I'm getting into that terrifying over-analyzing part of a new crush.

Does he like me? Is he just using me for my body?

Does he want a relationship, or does he just want to fuck?

I get on too easily with this boy. I could fall for him with very little encouragement.

~

"That's an enormous dictionary," I say, indicating the massive old book. He glances at it as he's inspecting the side table he'd just finished. His hands run over every surface of the flecked oak, and I have a brief crazy wish I were a side table.

"That's the only book I really care about," he replies.

I skim the rest of his books. Fantasy novels, books on shaker furniture, some miscellaneous textbooks that look like they were left over from a college attempt (calculus, marketing, a few others).

Ah, books.

~

He kicks my ass at Dr. Mario the first couple times, until we up the difficulty. He plays faster than I do, but I play smarter. I can clear whole sections in a carefully planned cascade of coloured pills.

He swears at me, and calls me horrid names, and I laugh, which makes him question my repentance.

And then he dumps extra pieces in my playing area, and I swear at him and call him horrid names, and he laughs.

~

He pushes hair back from my face and leans into me. I am reclining on my side on the edge of his bed, and he is sitting, nestled into my curve.

"Are you staying the night," he asks quietly, "or am I driving you home?"

"Gotta work," I sigh, "so you better take me home. That, and I have the actors' costumes in my washing machine, because our theatre's washer and dryer aren't hooked up yet."

He chuckles. "Alright. Come on, I'll take you home."

It seems almost a sin to get dressed again.

.

Rosie.

Before&After