Sort Of

 

“I’m sort of seeing someone,” I catch myself saying, feeling an immediate tug of guilt, realizing what a lie this simple statement really is.

I’m not sort of  seeing someone.

I am quite intentionally seeing him.

I see his tired mind at the end of the day when work begins to loosen its hold on his thoughts. I see his smile-creased eyes as we dance around the kitchen preparing dinner. I see his eyes flutter closed as I pull his face to mine. I see his blue eyes rise and fall as we hop from story to story, from silly to serious and back again. I see his comfort as we settle into the loveseat, as our bodies overlap. I see the hunger in his eyes as he pulls my shirt up and over my head and arms. I see his slender frame, dewy and fresh, as we tiptoe from the shower to the bed. I see his face fall slack as sleep overtakes him.

And I know he sees me.

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