I think I was addicted to his stability. It was something I desperately craved. The independence and confidence that came with being alone was something he possessed so deeply.
I couldn’t tell what I liked more, talking to him or kissing him. There was a sense of wanting whenever we kissed. It was always too good to stop, so we would kiss for hours on end. He would grab my hips and I would reach for his neck. It was that kind of relationship: passionate. In those tender moments, it felt like I knew him so well.
But I didn’t know him at all.
I don’t know if we’d be a great couple. He’s too good for me. He’s accomplished and smart. Sometimes I feel like I’m flailing through life – like an old t-shirt hanging slightly crooked on the clothing line, one sleeve clipped on while the other one wavers in the summer breeze. He was always walking the tightrope with such precision, arms outstretched in perfect form and his nose to the sky in pure confidence.
I begged to read his mind. I wanted to know every thought that ran through it. I wanted to know what he thought about as I walked out of his front door to my car every night at 1 am. I wanted to know what he thinks about when I kiss his neck ever so lightly and his eyes close. I wanted to know what he thinks about before he crawls in bed at night.
He made me want to stay home, and be present. Cook some dinner, watch a semi-bad movie, and make out on the kitchen counter. There was something about the way he poured wine that made me shiver; always one-handed with as much ease as a cat sleeping on a tiny armrest. I wanted to be that cat, sleeping on him ever so perfectly. I wanted to be comfortable with him. In fact, I was.
We cuddled up on the couch one night while watching TV. My one leg swung over his, his arm wrapped around my waist as perfect as a blanket, and his hand curled above my hip bone. I fell asleep almost immediately, drowning in his intoxicating comfort. Something I hadn’t felt in so long. Something I desperately craved, every day of my life.
I wanted to shoot the comfort into my veins, like a drug. I wanted it so badly.
We would talk about life, joke about each other, and every now and then we’d both be silent, smiling at the other, almost waiting for something better to happen, then we’d kiss. Our kisses were more than perfect, they were immaculate. I felt like praying after, thanking God for such a beautiful experience.
He was so slow, and every kiss felt better than the last. Somehow I got under, under the spell and became addicted.
It wasn’t that I wanted to date him; I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to exist with him, next to him. I had often fantasized about coming home to him every day and feeling that comfort. Walking in and seeing him standing there in the hallway. It would almost make life perfect. I think I’d be happy every day. I would go to bed smiling and wake up smiling. I’m sure of it.
But I don’t know if he would. I know he wanted me, but I don’t know how much.
And I don’t know if I love him, or if I was just addicted to his stability.