He noticed, I wonder what he thought. If I put it into words it would go over cheesy, cliché, kitsch, you name it. His beard, the distant mark or laceration: he squeezed a pimple there, for sure. The idea of what he wants, beginning to wrap myself around it, this constant contact we have  had since that first random fateful party: he was the hetero friend, sweetheart, tall drink of water.

When I saw the bag he carried in for a night or two I wished for it not show on my face, the fainting. I glance at him as he walks somewhere, or as he works fully attentive: I want to smell him, sit on his lap, I take his hand to my thigh or my boob. But it’s not sexual, the gesture, and he knows it as well, though it can get there, it might always get there. Always, all of 3 weeks, but why be a cynic when nature opens in abundance? We walk each other to things, run errands and often I cannot hear when he talks (he talks rather inward, he says so himself) because he’s tall, and even the short beard must muffle it.

He has seen them, coarse black ink from the nineties;  maybe heard a sketch of the stories from me in passing, the approximate age range when I got them. I warned him I might scare him off, he doesn’t budge, he even says those unrepeatable things, the cheesy kind. I squirm and smile, while an hour before I wondered, again, when, if ever, he would call.



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