Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Writing about last night

I’m sorry, you guys.

This is so irritating.

I want to write about The Coach. I want to get last night out of my memory and off of my chest and officially on record and I can’t do it. Not like I want it to. Not in any way that makes sense. Not so that I can look back on my words one day and be brought right back to where I am at this very second. In my purple shirt. Wearing my favorite ring. Hair in a ponytail, courtesy of the unrelenting humidity. And giddy about last night.

And I can’t do it. I can’t get the words from my head through my keyboard. They come out all jumbled and nonsensical and as a creepy hybrid of a corny romance novel, an especially dirty issue of Cosmopolitan and a self-help book.

I want to tell you about where I am right now and where I was yesterday.

I want to write paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. Like I’ve written about other boys. Nauseating detail. Exhausting detail. Details that we could all mull over together like it was a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle.

I want to write about his slight stubble and how, laughing, I held his flip flop for him when it put it on. About how he ate the cookies that I gave him – cookies that I had baked just that morning, almost as though I knew that he would be over right after work even though I didn’t. About the missed call on my phone and the perfect timing that, for once, worked on our favor.

I want to write every detail.

And if I can’t write every detail, I want to write my favorite detail. I want to write about how he pulled me in for a kiss, whispering “come 'ere” to me in a voice that was soft and hoarse and perfect and how, in that second, what we had wasn’t just for fun. It was the only thing in the world that I wanted. And I wanted it to last forever.

And how I’ve spent my entire day trying to wring out that feeling.


Anonymous said...

does that mean he is staying nearby?

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