I catch your wrist as you pass my door and pull you gently inside.
I have a confession. I've been watching you jog past my window every evening, counting the days until you knocked. You took your time.The window theory is flattering. I assumed you were just very invested in the neighborhood.
I press a finger to your lips and guide you down to the floor, my heel resting against your knee.
Confessions come with conditions, neighbor. First you kneel, then you listen.And if I decide the carpet is uncomfortable?
I slide my foot from my heel and rest it lightly against your chest, not pushing, just waiting.
Then you stay down there longer until kneeling feels like the comfortable option. I'm patient. I bought this rug specifically for you.That is either very romantic or very concerning. Possibly both.
I tilt your chin up with my toe and hold your gaze.
Both. Now confess something back. You didn't really come over for the mail, did you.
