3.11

Corey wakes up with a soft elbow in his gut. Where is this? Three blinks to establish sight in the dark. Corey breathes deeply. The air smells like you. Oh, right. That's your elbow. This is your place. This is your couch and your blanket. He's cocooned in the trappings of unfamiliarity. Why have you brought him here, exactly? If he's merely curious, I'm ravenous to know. You did make dinner, but honestly—he and I agree on this—that was mostly a plot to get him to stay so late. And then there was the conversation. I mean, Corey was dazzled, yes, but not overwhelmed. He didn't actually learn anything about you or get any closer to knowing who you really are. I can see the distance you hold him to. He can feel it, even if it's instinct and not cognition. And then, without you really asking for anything or telling him your heart, you played your way into this unbelievable closeness. Who falls asleep holding someone without discussing it or asking permission? Corey is sliding off the couch. You've rolled, a little, and it's pushing him slip-wise across the velour. How can it be that you have this power? Not . . . no, not to push him off the couch. The power to control his situation so effortlessly. Your head is right next to his, now, and the smell of your breath isn't awful, but to Corey, it's certainly unkissable. This is a mess. Things were never supposed to advance to this moment. He's uncomfortable, I'm uncomfortable, —I think the only person who's really happy in this situation is you. And you're asleep, so you don't even get to have it. You got everything you wanted, didn't you? You got this intimacy, this underserved golden filigree lacing that most couples can't even enjoy for what it is because of the work required to get there, the inherent risks to their self-esteem, happiness, hearts. And you've now got it for free.
Corey turns back. There's crud in your eye.  With his free hand, he ever so gently wipes it away with his pinky finger. I can't understand how he doesn't shake himself to pieces. Who manufactured this duet? What unbridled gall of harmony worked its way in you? Why have the timbres of your souls mixed so closely without framework, without fear, without cost?
Corey pulls his arm out of the blanket and fumbles for his phone in the half-dark. It's five forty. You won.