Tuesday, 21 August 2012

The small of my back

Him and me are casual acquaintances. We've known each other a year or so and bump into each other every now and again. More often now that he's local. He always invites me out to one party or another. I always decline. 

He's tall, with long graceful limbs, and elongated muscles. With his slender, languid charm, he reminds me of a greyhound, but rather than being nervy, he's warm and easy.

When we meet we always hug. He holds me quite tight this time and for a bit longer than usual, rocking me in his arms. I notice the change but it feels good and natural so I let him do it.

As he slowly lets go of me, his hand slides into the small of my back. Taken by surprise, I respond immediately, almost involuntarily by arching for just a split second. It's like he just pressed my internal button.

We then chat leisurely, him bent over the counter, me on the other side, leaning forward. His hair is messy and thrown all to one side as he tries to sweep it from his eyes, and it touches mine. I am oddly relaxed and notice how I am not even being flirtatious, like I don't see the need to switch on my famous charm. I am just being... natural.

He's putting my number into his phone arranging an outing, and we are giggling stupidly over the cool features.

'Yeah I know... fell of my bike" he says out of the blue.


"You are looking at my hands...", he flexes his bruised knuckle.

Then I realise I am looking at his hands. Staring at them and taking them in. And that's always a sign that I want someone.

As I leave, I turn around. He's still looking at me.

I walk away and then I get hit with the full realisation that I do want him and I stop to think. The small of my back, my little barometer of desire, never lies.

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