G came.

In the airport, he leaned over, hands clasped behind his back, and pressed his cheek against mine, kissing me near my ear.

I blushed, and slapped him on the shoulder.

He grinned and watched me out of the corners of his eyes.

~

He dropped his stuff in my livingroom, commenting I had enough room to rehearse a band in there.

I shrugged, and said that would be helpful if I was in a band.

He told me he liked my bedroom, despite the disaster, the lack of furniture, the thin mattress on the floor and the fuchsia and orange walls.

I'm pretty sure he was lying about liking my bedroom, but oh well. I know my furniture needs are simple. I wouldn't even have a couch if it weren't for my friend James. I would just have a TV on an old upright dresser (in which I keep my game systems) sitting in front of my massive work table and chair.

Oh, and of course all my walls lined with bookshelves.

~

I sat on the couch. He sat on the chair against the wall.

"Why are you sitting over there?" I asked and patted the other side of the couch.

"Well," he said, uncertain. "Because I want to prove I didn't come up here to get laid."

"All right," I said. "You've proved it, now come sit down. Have a cushion." I threw one at his head and he grinned and caught it.

"Have another." I threw another, and then ran out of cushions. I don't need a lot of cushions.

~

His hands moved in slow motion, but his fingers gripped my arms with a fierce intensity that left nothing to the imagination.

Running my hands over his body was like touching a tightly strung instrument.

He twitched, gasped, writhed under my hands, responded in ways that couldn't be faked.

He pressed my face in his hands and stared at it like a child seeing something amazing in a shop window.

"You," he said, "have a rare beauty."

And then he kissed me, hard, hands digging down my spine, fingerprints in my soft skin.

~

He kept us waiting for twenty minutes while he shaved, then at the archery tournament, he disappeared without telling me where he was going, keeping us waiting for another twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a note of panic. "I'll make it up to you guys. How about I dedicate my first three fights to you?"

My lips were thin, my eyes were hard, my hands were still and folded in my lap. This is the most ferocious kind of angry.

"How about," I suggested quietly, "you do the dishes after the feast."

He looked crestfallen and muttered: "I was thinking about something a little easier..."

"No," I said, still thin and hard. "I think dishes will do nicely."

"All right..." he mumbled.

Oh, you better believe I made sure he did the dishes, right down to the last greasy serving pan.

~

He almost beat my copy of 007 Goldeneye (for N64). While I was at work, I don't think he did anything else.

He made me dinner twice (spaghetti once, and fish and broccoli once) and breakfast once (eggs, rice, and spam).

I never knew that anyone in the whole world ate spam.

He fried up slices of it in a frying pan. They dried out a bit and became crunchy on the outside, but I hesitate to use the word 'cook' when it comes to spam.

~

I am a little ashamed to say I snooped around his Facebook and through his phone.

I was curious to see if the man-whore rumours I'd heard about him were true.

I have no conclusive evidence.

I want to believe that sweet, sad look in his eyes when he said goodbye at the airport, but I dare not.

I can close my eyes and pretend I'm standing in a field of flowers all I want, but at the end of the day, I'm still in a concrete jungle.

Pretending he loves me will not make it so, no matter how hard I pretend.

So I will give myself sweet moments. I will close my eyes when he kisses me and just listen to his breath and his hands, and when he leaves and goes back to Seattle, I will pretend we never even kissed.

~

And now, he's gone. I will have a spot of truffle and eat some popcorn and do absolutely nothing.

.

Rosie.

Before&After