I woke up this morning with last night on my mind and words pressed up against the tips of my fingers where they have been itching to be examined, turned over for several hours now.
Here they are, for you as much as for me.
I am not one to disregard the elegant dance that is flirtation; in fact, I fancy myself rather fond of it, the give-and-take of wit that is meant all at once to build a wall while cleverly alerting the other person as to the cracks in its foundation. To invite as much as to warn that these expertly crafted exchanges are in fact more than they seem, like fireflies hovering in the twilight air simply waiting for shadows to fall. Only when conditions are right will they blaze to life, flecks of gold against blue-tinged summer evenings, glittering with their own potential.
I have long been the girl who would much rather hide in the eaves of a sturdy flirtation, tangle myself in the cobwebs of words whose meanings I can decipher but with which I do not have to do much more if I do not want to. This has become something of a modus operandi for me; just in case the fall is too steep, I have made provisions for myself. I remain while the space just beyond a particular string of words, the space where potential squeaks and bubbles, seeps away like waves on a shoreline during low tide. I have always been stronger than the current, hidden as I am, motionless.
So last night, when I asked him – he will only be “him” right now and nothing more, as he is nothing more quite yet and perhaps will not be for some time – what happened, asked him to explain himself up until this point, I could feel the thick vines of flirtation release, heave themselves to the side with a great shifting wheeze that I assumed only I could hear.
But when he answered, fully and honestly, allowing truths to flit between us as we made our way through the lush humidity that marks Brooklyn in early September, I sensed that the shift had not been lost on him.
And my, I could have lit the entire night sky in that moment.