“Don’t forget to leave room for Jesus,” he says.
Only we don’t. With each sway of our bodies we get closer until any kind of spiritual figure would have definite issues getting between us. But I figure Jesus has better things to do at this hour anyway. After a long night at work, my feet hurt and I probably smell suspect, but none of it matters. My heart beats hard and his arms surround me. I’m exactly where I want to be. Never would I have thought of my workplace as having any hint of a romantic vibe. Only it’s him and me alone again. Anywhere would do.
“All of Me” by Billie Holiday comes on and we neither stop nor speak. We just keep moving to the music. My hands creep up to the back of his neck where his skin is bare and warm to the touch. His eyes are the most amazing shade of hazel. Like some lovesick fool I could stare into them for hours. I don’t think I’ve slow danced with someone since high school. Don’t get me wrong, there have been memorable times in my adult life. I’ve been given roses and taken to dimly lit restaurants. But being here with him is quickly becoming peak romance.
Next is “Lover” by Taylor Swift and we dance on. He doesn’t try to kiss me so I don’t make a move either. There’s no need for more just yet. Doing this, being this close, is beautiful. I want about a hundred more moments like this with him. Possibly a great deal more.
When the music stops, we gradually still. And there’s this moment when it’s just me and him and the city around us seems perfectly silent. How good it is to simply be in his arms and to have the full focus of his attentions. To know that maybe, just maybe, I’m safe here with him. The chambers of my heart fill up with him, one by one, and it’s both wonderful and terrifying.
“That was nice,” he says in a low voice.
“Yes, it was.”
He looks down, taking in the way our bodies are pressed together. “Baby Jesus would be appalled.”
“I do so hate disappointing infant gods.”
“You know, fifty years from now we’re going to look back on tonight and you’re going to regret not taking the opportunity to feel me up,” he says. “Just going for it and grabbing my junk like you own it.”
“Oh my God, Beck.” I laugh. “That was such a perfect romantic moment and you just killed it.”
“I did?”
“Dead and buried.”
He scratches at his head. “Well, shit. I was only being honest.”
“Of course you were.”
With a smile, he takes a step back. I miss him immediately. The heat and the feel of him. Maybe I should have taken him home last night. Though this slower pace has a sweetness and heat I can’t help but enjoy. Despite the crazy things that come out of his mouth and the insane cravings he inspires in me just by existing. Damn the man.
“So,” he says.
I break out in gooseflesh from the way he looks at me. As if not only am I the only woman in the room (which I am), but quite possibly on the whole damn planet. As I’ve mentioned before, his attention is addictive.
“How about I get the mopping done and then take you on a second date to the diner?” he asks. “See if I can’t bring the romance back to our burgeoning long-term relationship.”
“A second date, huh?”
“It’s a big step, I know. But I think we’re ready. What do you think?”
I nod, my stomach turning upside down. “Let’s do it.”
The more time we spend together, the more I feel and the harder I fall. It’s inevitable. The next night after work, we grab some pizza and walk through downtown. This has fast turned into a habit, us spending time together after work. Delaying the moment when we both go our separate ways. And yet I still haven’t invited him home and he’s made no further moves. Maybe if we don’t rush things he’ll grow to like the place and/or me and stay a while. That would be nice. Though there’s also the faint fear that if we have sex then all of this amazing thrilling sexual tension will disappear. We’ll be nothing more than two strangers who happen to have seen each other naked and in potentially awkward positions. Hookups are all well and good. But when it comes to him, I want more.
“I think I need that shirt,” he says, nodding to a shop window.
“You don’t find the mix of fluorescent leopard and zebra print somewhat aggressive?”
“But they have a dress in that print too. We could match.”
“That would be something.”
“And we’d never lose each other in a crowd.”
“True.” I oh-so-gracefully deal with a string of cheese attached to my chin. In the next shop window are a selection of formal gowns. All of them sleek and beautiful and so not my size. “For a while when I was little I wanted to be a fashion designer.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I suck at sewing. No patience for it at all.”
“Ah.”
“But I would draw all of these pictures and Mom and I would look through fashion magazines and sites together. It was one of our bonding things. That and books.”
High up above, the moon peaks out from behind gray clouds. Being with Beck is, as always, enjoyable. The flow of conversation comes easy as if we’re old friends. Then there’s the way he watches me…it’s safe to say my needs are growing. “Want” is too small and passive a word. I need to crawl all over him, to feel his heat and taste his skin. No matter my fears, it may be time to heed the call to action and make a move. I’ll overthink it first for a while just to be sure.
“What did you want to be when you were growing up?” I ask, dragging my mind out of his pants.
His grin is wide. “Professional skateboarder.”
“Cool. Were you good at it?”
“I know my way around a half pipe.”
“So what changed your mind?” I ask.
The line between his brows returns. I hate that line. He stares out at the palm trees and sighs. “It’s just a stupid kid’s dream, right? Like wanting to be an astronaut or a fireman. You grow up and realize that’s not how life works. Just because you like the idea of something doesn’t mean you’ve got what it takes to make it to the top in that field.”
“I don’t know about that. Don’t people now have three to five different careers over the course of their lives?” I ask. “You said you already changed the road you were on. What’s another diversion if it leads to possible future happiness?”
“Pretty sure even busboys earn more than most skateboarders.”
“You may have a point.” I wave my fist at the sky. “Damn you, adulthood, with all of your inevitable debt and bills and endless cycles of existential crises.”
He smiles. I made him smile. Victory.
A big fat drop of water hits my cheek. Sure enough, the heavens open and down comes the rain. We run for cover beneath the shop awnings. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have taunted the gods.”
“Perhaps not,” he says.
“If skateboarding isn’t your destiny, then where do you see yourself in ten years?”
He makes a humming noise. Much thinking is obviously going on. “Sitting on a porch with you watching our children frolic in the front yard.”