We were in his room, laying in the bed together, the lights off. He was looking up toward the ceiling, one arm behind his head, the other outstretched in my direction. I lay on my side, facing him, wondering what was going through is head.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Right here,” I said, almost in a whisper.
“Why are you so far away? Come closer to me.”
I closed the distance between us, laying my head on the arm that had been outstretched toward me, and resting my arm across his chest.
We lay there in silence for a moment before he said, “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I lied.
I went for the usual dodge, “I don’t know.”
I thought of another lie to tell him, but I came up with nothing. It was the constant paradox in which I found myself when I was with him. A part of my brain always telling me to stay quiet, to say as little as possible for if I actually said what was on my mind I’d scare him away, the other part telling me that he wasn’t the type to run, and telling me little white lies like what I wanted to say were things he needed to know. It was a constant battle, and up until now, the score for each side was equal.
“Well?” came his voice interrupting my line of thought.
“I like being here with you,” I said. It wasn’t profound, but it was honest.
He ran his fingers up and down my arm, and I knew that was his response. I had come to understand that words were not how he knew to express himself, so I had learned to pick up on the small subtleties of his behavior as his form of communication.
I tilted my head up towards his, and with a kiss we ended the conversation.