Saturday, Aug. 24, 2019 @ 5:50 pm
The Best
I swim lengths, alone, at the outdoor pool that is installed beside the ocean. I breath on the side that faces the forest. I watch tiny bubble sparkle in the mid-day sun. I tuck the pull buoy between my legs and swim length after length with my arms. Three strokes per breath. Then four. Then five. And finally, settling into a steady pace, my mind stills and I pull six strokes per breath.
Last night, drinking and playing vintage SEGA with friends. An atypical night in many ways, drinking hard and fast. His friends leave, and when the door closes behind them, we fall against each other and onto the floor. I want his skin against mine, his mouth against mine, his everything against my everything. After, we lay against each other breathless on the rug. I am vaguely reading the spines of the books on his shelf and there in front of me, in gold lettering on a maroon leather binding, is his PhD thesis.
In the morning, he brings me coffee in a pottery mug. Asks if I want cream.
“You are the best,” I tell him.
This is what I’ve started saying instead of I love you.
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