“Turn on the lights” the worlds slipped her mouth double-timed with with her bottle hitting the floor, the few drops left slipping out on to our carpet.
It’s 2am on Sunday night, well Monday morning, technically.
The hours prior we had exhausted a million topics from gay rights to gun control between a group with more views than there are majors offered at our university. And we discovered how different we are.
It’s 2am on Monday morning and we’re exhausted now. But still lay here and spill words about who we are and why we’re here. She lays in bed and tells me all about the day the sun stopped coming up and I notice, she still has her shoes on.
On Monday morning.
And she has her shoes on.
We talk about love and I can feel her eyes closing but her mouth wont stop. She tells me about the day her mom left and then the day she came home.
It’s 3am on Monday morning and now we’ve decorated every story we know and tasted 3 bottles of wine to their demise. I say things to her like humanity and destiny but she says simple things back like yellow and pizza. My position takes change from the floor to the bed she’s laying in. (My bed, with her shoes on, for the record) and I rest my hand on her back. The letters of her shirt peeling off and she tells me its story, how she was the star player of her senior year powderpuff football team.
Three sheets in the wind, I laugh at how serious she was, but it doesn’t stop. My laughter is infinite and hers soon follows. I press my head against the slate blue pillow case and we laugh, together. I feel our hearts beating as one even though we are an arms length apart.
My body moves again and on its return you another bottle of wine.
It’s 5am on Monday morning and you’re laying in my bed ,with your shoes on, a bottle of wine, and your championship powderpuff t-shirt.
I ask if everyone feels this way and you ask if everyone talks like me, Says things “right, but too smart” and our laughter comes back. You understand what I mean even when you’ve never felt the things I’m saying.
I’ve never felt that way, your way.
You don’t mind that my words are out of order and I blame it on the 4 bottles we’ve finished.
It’s 5am on Monday morning and you still have your shoes on.
This is why I know we aren’t the same.
But we both feel things.
Guilt even when issues are out of our control.
Bound by the expectations of others and wrapped tighter by the expectations of self.
We both love the silent shortcuts of eye contact and the emotions of a simple touch.
“Do you think anybody doesn’t feel this way?”
“Someone has to,” you say.
“sometimes I think everybody must feel like I do, and I just don’t know it.”
You breathe a quiet chuckle across the bed.
Its 6am on Monday morning and I close my eyes for a moment and you asks me to turn the light off. I laugh because I never turned it on.
Your shoes hit the ground, next to the two too many bottles we emptied and you tell me I finally feel like home.