Someday you’ll be wondering how to tell if I’m not pretending, if it’s the real deal, if behind all those silly smiles and flirty looks my heart is quietly pounding yes yes yes. If when I walk a couple steps away and you walk a couple steps away the hesitation in my heel is whispering I love you when I turn, when I come back. You’ll ask with your eyes and your roaming hands and peer under my lashes and every one of your pores will be screaming, screaming, is it real? Do you mean it? But you will just bite your lip and worry and wonder if I’m going to reach in, carve out your heart and add it to my collection.
Here’s how you tell: If I reach up and hold your face between my palms, it means yes. If I cradle your head in my hands like a newborn, like the first mother that ever saw a son, with that look, it means yes. If I whisper something nonsensical that only you could understand, if I say, “you make French toast taste like afterglow,” or “my heart is playing Ratatat, feel it,” or “I can see Orion sitting in your pupils and he looks happy,” it means yes.
But, here’s the real sure-fire indicator, the not going to miss a thing, indicator. The holy-shit-did-I-say-that-and-did-she-say-that-too, indicator. If you pluck up the courage and form the words. If you lean down and whisper in my ear, “No one has ever loved you the way I love you in this moment, on this street corner, with your purse by my feet, and my hands in your hair. No one. Do you know that?”
When I whisper, “yes.” It means yes. It means a million times, yes.
But, still. When we meet in a flurry of lips and teeth and tongues. When you lift me up and pin me against a cold brick wall. When my legs knot around you and my arms snake around your neck. When I nibble on an ear, arch my back into you, moan your name.
You’ll be thinking in your head, man-eater, don’t eat me.
And I’ll be thinking in my own, but you taste so good.