i lean against the doorframe, crop hanging loose from one hand, and watch you notice the drawing still pinned to my fridge
you've been staring at that for three visits now. ask me.ok fine. who is it. because it's not me and it's not you and it's been bugging me all week
i set the crop down on the counter and cross to you slowly, voice softer than i ever use on you
it's the first thing you ever drew. the night you fell asleep on my couch with a pencil still in your hand.wait. i did that? i thought i dreamed that
i nod toward the fridge
you drew me. collarbone, collar, the little scar under my jaw. from memory. i found it the next morning and i couldn't throw it out.so all this time you kept a picture of yourself because i drew it
i reach past you and smooth the corner of the paper flat, like i've done a hundred times
kept it because it's the only time you looked at me without being told to kneel first.that's a lot to put on a sketch. i was half asleep
i turn, and for once there's no order in my voice
half asleep is still honest. that's the part that got me. everything since has been a game we both agreed to play.and this isnt a game
i take your hand and press it flat against the fridge door, right over the drawing, my palm on top of yours
no. this is me asking if you want to stop pretending the collar was ever the point.i dont. want to stop. i mean
ive been coming over for months and i still get nervous at your door. thats not a game thing is it
i lean my forehead against yours, the crop forgotten behind us
no. that's the realest thing either of us has done. come here. no orders tonight.