We sat feet tucked under, beneath a dusty starless sky. I braided your fingers and you played your beat on my ribs – or was it my knees? 1 2 3 4 5 6, 1 2 3 4 5 6. To the beat of six you said, and I couldn’t quite hold it. Rhythms are hard, I said. But you were just swaying to it, you said, feeling the wiggle of my toes in your belly through layers of jacket and inners.
Why were you leaning in on me like that? It’s not very platonic, I said later, feeling slightly displaced and awkward, shifting on my axis ever so slightly. Away not closer. Gravity is a hard fact of life and defying it takes volumes of reserve and experience.
Not at all, you uttered, genuinely shocked because your youth allows you to be confused about such things. We’re just chilling. I have a girlfriend. She’s a dentist, you know.
I know. I said. And I’m a writer. An underconfident plumber of words. And once you are done chilling platonically, drumming on my knees, your warm hand leading my cold fingers in the dark, and my innards have been patted and thrummed into a ripened persimmon, you may take your leave to get your fucking teeth probed.
I’m so angry with you, duck. None of this would happen if you’d just play along with physics.