Lime

You spoke gently, laying out in the morning sun, as you reached out for my arm and asked "What should we do today?"  You would reach out and into me, while your gaze penetrated me.  It always happened like I'd never felt before.

I was trying to hear what you were saying to me, before giving an answer.  I wanted to go somewhere that would make you happy.  I was grateful that you wanted to go out, and I was still getting used to the feeling that making someone else happy could make me happy.

Why now though?  Why did I not simply hear your words and tell you what I wanted to do?  Really, it didn't seem like what you wanted me to do.  You had a peculiar way of keeping my attention, a ticklish hysteria that would have me beside myself.  I would wonder, how did that get me out of the house?

In the mornings, for the past however many months, I would read the news and brood into the day.  They were sure to be incontinent, but I was on another planet.  The days feel like nights, recently; the nights like days.

I do like the sound of Cuban sandwiches.  I wanted to dress sort of nice today, I also wanted to be somewhere that other people would be paying enough attention to each other to not pay attention to what we were saying.  Hiding, villainous hiding, like an idolatrous dolt, I would chastise myself.  Truly, I wanted Cuban sandwiches.

I looked down at your hand on my arm and I wondered if you could feel my muscles tense and my heart racing, while I tried to figure out what you think I should say I wanted to do today.  Apprehensively, I suggested Cuban sandwiches.