Perfect Light (760)

I yawn and stretch my back before I put my head back on your shoulder. There is something about that perfect light on an autumn morning. My fingers draw lazy patterns on your chest, tickling you here and there. You pull me closer until we kiss. We don’t have any obligations. Lockdown is still going strong, and we are living in our fantasy bubble – you and me. Your hand feels warm on my skin.

You pull away with a grin, and I watch you as you walk to the bathroom. I like how comfortable you are in your skin. When we met, you weren’t comfortable at all. You were shy about the extra kilos you are carrying. I never cared about that. You don’t bother closing the door and what used to be disgusting in other partnerships seems normal with you. It’s not as if I am watching you. At least not while you are in the bathroom. But I am not appalled either. Everything flows naturally between us. Nothing to hide. You wash your hands and come back to the bedroom/living room/kitchen – it’s all in one. You are oblivious to my thoughts. I can’t stop grinning, and I hope that you come back to bed. But you are not. Instead, you sit at the piano. Naked as you are.

You put your hair in a tie and bow your head. A lock falls out, and you push it back behind your ear. I know that it won’t stay there. You know it too. I keep observing you. Your fingers glide over the keys without pushing down. There is no sound. You close your eyes, and I know you are zoning out. You are drifting off into your creative space. It is as if you know exactly how the song you are not playing will sound. And, I guess you really know. There is music in your veins.

I sit up on the bed, covering myself with the sheet. It’s something I have seen in many movies before. From the nightstand, I grab my journal and pen. They are always close by in the hopes of some creative input. I haven’t written much since I first got off the plane and into your life. There is no urgency to write anything of substance, and yet, I want to immortalise this moment somehow. I notice that I left a scratchmark on your shoulder. The skin is red, not bloody, just red. And maybe it stands out because you are very pale.

You turn around and look at me. I want to take a photo of you. You are smirking; through the stubble covering your cheeks and chin, I can see your dimple. There is only one. You haven’t shaved since I came for a visit. I like this look on you. Completely relaxed.

This was unplanned. I was supposed to stay for one night and two days. It has turned into four weeks due to a surprise hard lockdown and all flights out being cancelled. Four weeks of you and me in a tiny apartment. I am happy that I am here. And you seem happy too.

You cock your head to the side, and more of your hair leaves the ponytail. I look you straight in the eyes. Something has happened between us. Something neither of us expected.

I push my journal and pen away again. I will not write. Most of my prose sprung from sadness and melancholia. I’m not feeling any of those right now. I push the sheet away and move past you to the kitchenette. You slap my butt, and I squeal. I fill a glass with water, take a sip and go back to you, offering you my glass. You take it and put it on a stack of papers. Then you pull me against you. Your head against my chest, my chin on your head. I sigh. This feels like home. A perfect moment that can never be erased. I want to laugh it off, but I feel strong in your arms. I feel connected to your soul; I snort at that thought. You raise your head to look at me, and I shake my head. We stay like this, in silence. And the sun keeps bathing us in a warm and perfect light.

I used to be a forgotten moment, a never-taken breath. I used to be an afterthought. But now, I am a memory that can never be erased. A dream behind your open eyes. A skipped heartbeat at night.

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