July 3, 2002
Michael Revelry
Weak in the knees. Weak in the knees.
When I practically crawled my way into my house at a quarter to three, that was what I was going to write an entry containing. Just that. Nothing else. And trust me, it conveys with perfect clarity how I felt when I finally got out of adorable chef's Mike's car.
Let's rewind, shall we?
We went downtown to a coffee shop and I ordered my staple drink: cafe mocha. He ordered a cappuchino shake. We sat and talked about all sorts of things for nearly two hours, including God and Afghanistan and Metallica.
When we left there the sun was still shining, and the whole night remained ahead of us. We popped in to visit his brother for a moment (which he apologized profusely for), and from there we ventured to Showcase Cinemas where he bought us both tickets for Lilo and Stitch. I giggled softly at the idea of going to see a Disney cartoon, on a date, with a twenty-two year old, but enjoyed myself immensely all the same. I got a little misty. Damn Disney melodrama.
So we get out of the movie at about eleven and he drives me home. He parks in my driveway.
And we talk. And talk. And talk. There are times when our faces are close and times when they are far away. We talk about our ideas of the afterlife, we talk about Anne Rice and Stephen King. He tells me about culinary school, he tells me about his family and his ex-girlfriend and his year in Germany. I tell him about my guitar and the horrors of being a Libra and my little brother and leaving Ohio University.
He tells me about his fetish for girls' hair and touches mine.
We talk about our simliar music tastes and talk about going to a Jazz club downtown. He talks about wearing all black when he was in junior high and I talk about wearing work boots and peasant dresses. We talk about fate, and choices. We talk about the reasons for things, and sometimes we agree. We talk about Dogma and Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
There are small lulls in conversation, and I start to leave about four times. Then we'd begin talking again, and another hour would pass.
I yawn. I finally look at him and say that I must leave, though I am reluctant. I don't know how much time has passed. Too much. Not enough.
I look at him.
"I have to get out of your car now."
He looks at me, his lips slightly curled.
"You do."
A beat. I cast my eyes downward, but by the end of my sentence they have moved back up to his face.
"Would you like to kiss me?"
He grins.
"No."
But then he does. And this is where that whole weakness bit comes into play. Damn, it was good. My stomach lurches even thinking about it. A real kiss. A deep kiss. A breaking apart and coming together again. One arm about me. And then another. And then he pulls me close to him and I bury my face in his shoulder. I kiss him again, or am I kissed again? I love the passion in his soft lips.
Damn.
So I make myself get out of the car. And when I say 'make', I mean forcibly restraining myself from kissing him again and just getting out.
Damn.
And I really did sort of stumble into the house. I got into my room and collapsed on my bed and relished the hot feeling in my stomach and touched my lips with reverent fingers. My head felt like it was detached. I literally couldn't get up to put on pajamas. I just kept laying there, staring at the ceiling, almost all of me still there with him.
Damn.
So, um, I think I like him.
A little.
Heart pounding and innards twisting. I'm a sucker for it. Pair that with a quick, intelligent mind and a love of good music, you got Jill trapped willingly.
Damn.
astera at 11:25 a.m.