Foreshadowing

    I will see him again. I will smile a restrained smile because feeling things too deeply in public embarrasses me. He will smile too. But probably not. Maybe he’ll keep it at bay as well. We’ll probably hug briefly and pretend we saw each other only two days ago. Because what kind of self-respecting person  hugs and cries and laughs and  kisses indecorously in front of people nowadays? We’ll fight briefly about who gets to carry the heavier luggage, and we’ll talk about mere trifles on our way home. Oh my gosh it’s so hot here. Cute dress. Nice pants. How was the flight. Did you get to sleep. The food was bad. Driving here sucks. How’s your mom. How’s yours.

Anything to avoid saying what we really want to say.

Then we’ll get home. This is the living room, this is the kitchen. Look, how tiny the bathroom is. That’s your dresser. Remember this vase?

Doors closed, luggage down, backpacks off. Now we can be us and hug, and cry and laugh and kiss. I’ll wrap my arms around his lower back ‘cause I’m so short. I’ll burry my nose in the base of his neck and breathe in the long lost smell of worn hoodies, and t-shirts, and blankets and everything warm and sexy and cozy. We’ll grunt softly and feel the vibration tickle from one chest to another not knowing who birthed it first. I’ll feel his stubble pricking my forehead, he’ll feel my nails clawing his shirt. My stomach will be heavy, my knees will start to fail.

Then one of us will say it. Maybe it will be him, maybe it’ll be me. The words will come out  slow, raspy, honest, maybe a little bruised. It will sting on the throat as much as it will in the heart, like ripping a bandaid off a wound.

“I missed you”,

I’ll say, or he’ll say.

And I’ll try hard not to cry.