Everybody's disapproval
Andy's eagerness always makes me laugh a little. 4 texts in a row, and every time I go to meet him he's already there waiting. Tonight is no different.
I open the door into the dark night and there he is, already sat in a chair on my deck, layered to keep warm. We won't go inside tonight - we know how that ends - so instead we'll take a drink in the Autumnal air.
We pour a couple of drinks and get to talking. The outside air is cold enough that we don't need ice, and the warming liquor turns our breath into steam. I place my leg on his chair without thinking, and after sometime he takes my foot and places it on his thigh. I move my feet back to the wooden decking later, and he proceeds to wrap his feet gently around mine. We talk, but it's forced. Talking for talking's sake- for the sake of practice. Practice is what's needed when neither party has the same maternal language. It's a strange contract between verbal language and body language. Stilted and uncomfortable versus intimate and familiar.
He moves his chair closer.
I look at the sky and at the apartments around us. The sky is bright tonight, even though it's dark. Clair, but not clear. The shedding trees. Sometimes I wonder if he's looking at me - sometimes I catch him doing so.
His quietness suggests he is tired. He doesn't laugh as much tonight. For someone so eager to see me I'm unsure if he wants to be here.
"What will we do when it snows?" I ask, gesturing to the cold air. Our outside meetings will surely be compromised when it hits -30 Celsius.
"J'ais pas."
There is another moment of quiet. I'm jittery and he obviously notices the quick tap of my feet. My nervous laughter about nothing, to no one in particular.
"Une petite fille stressée'" he murmurs and leans forward to rub my thigh.
He leans back again and adds, "You still haven't told me what you're stressed about."
"Le futur. Qu'est-ce que je veux." I'm being vague, and I know it.
After the whisky there is only Southern Comfort left. I promise to pay him in better whisky next time and stand up to go to bed.
We faire les bises, but these are not bises. He kisses my cheeks slow, soft, and deliberate. His lips lingers in front of my face again for a moment and he glances into my eyes and then at my own lips. I thank him again for practising with me and move inside after a hasty hug.
By the time I get into bed there is already a light flashing on my phone.
- It's good you have a boyfriend because otherwise I would make bad decisions.
- You and me both.
- Ein? Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?
- Argh. I'm also trying not to make bad decisions.
- Good.
I open the door into the dark night and there he is, already sat in a chair on my deck, layered to keep warm. We won't go inside tonight - we know how that ends - so instead we'll take a drink in the Autumnal air.
We pour a couple of drinks and get to talking. The outside air is cold enough that we don't need ice, and the warming liquor turns our breath into steam. I place my leg on his chair without thinking, and after sometime he takes my foot and places it on his thigh. I move my feet back to the wooden decking later, and he proceeds to wrap his feet gently around mine. We talk, but it's forced. Talking for talking's sake- for the sake of practice. Practice is what's needed when neither party has the same maternal language. It's a strange contract between verbal language and body language. Stilted and uncomfortable versus intimate and familiar.
He moves his chair closer.
I look at the sky and at the apartments around us. The sky is bright tonight, even though it's dark. Clair, but not clear. The shedding trees. Sometimes I wonder if he's looking at me - sometimes I catch him doing so.
His quietness suggests he is tired. He doesn't laugh as much tonight. For someone so eager to see me I'm unsure if he wants to be here.
"What will we do when it snows?" I ask, gesturing to the cold air. Our outside meetings will surely be compromised when it hits -30 Celsius.
"J'ais pas."
There is another moment of quiet. I'm jittery and he obviously notices the quick tap of my feet. My nervous laughter about nothing, to no one in particular.
"Une petite fille stressée'" he murmurs and leans forward to rub my thigh.
He leans back again and adds, "You still haven't told me what you're stressed about."
"Le futur. Qu'est-ce que je veux." I'm being vague, and I know it.
After the whisky there is only Southern Comfort left. I promise to pay him in better whisky next time and stand up to go to bed.
We faire les bises, but these are not bises. He kisses my cheeks slow, soft, and deliberate. His lips lingers in front of my face again for a moment and he glances into my eyes and then at my own lips. I thank him again for practising with me and move inside after a hasty hug.
By the time I get into bed there is already a light flashing on my phone.
- It's good you have a boyfriend because otherwise I would make bad decisions.
- You and me both.
- Ein? Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?
- Argh. I'm also trying not to make bad decisions.
- Good.
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