”
He hums and sings a few lines to me, and I notice my fingers moving on his back, figuring out the chord progressions.
I inhale hard, trying to stifle happy tears. I’m just so damn tired of crying all the time, however, if I had to choose between never crying again or crying but also experiencing these happy tears, I would choose the latter.
He steals a kiss.
Quick.
Magic.
The wine is warming my cheeks, and his unwavering attention warms every other part of me, too. He cradles me close to him, rocking, swaying, and dancing. He moves with confidence. I giggle as he steals more kisses from me, from my neck, my jaw, my shoulders. “You’re a terrible dancer,” he whispers with a laugh.
My tongue pushes through the middle of my teeth. “You’re a terrible singer.”
It is after midnight now. We are both a little drunk, lying on his bare mattress, facing each other, talking about music and books.
We’re sharing a pillow, and his emerald irises are only inchesaway, every freckle within them visible. He gazes at me, eyes bouncing around my face, almost as if he’s mapping my features to a grid in his mind.
“You know, I’ve spent so many nights thinking about touching you.” He sighs. "Thinking about touching more than your finger.” He places his index finger tenderly on my shoulder. I shiver beneath it. We touch when we kiss on campus. We grab and pull and push, but this is… different. We are alone. No one to interrupt us… He traces a path slowly from my collarbone down to the crease in my elbow, along my forearm, and to the centre of my palm.
This shouldnotaffect me like it does. I shouldn’t be pressing my thighs together. Shouldn’t be overcome with the urge to lift my hips, seeking pressure.
His breathing deepens as he draws circles in my palm. I part my lips. My body hums.
“I always dreamed of being able to touch you. For four years I laid on that mattress in the dark and ran my index finger over my thumb, over and over, dreaming my thumb was you. I would imagine being able to heal your cheeks and your lips with my finger.” He pauses, unspoken words hanging in the air, then he says, “I remember seeing your bruises, Duchess.”
I nod. I had a lot.
“I wanted to touch them, soothe them. On your wrist and knees and chin... I thought that if I could touch them or kiss them, I could make them feel better. The stupid things kids think. Like my love could fix them.” He laughs but it’s a hollow, sad sound. “Is that weird?”
I gaze at this beautiful man and shake my head. “I would never think that was weird.”
“I’m going to touch you now,” he says, no declares, his voice husky and intense and dominant.
