By Any Chance...

His arm is on me the whole walk, a tether, as if I’ll float off down the nearest alleyway or vanish into the ether at a moment's notice. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t think about it but then there's that weight on my skin, keeping me close.

“Let the interrogation begin.” He called out suddenly; the only creature around to startle was me, I held steady, my nerves unshakable in the cool night air.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll start easy on you; what did you mean when you texted me ‘don’t’?”

“Don’t?”

“Yeah, just don’t, it was after I said I was sorry for coming on too strong.”

I could feel my eyes go wide and with the alcohol content on my blood at a solid; warm and loquacious the words spilled out of me like grains of rice, “I think I must have hit send too early, I was working so I didn’t want to be caught on my phone. I wanted to tell you not to worry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! Geez, I should have double checked when I got home but there were so many new rules and people and emails to send, my brain blanked. This is the most normal I’ve felt and I think if you weren’t holding me I’d be flat on the pavement.”

Michael stopped walking and turned to face me, shifting his coat-clad arms to hold both my shoulders. His eyes reflected the off orange street lights as if they were beautiful, warm and caring in the blue of the night. For some reason all I can focus on is how those lovely eyes are at the same level as mine, actually they’re slightly lower, I straighten my spine and look down at him at a 5 degree angle; statistically irrelevant but relevant to me. My words still run like water;

“Oh, I’m taller than you,” I laugh and rest my hands on either side of his cheeks, my thumbs resting just under those startling eyes, “I never noticed.”

And in a moment his lips are on mine, soft, sweet, kisses like the second after your chair tips backwards, your heart in your chest, my heart has fallen out of my chest and the only thing stopping it falling on the bubble gum stained floor is his chest pressed against mine.

“You’re too cute to hate,” He whispers, i can feel the air blow past my tongue and the molecules of air vibrate against that small chasm between our lips, “I wanted to get annoyed or lash out but…fuck you’ve been through it as bad as I have these past weeks.”

“I’m cute?” He said other words but I like that one the most.

“Yes!” Michael exclaims, cupping my face as I did to his, but my hands are now limp at my sides, unmotivated to move for the moment, content to just be touched not to touch, “You’re so damn cute I'd forgive you for anything, too cute to let you just walk me home, so Mr Alex, will you stay the night at my house?”

I tilt my head, my brain is a soft sludge, electrical impulses move through them like slow worms, “You’re asking me that as a question so I have to respond, aren’t you?”

“You caught me, so what’s your answer?”

Isn’t it obvious? How could I say no to that face, those hands still holding my face, each finger a warm stripe against my skin, a shield against the night air, “Of course.”

“Correct answer!” Michael began walking again and we returned to the odd tandem of his arm around me and my body close to him.

“Do you live far?”

“Yup! I normally get the bus home, lots of time for questions.” I can hear the glint in his eyes even without looking, “So…Now you’re free again, what are you looking forward to most?”

A small laugh slips from my lips, it sounds like an interview question, “I was hoping I could go to the museum with you…it’s been so long I think I’ve forgotten how art works.”

“You can’t forget how art works! It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“I can’t ride a bike.”

“Well then it's like swimming.”

“Can’t swim either.”

“...”

Silence fell for some time, or maybe no time at all, the stones passed under my feet like a dream, the alcohol making the whole world soft and blurry like a watercolour painting, but even in the quiet I felt happy, warm, like nothing could hurt me, us.

“So what can you do? If you can’t swim or ride a bike, I mean.” He looks me over for a moment, “You seem like the type to do something odd like lacrosse or the high jump.”

“I don’t think I’ve done sports since I was in school. I liked the few times we did track and field events. Do you do sports?”

“God no. That wouldn’t be very arty of me.”

“I think anything you would do would be art.”

I feel his thumb stroke over my collarbone, it sends a shiver through my spine, if I had more sense in that moment I would have kissed him but I’m pliable, mouldable, willing to go along with anything he wants.

“It’s almost frustrating how unaware you are. I put you in front of a whole room of eyes and you still can’t see how lovely you are. I could paint you a hundred times, and I want to, just to see how deep that beauty goes. Even if you’re drooling or crying or distant. I think you could make any emotion beautiful.”

He stops us again but this time he can’t quite meet my eyes, is he awkward, embarrassed, but boldness catches me off guard and I pull him down into a kiss this time, he melts into me immediately, his hands around my waist, fingers pushing up under my jacket, the cold breeze rushes in and is warmed in an instant; thermal equilibrium. After a few moments of endless bliss he pulls away first and nods towards the doorway we’re stood outside of.

“This is my place.”

I look up at the building, it’s tall, the doors are grand in scale but the architecture feels cheap, instant, disposable, “The whole building?”

Michael laughs, I think that means it isn’t, but I could imagine him rich and carefree as much as I can imagine him a starving artist. We take the lift up and his hands never leave my body, soft contact with my hips, my shoulder, my lower back. Everywhere he touches I feel loved, my numb body easily filled with any emotion in that moment, the small part of my brain capable of analysis notes it’s nice it went well, it's nice to be seen, it's nice not to be thrown away when I do wrong.

His apartment is on the 7th floor, it's a studio but a one bed with its own kitchen, the décor is eclectic at best and a mess at worse, i like it, its a house decorated with affection for small things, a collage of admiration, the shirt sleeve of his physicality.

But I have little time to note the smaller details before being pulled towards the bedroom, he pulls my clothes off like they’re petals on a flower, and I’m too shy in that moment to do anything except have things done unto me.

His bed is smaller than mine, fits well in its space, his mattress is firmer than mine, his body is gentler than mine, sober hands careful with me as if I am precious, sober lips like a sweet breeze against my bare skin.

Those same lips whispering art against my ear; a stream of compliments that turn my skin pink with embarrassment, my blood betraying me, over and over, it delights him to see me react so he tortures me further with his niceness.

The light is dim, the room has one window and it is covered by mismatched curtains that let in different amounts of light with a gap between; the moon light falls across both our bodies but is useless, just an accessory to the soft, dreamlike nature of it all. I don’t think I would change a thing because if I did it would be something else, someone else.

At some point Michael loses out to the exhaustion in my body and I hear his last whispers as I slip asleep; a heavy wave that drags me under, beneath waves tinted with coffee and ethanol.

“Please, be mine.”

But I'm drowning in air before I can reply. I hope my body does something to express how much I want it to be true, I would hold him close, closer, forever, if I had the energy in my body so instead I hope he can read my thoughts to know I want nothing in the world more than to be right where I am.