The Novel-less Novelist

Dear Joshua

Fuck butterflies.

I'm thinking today of that night, that first, perfect night.
I'm thinking of your purple shirt that smelled of detergent and street party and you.
Of the way you held both our drinks in one hand so your other could be low enough on my back to not really be on my back anymore as you guided us to the badly-lit booth in the back.
The feeling of your hand on my leg as you leaned in closer to hear my stories, the way you looked at my throat when I tilted my head back to laugh, then looked down the deep vee of my dress with greed and without embarrassment.

It was a seedy bar with sticky tabletops and gritty floors. I remember the tinkle of the bell when we walked through the door as friends, and the tinkle of the bell as we left it as more. From the moment you touched my hair, the inside of my wrist, I knew our friendship was doomed. Over before it really began. It wasn't butterflies you gave me that night. Fuck butterflies. It was a pack of wild stallions stampeding around in my stomach, a feeling so intense and so urgent there was no question that I could or would ignore it.

Husband? What husband?

I remember that you held my hand, sweetly. I remember how our limbs brushed together repeatedly as we walked along too closely. I remember standing in front of a hoover store, the St Clair crowds slowly thinning in the lateness of the hour, and you wrapping your arms around me as if it were some romantic spot. It wasn't, and it was.

It all happened so fast, didn't it? Only a couple of hours from near-strangers to...to this. To you pointing out stars to me that we could barely see. To me asking if you wanted to come up. To you saying yes, desperately.

And so it was.

xo

posted by Jay @ 10:49 AM