One is happy, but fidgety, like he likes it but it isn’t as perfect as it could be. His fingers move wiggle at my sides, sneaking under various parts of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask?
Suddenly I am up, off my side, and on him. “Just trying to get you closer,” he says, trying to hide his smile, more self-satisfied or grateful, I don’t know. I lay my head down, snuggle into a position I most prefer – something I call “koala-ing.” He’s the eucalyptus now. I’d tell him, except his eyes are closed. It’s so rare he’s not chin-forward and hyper-vigilant. I let the man rest.
Another will not stop smiling. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His face looks like someone cracked a glass mask, all crinkles and lines and light shining through. It’s just morning. It’s just traffic. It’s just us and us isn’t anything with a name the world understands – just friends who get along better than people seem to realize. Just two people, one who trusts when it’s so hard for her to trust, one who understands when he rarely finds a grasp on anyone.
I think of pointing out his goofy grin, or the fact that he’s a little lost as I turn to leave. I think about saying “you love me a LOT, man.” But it’s not often he looks like the puppy he can be, when no one is barking at him. I let the man smile.
Love comes in so many forms, and I feel oppressed by how few are understood, appreciated, expected. I store up moments and memories, like I have always done. I wonder if I am single, if I have ever been single, if the definitions and measurements given me by an unexplained raising and patriarchal structures and mono-hetero-normative culture can serve any purpose – except that of helping me translate my soul to other people’s ideas, except I want out of the business of translating, anyway.
It’s not often any of us are capable of just being. I let myself just be.