Hold on, don't let me go
"There is a distinct possibility that you are the only man I will ever love," I say to Mr. Caulfield over tea. He smiles. It's not a warm smile, but it melts me all the same. He knows it.
I return his smile while I pour some tea. I wait for his words to collapse the silence that separates us, like the table; distance is not a luxury I can afford when I feel this way.
"I need you so much closer," a thought better left in my head lingers in the silence.
Slowly, he removes his cap. Setting the smooth, red fabric delicately on the table, he turns to me as if to finally end my madness and join the conversation. Instead, he takes my hand and begins to make small circles around the scars and the wear. It is moments like this that envelop my head into clouds of infatuation. I sip my tea nervously with my untouched hand, begging for my mouth to hold back words now stuck in my throat.
"You're the only one who can see it," once the tea can no longer act as barrier, the words escape my lips. They have been trapped, longing to be free, and words like this always have a way of demanding attention.
Mr. Caulfield begins to close his eyes; it is as though this moment brings him a great burden or perhaps causes a monumental relief. With this boy - the one who sees it, the one who knows, the one who holds my heart - I can never quite tell what I do to him. He is an empty book, full of pages and words that hide the moment the cover is lifted. It kills me some days, to know that he holds everything I want so close and out of my reach.
Before his eyes can make the shift, close fully and relaxed, I ease my hand away and rise from my seat. While gathering the strength, or perhaps having a change of heart, I begin to move dishes and busy my now lonesome hands. My lips part slightly, still locking in the words that have been trapped inside for thirteen years: 'I need you'. The thought mocks me late at night when the darkness and quiet become so peaceful I can not bear to let it happen without my notice.
I slide into his arms, aiming once again at ease, but the movement feels forced due to hesitation. I reach for the red cap as his hand finds its home on my lower back. I place the cap awkwardly over my hair, adjusting ever so slightly so my eyes can still find his.
That smile.
There is a glimmer of warmth not seen before on those precious lips. His eyes, once again, begin to soften and shut. 'This is long overdue,' I think those words and, in the same moment, speak them. He pays no real attention to the sound, but he draws me closer. I press against him and do my best to place my shaky hand on the back of his neck.
His skin is warm. His mouth is inviting. He is everything I need.
I still can not tell you how I found courage that day. Still, there is a part of me that feels it was foolishness and not a courageous act that brought me to his arms, to his lips. I can tell you, so gladly I will, that it was the only moment that truly brought me joy in this world. The one and only.
I return his smile while I pour some tea. I wait for his words to collapse the silence that separates us, like the table; distance is not a luxury I can afford when I feel this way.
"I need you so much closer," a thought better left in my head lingers in the silence.Slowly, he removes his cap. Setting the smooth, red fabric delicately on the table, he turns to me as if to finally end my madness and join the conversation. Instead, he takes my hand and begins to make small circles around the scars and the wear. It is moments like this that envelop my head into clouds of infatuation. I sip my tea nervously with my untouched hand, begging for my mouth to hold back words now stuck in my throat.
"You're the only one who can see it," once the tea can no longer act as barrier, the words escape my lips. They have been trapped, longing to be free, and words like this always have a way of demanding attention.
Mr. Caulfield begins to close his eyes; it is as though this moment brings him a great burden or perhaps causes a monumental relief. With this boy - the one who sees it, the one who knows, the one who holds my heart - I can never quite tell what I do to him. He is an empty book, full of pages and words that hide the moment the cover is lifted. It kills me some days, to know that he holds everything I want so close and out of my reach.
Before his eyes can make the shift, close fully and relaxed, I ease my hand away and rise from my seat. While gathering the strength, or perhaps having a change of heart, I begin to move dishes and busy my now lonesome hands. My lips part slightly, still locking in the words that have been trapped inside for thirteen years: 'I need you'. The thought mocks me late at night when the darkness and quiet become so peaceful I can not bear to let it happen without my notice.
I slide into his arms, aiming once again at ease, but the movement feels forced due to hesitation. I reach for the red cap as his hand finds its home on my lower back. I place the cap awkwardly over my hair, adjusting ever so slightly so my eyes can still find his.
That smile.
There is a glimmer of warmth not seen before on those precious lips. His eyes, once again, begin to soften and shut. 'This is long overdue,' I think those words and, in the same moment, speak them. He pays no real attention to the sound, but he draws me closer. I press against him and do my best to place my shaky hand on the back of his neck.
His skin is warm. His mouth is inviting. He is everything I need.
I still can not tell you how I found courage that day. Still, there is a part of me that feels it was foolishness and not a courageous act that brought me to his arms, to his lips. I can tell you, so gladly I will, that it was the only moment that truly brought me joy in this world. The one and only.
It's was though his lips finally felt like they had a role to play; he whispered the moment our lips parted, "Sneaky girl. You're pretty."
