Tuesday, Nov. 12, 2019 @ 11:13 am
I float towards him, steam rising from my shoulders, my breath visible in the cold forest air. Evergreens towering above, their long trunks swaying in slow circles. I clasp my legs around his waist and press my face into his cheek. Kiss his earlobe. Taste the salt of his skin. The warm water swirling around us. The lights are off, and we are alone.
I pull back but leave my nose touching his. Just breathing. I press my nose against his, telling him a million things without saying a word. I love you. I care about you. I admire you.
He takes a breath.
“I’m so glad to have you in my life,” he says.
Later, in the dark of the room of the cabin, I slip off my clothes and reach over to slide open the window. Cold air rushes in. I climb under the covers next to him, and we sleep together tightly through the night. The heat between his body and mine.
When he wakes in the morning, he turns and lays his hand on my shoulder. When he does this, my insides swell and ache. The tenderness. The vulnerability. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to feel cherished in this way.
At the end of the weekend, we walk in the forest and alongside the ocean, then tuck into dumplings and soup and spicy eggplant at a restaurant on Robson St. Bellies full and warm, we go home to our respective apartments. I bake cookies and listen to a book and then set up my art space for the first time since moving into my apartment seven months ago. I trace out a landscape with a soft pencil and then work watercolours across the thick paper to show the trees, the cliff faces, the layers of mountains.
He sends me a goodnight message.
Thanks for sharing the day with me. And just being my favourite person.