Finally, Forever(36)

Tonight it was all so simple. The dark is like fuel for desire, always pushing you one step further, encouraging you to take chances while no one is watching. But the light is a harsh judge of night’s impulsive decisions. Now everything is complicated. And worse, possibly all a mistake.

My eyes are heavy and dry and they burn from two nights of no sleep. I feel her now, like a ticking clock next to me, reminding me to savor each second, as if my relationship with her is always set on a timer about to go off.





Dylan





Gray slides inside a booth and I scoot in next to him and finally it feels natural between us. My knee pushes against his and I can feel the edge of his sandal press against mine under the table and our arms touch on top of the table. I don’t notice the diner or the people, I’m still remembering how last night his hair smelled like smoke from the campfire, how his lips were warm and soft, how salty his skin tasted. I appreciated the camping idea but the only scenery I want to enjoy right now is his naked body. It was so unnerving to be able to feel everything last night and not be able to see anything. I’m a sex-with-the-lights-on kind of girl. Tonight we are getting a hotel room.

A waiter sets down a coffee next to Gray and lemonade in front of me. He slides a plate with a cinnamon roll in between us. I haven’t even looked at the menu—I’m not hungry. Love is a powerful appetite suppressant.

I look at Gray’s eyes and notice the purple shadows under his lower lids. It strangely brings out their blue color. He changed into a black t-shirt at the campground after he took a shower. It’s worn-in and soft and ripping along the hem. He’s wearing olive green shorts that hang low on his hips, and flip flops with a Nike swoosh across the top.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” I say. I touch his cheekbone and graze my fingers over his lips before I pull away.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “And these diner coffees are a tease. It’s like drinking strong water.” He dumps a spoonful of sugar in the mug and a creamer. He looks at me. “My brain turns on at night,” he says. “I think it’s nocturnal.”

I nod. “And a sleeping bag spread over rocky gravel is a harder mattress than you’re used to.” He stirs his coffee.

“I’d do it over again a million times, Dylan,” is all he says. His lazy eyes settle on mine. I realize he isn’t complaining about last night.

“Does anything help?” I ask.

“I slept really well the summer I met you,” he tells me.

I think about our daily hiking trips. “All the exercise?” I figure.

“If by exercise you mean sex, then yes, it was all the exercise.”

I nod at the memory. I think we set some world records that summer.

“If scientists could somehow capture the hormones released right after sex, and bottle it as a drug, they would make billions of dollars,” Gray tells me. “That is the calmest feeling in the world.”

I think about this. “You mean like a liquid gel orgasm capsule?” I ask. I’m trying to picture it. It would definitely have to be a red pill. Candy coated. Cinnamon flavored.

Gray shakes his head. “No, it can’t be as potent as an actual orgasm. People would never sleep. They’d be kicking and screaming themselves hoarse.”

I nod. “That would definitely be a side effect,” I agree. “But a great calorie burner.”

“I mean the feeling you get about ten seconds after sex, that floating, perfect, sated feeling.”

“Ah-em,” Gray and I look up when someone clears their throat and the waiter is standing at the edge of the table, staring at us. He’s young and his face is either red from a sunburn or a deep blush. “You ready to order?” he mumbles.

“I think we’re good, thanks,” Gray tells him. The waiter looks at Gray and nods and scurries away like a mouse diving for the nearest hole in the wall.

Gray wraps his fingers around mine. He looks at my lemonade.

“How can you drink that in the morning?” he asks me. “It doesn’t have any caffeine.”

I shrug. “It’s the happiest beverage.” I point at his coffee mug. “Why are so many beverages brown?” I wonder. “Coffee, most sodas, beer, apple cider? It’s kind of depressing if you think about it, all the brown things we drink.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and stares at me, expressionless.

“Why are you like you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I stir the ice around my cup with a straw.

“Did something happen to you? Seriously, where do you get all your optimism from?”

I peel off a layer of the cinnamon roll. “I overcame a traumatic obstacle in my past that turned me into a compassionate, self- actualized person,” I state. I stick the cinnamon bread in my mouth and Gray is frowning with disbelief. I take a sip of lemonade.