Music plays softly in the room, yet still loud enough to cover the dull roar of the television. The room is pitch black aside from the light cast by the television and his phone. I inch closer to him, hugging his arm a bit tighter as I try making out the shadows in the room. There’s the chair, the desk, the mountainous curtains. The room seems all so very empty. And I grew tired of this game a while ago.
My eyes wander up to his. He isn’t looking at me. He hasn’t for a long time. His eyes have been glued to his screen. Even earlier I tried to attract his attention by the heaviness of my gaze in hopes of a kiss, yet it seemed to no avail. I wonder if he likes kisses.
My fingers caress the soft, bare skin of his shoulder as I fluctuate from watching him play to memorizing his face. I know his face. I could describe it perfectly with my eyes closed, I’m sure. I know the shape of his eyes, the degree of which is nose curves, and the softness of his lips. I have no need to trace his body with my fingers in hopes of memorizing that, too, for I know it as well.
I turn away from him and watch the television. It’s an old movie, older than us. The girl is turned and staring off into the distance with a childlike wonder. The man beside her seems completely overtaken by her. He looks at her as if she is his oxygen. I smile softly at this, wondering if perhaps someone has looked at me the same way.
I look up at him again. He looks down at me and smiles, and then his attention is dragged back to the phone.
I want to know him.
I want to know who he is. I want to be able to read his expressions and know by just a glance if he is sad or tired. I want to feel close to him. I want him to be more to me than a stranger.
I lay my head on his shoulder and breathe him in for a moment. I love the smell of his cologne. I love that it lingers even when he is away.
I want to know what he’s thinking. Does he feel the same way I do, or is he content not knowing who I am? Does he prefer that we remain so close yet so very, very distant?
Frowning, I roll away from him and sit up at the end of my side of the bed. Am I wanting for too much? Should I just relax? I peek at him. Right then, just moments ago, I only wanted him to put his arm around me while he was on his phone.
I don’t need much. I’m not one of those girls who looks for a guy with a nice car and houses filled to the brim with money. I don’t need someone over six foot tall who exercises religiously. I don’t need roses at my doorstep every morning. I just want to feel important to someone.
Am I important to him? Does it hurt when I’m away and he just has a funny way of showing affection, or am I just the next thing?
The next thing . . . .
The idea burns.
I’m too nervous to ask. For once in my entire life I’m too nervous to ask a question. I’m too nervous to ask him to share himself with me. I’m too nervous to ask how he feels about me. I’m afraid to slip up, to come off too eager. And I wonder if that’s just the problem.
I lie back down and curl up under the covers. He takes his hand and rubs my back for a moment before returning to his phone.
Perhaps he’s nervous, too, and that’s why we’re where we’re at now.