July 9, 2012

i've only shared milk once. and it was on a saturday.

he asked me what i wanted, and the answer was banana pancakes.
the answer was always banana pancakes.

he never tickled me because he knew how i hated shameless flirting. but he took a sip of my milk, and somehow that was okay.

"there's something adorable about the way you talk with your hands when you give me directions. and how you start every sentence with the word, 'just'," he said. and then he told me that i looked pretty, and it felt different than times before.

from the kitchen, i heard a familiar tune. waterfall, john schmidt.
a long, lost love of mine.
this time, though, sweeter than i'd heard before: taller, deeper, and with blue eyes this time.
by the end, i couldn't remember its former facilitator, or even the song itself. lines blurred, and i could recall only the one sitting before me. one i should have always preferred.

our puzzle piece dimples, nearly symmetric. each of us owned only one. his was bigger, but that was okay. someday, i plan on being the little spoon, too.

he wanted to teach me to drive a stick shift; he wanted to stay out with me all night.
after i'd sat down too close to a sprinkler head, my hair dripping with mountain runoff, he did "the thing".
you know.
"the thing" he does to the hair in your face right before he takes your lips?
well, he did that to me.
and then he left my lips alone.

but let's not get so hung up on the things he did do.
because you can't fall in love on a few more saturdays, and that seems to be all we've got.


  1. Sharing milk is icky. Unless of course you've found one whose froth you can tolerate. Just sayin'.



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